The Masculine Mystique
My pronouns are he/him—but no worries if not
Before I was born, my mom had already given birth to two girls; after me, she’d go on to give birth to another one. My sex presented a problem in the life of the busy parent: I couldn’t inherent clothes (which to be fair did not prevent my mom from trying to adapt some of my sisters’ wardrobe to fit me) or pass them on; some of the Big Talks did not apply to me; and I even found out once I was partly the reason my sisters switched schools: before I came along, they attended a nun-run one, but I remember hearing my mom telling someone when I was a kid that, if I had also gone there, she would’ve “ended up with four girls.”
I remember this comment stung, especially since I had overheard it, which attested to the veracity of my mom’s concern. The fear that I could “turn into a girl” was all around me growing up. I remember telling my dad I wanted an Aladdin pencil case for school and him being worried my classmates would tease me for it being feminine—a negligible worry if you consider that “faggot” (or, in Spanish, “mariquita”) and all its variations had been applied to me from the moment I came in contact with other boys. An Aladdin pencil case would be, to use a Brazilian expression, like farting after shitting myself: the damage was already done. Outside my house, society had irrevocably deemed me girly from the earliest age and would often ostracize me for it; inside, I was policed by my family, who were afraid of something they were powerless to stop (though it didn't prevent them from trying). Even my grandma, whom I loved dearly (she passed away earlier this year) once talked to me about “the problem” of me being effeminate and how serious it was.
This regrettable combination of bullying and repression meant, of course, that I grew up deeply hating myself—seeing my image in pictures or videos, or hearing my own voice recorded, would trigger waves of shame over looking, moving, and sounding like a faggot. It took me a long time not to feel that (now I mostly worry about my belly being too pouchy—not having any self-hate at all is a goal only white ladies in movies can aim for). And it can still catch me unaware, often in innocuous comments made by my friends when they make assumptions (usually without meaning any harm).
In a recent conversation with my therapist, he pointed out that two concepts seemed to have gotten mixed up—sexuality (“faggot”) and gender expression (“girly”). He encouraged me to focus first on the latter for the purposes of our work together, since he reasoned no one was really thinking about my sexuality when I was a kid, as I had none. So, what is wrong with being girly? “Nothing,” I answer quickly, lest I be deemed a misogynist. But, if I have compassion for myself, I can hold space for the fact that I both believe there is nothing wrong with being a girl and that people taught me that there was since before I even knew what my principles were. The message I got from all directions was that I was failing, even if it was at something I had no control over. Now, my therapist invited me to dig into exactly what that failure was.
The other day, at a first rehearsal, we went around introducing ourselves with names and pronouns. “My pronouns are he/him,” I said when my turn came, “but I’ve been called ‘ma’am’ on the phone so many times.” It was a joke to make the room laugh (though I heard some reactions that told me others felt it on a deeper level), but I wonder now if what I was doing was subtly diminishing my claim to he/him pronouns. Who am I to call myself a man? Masculinity seems like a condition I can never ascribe to myself, lest someone come along and put me in my place. It’s an unattainable status, one that I both covet and fear.
Part of it might be (and I don’t mean to validate the reasoning that resulted in policing my behavior) that I didn’t have a lot of masculinity to learn from growing up. As I said, my house was majority female, and my dad traveled a lot, going on months-long assignments to foreign countries. Add to that the fact that I had almost no friends, let alone male ones—with the exception of one, whom I patted on the head playfully one time and immediately got teased for it by our classmates, who called us boyfriends and put an end to any physical affection I would ever express for a while. Masculinity was, therefore, the stuff of action movies, or of boys on the playground whom I was mostly afraid of interacting with. I did not play sports, for one, which especially in Argentina was a big con (the narrative of my life has been that I’m bad at them, but the exceptions that have poked through have led me to wonder if social anxiety had more to do with it than physical ability ). I also did not know how to fight; my dad would often encourage me to beat up anyone who messed with me, and I would reply something along the lines of “you got it,” because I didn’t wanna disappoint him—but I couldn’t imagine anything less likely than me getting into a fight, in part because no one taught me how.
