Confessions of a Tough Guy

Recently a friend wrote to say he completely agreed with Item #2 in my Facebook note, “One Lie and 25 Random Things About Me.” Item #2 explains that I am much more comfortable expressing myself in writing than in conversation. (Christy has more than once complained that she can have a more intimate conversation with me via instant messenger than face to face.)

I share a few similarities with this particular friend, but there’s one thing in particular that we really have in common: we’re both guys. I’m not trying to be funny – growing up as a male in our society, you’re taught that expressing emotions is taboo. It’s not that on the first day of kindergarten your teacher stands up and writes on the chalkboard, “Rule #1: Little boys must not cry, hug, giggle or do anything else that might interpreted as emotional or girly.” But at a very young age, we hear things like:

“Stop crying… Be a man.”
“Don’t throw the ball like a girl.”
“Get over it.”
“That’s sissy stuff.”
“Take the barrettes out of your hair.”

OK, that last one was directed specifically at me, because I had three older sisters and they liked to dress me up when I was a baby. So it wasn’t my fault that until I started making guy friends I thought barrettes and dresses and make-up were cool.

Don’t misunderstand. I am NOT advocating a blurring of gender lines. Girls are girls and boys are boys, and there are distinct differences, not only in anatomy, but biological and emotional constitution that should never be erased or downplayed. Men should treat women with respect – open doors for them, give them flowers, push their chairs in, etc. Women are perfectly capable of doing all those things and more, but chivalry, in my opinion, is a way of showing respect and gratitude for womanhood, because without it, none of us would exist. (Yes, I do know it takes a man, too – and I’m not just talking about pregnancy and birth; we all owe our moms a ton for the love and nurture they gave us throughout our formative years.)

At a young age, boys who cry a lot or don’t play sports are often called sissies, and later on in life, “homos.” I wonder if this is where a lot of male homophobia comes from – it’s not so much that we are scared of gay people; I think what a lot of guys are afraid of is being classed as effeminate.

Like a lot of guys, I’ve always liked sports, and fortunately, I’ve always been pretty good at them (not great, lest you think I’m bragging.) As a kid I chased bugs, burned ants under magnifying glasses, laughed about flatulence, played in the mud and loved anything that involved a ball. On the exterior, I was your average guy. But under the surface lay a carefully guarded sensitivity that I was afraid to reveal. Sometimes, during a sad story or movie, tears would well up in my eyes. If anyone looked, I would pretend my eyes were “itching.” I loved to read books and fairy tales. As a teen I found girls easier to talk to than guys, because I didn’t have to keep up a false front of toughness. I developed a love for drama, and I liked to sing and even dance, although I’m no Fred Astaire. If any guys ever teased me, I’d claim I was just doing it to impress the girls. Even to this day I am careful about who finds out that I like to read and write poetry, or listen to opera.

So why am I still embarrassed? I’m a man, I’m straight and I like sports. I’ve spent so much of life repressing and stifling my own emotions that now I have an extra hard time expressing them, and for some reason they prefer to emerge through my tapping fingers than from between my lips. I drive Christy, and myself, crazy – because there are a zillion emotions I want to express but I can’t seem to get them from my heart to my brain and from my brain to my mouth.

I’m a guy. So why can’t I read “Anne of Green Gables” except behind closed doors, or admit that I like movies like “Enchanted April” and “Return to Me?” I’ll write a poem if I want to, dammit. (Notice how I felt the need to throw in a cuss word to remind you that even if I’m sensitive, I’m still tough enough to swear.) I might even ask for an opera CD for my birthday – what’s it to ya?

Why can’t I be open about the fact that I like Robert Frost more than Dale Earnhardt, or Steven Sondheim more than Sugar Ray Leonard? So what if I like poetry and football, chick flicks and Batman, acting and weightlifting? I want to slap high fives with guys after bowling a strike, but I also want hugs and kisses from my sons and (if I had any) my daughters –– and especially my wife.

I wonder how many more of you “sensitive” straight men are out there, still hiding in the closet? (Or more likely, if you’re like me, the food pantry.) If you’re really as brave and tough as you let on, then admit you feel something besides hunger, hubris and hormones.

So I say, screw you “macho man” society. I can cry when I’ve had a horrible day at the office, I can sing in the church choir, and I can listen to “Carmen.” (Just don’t ask me to watch, “Dr. Phil” – I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.) And if you make fun of me, I’ll punch you in the nose… feel free to cry about it.