It was my mom who, despite her fear of ending up with four daughters, took me under her wing. Her advice on how to deal with bullies was simpler: “pretend they can’t get to you.” As far as survival strategies go, it was somewhere between playing possum and blowing up like a pufferfish: not quite an admission of defeat, but also not a challenge. It invited me to model how I actually wanted to feel (indifferent to the rejection) so I mastered it quickly, and perhaps too well: I’ve been recriminated my entire life for being aloof, insensitive, distant. Those criticisms continue to surprise me, because in my mind I’m still a little boy playacting so I won’t get harassed.
I got so good at it, in fact, that sometimes I forget I do care. “Who gives a shit what other people think?” you’ve probably heard me say if you’ve ever been around me. But somewhere inside me, I do care—it just shows up differently from how it used to. I instinctually avoid social engagements that involve large groups, for example, and it took me a while to realize it wasn’t just because I prefer a more personal connection, but also because I’m afraid of being ostracized, going back to the days of getting picked last in gym class and having no one to talk to at recess. I’m usually uncomfortable around groups of men, too; I remember once taking my mentee to a soccer game (because he wanted to go—I would’ve never suggested that) and feeling an overwhelming sense of dread, an irrational fear that the rowdy men around me would beat me up, for no reason, at a moment’s notice.
It’s worth noting that, unlike other men I know, I never put any particular effort into changing my appearance. It might be part of my mom’s “don't let them get to you” philosophy, but I think there’s something else too, an innate understanding that whatever facade I put up (trying to talk in a lower register, or forcing myself to watch sports) would be just that, a facade—and I don't know that I’d be able to handle the fear that someone would see through it and mock me for it. When my therapist asked me what I would change in my past, I didn’t talk about myself: I said simply that I wish someone had been around to tell me “Hey, you’re okay. The way you are is not worthy of hate. Life is tough for you, sure, but that’s just how life is. Don’t add to it by hating yourself.”
And yet here we are. The other day, during a particularly challenging week in which I found my insecurities were threatening to overwhelm me, my sponsor recommended that I do an inventory of all my hang-ups. As part of it, I wrote what the “ideal me” would look like and, 33 years in, and more confident than I’ve ever been, I still found myself writing “I’d be more masculine, and stronger, and people wouldn’t dare mess with me.” Not that a lot of people mess with me, mind you (a running joke at my job is that when I man the box office, we get a lot less people being difficult—it’s harder to condescend to a tall white man). But still, every once in a while, someone is an asshole to me on the subway and I wish my demeanor or look communicated that they can’t be. Someone makes a joke about my voice, or an assumption about my tastes, and I bristle (even though I do the same to others). The masculine mystique, that energy that supposedly will put me past any form of abuse, continues to be out of reach.
I identify as a man, but I struggle to let that logically qualify everything I do as manly.
I’ve observed with curiosity the evolving culture around this subject. Way too late for me, and perhaps too wildly for any single individual to comprehend, norms about gender expression have shifted to the point that now what is manly and what is not depends on where you are and who you’re talking to. Masculinity is the root of most of our evils, or it’s the thing we’re missing to pull the world back from doom. “We should teach our boys to cry!” or “We shouldn’t tell our boys to be ashamed of being men.” And yet, society is united by, as my friend Nikki put it, “The Age of The Daddy.” You’d think liberal Hollywood would’ve sent the Marlboro man out to pasture by the year 2023, but instead, they’ve given us Pedro Pascal, playing macho men across streaming services. He shoots everything in his path and doesn’t say more than two words (or even sometimes show his face), and he keeps whatever helpless creature has been put under his care safe. He rolls his eyes at any sort of small talk and refuses to open up—and when he cries, it’s special, because it’s so rare.
Pedro is far from the only daddy gracing our screens and pages (one daddy an age does not make); Keanu Reeves has shot countless people to avenge his dog (I think?), Kevin Costner continues to defend his land against all intruders and the downfall of cable television, and Liam Nesson will not stop rescuing his daughter from prostitution rings—I saw a poster the other day at the theater for a movie of his that was not called Taken but was probably a carbon copy (which reminds me: I got AMC Premiere and have been watching a lot of movies! Let me know if you ever wanna join me for a Tuesday matinee). The reason I’m singling Pedro out is that he stars in projects that appeal to multiple quadrants, including a demographic that you’d think has no use for The Daddy—wouldn’t coastal elites shun this overt display of manliness in our woke era? Wouldn’t a man who wields his phallic guns to mow down anyone in his path be considered toxic and passé?
It leads me to think that, if we cling to it, it’s because masculinity offers something a lot of people want: to feel safe and in control. Most of us have wished that our demeanor repelled harassment, and since it doesn’t, who wouldn’t want a Pedro standing next to them telling the subway manspreader to leave them alone? Or a Pedro who knows what to do when we feel overwhelmed by all the difficult decisions brought on by adulting? A Pedro who calls the shots, and calls them right? Deep down we know we have to be our own daddies, but we don’t want to, because it’s hard. Pedro makes it look easy—can’t he handle it?
This, of course, brings me to the fallacy embedded in the masculine mystique: when I finished drafting what the ideal me looked like, I immediately thought “but that guy would probably have his own fears and insecurities too.” I was unconsciously trying to create someone who wouldn’t have anything to worry about, but that person does not exist; daddies just don’t talk about their problems as much (if ever)—which, when you think about it, is kinda sad. At least I get to talk other people’s ears off with my shit. Being a cowboy is not gonna work out for me, so I’m not afraid of coming off like a pansy; I’m free to be me. In fact, I’ve been noticing recently how I’ve been enjoying goofing off, making silly dances in public places, or posting videos in which I hoist Chester up while singing “The Circle of Life.” The part of me that doesn’t hate myself is taking up more space, free in the knowledge that if anyone wants to tease me, they’re too late to the game. I’ve heard it all.
But true freedom, for me, comes not in the knowledge that I’ve developed a thick skin—that’s too close to my mom’s useful, if short-term, advice of pretending I don’t hear the taunts. When it comes to the masculine mystique, I often find relief from its oppression by thinking of Saint Joan of Arc (cue Sunday school music). Saint Joan often invites activism when invoked, but what is lovely about her story (to me) is that it doesn’t validate any particular opinion. She was not an Arya Stark of sorts, running around with swords and dreaming of joining the army, nor did she seek to revolutionize any kind of tradition; she was a simple farm girl whom God called to lead the armies of France (most likely because the men in charge had grown too proud to actually pray, let alone listen for a response to their prayers). She obeyed that call; gender norms mattered very little to her in the fulfillment of her mission, which was not self-serving—so much so that it ended both in victory and in martyrdom (the Church eventually pulled an “our bad” and canonized her). Her taking on a traditional masculine role (and clothes, a key point in her trial) symbolized nothing other than the fact that God told her to do it because it’s what would get the job done.
I often think of her to remind myself that I am exactly how I need to be, and that every part of me can be useful—not only (or even necessarily) for my own happiness, but for the fulfillment of a higher purpose I may not even be aware of. I don’t have to suffer for not being the butchest of men; that’s not even something I ever thought was important, just something I was judged for not being. But if tomorrow I am called to grab my sword and defend France (why am I in France in that scenario, and why are they letting a foreigner lead their armies—and why are they still using swords? God does not care), I will need to put my insecurities aside and do it. It’s not up to me.
Masculinity is then, perhaps, not a mystique, but a tool—one that, like everything else, must conform to the unbendable will of God (or the universe, or horoscope, or yoga, or whatever it is you believe in), and not to the conceptions of our tiny brains, still trapped in the schoolyard.
Also,
the Pulitzers have stopped being xenophobic, and since I no longer have a Twitter to celebrate this publicly, I’m doing it here! This change is all that separated me from winning one, of course, so stay tuned for when they call my name to the stage (Is there a stage? Do Pulitzer Prize winners get their Oscar moment? I was already robbed of one speech).