Chapter 5: You Throw Like a Girl

PACIFIST MEETS MISOGYNY

It was 1975. I was ten years old and had just transferred from Our Lady of Lourdes School to a public middle school. Sidney Crawford was my first friend in my new school and, before I knew it, also my first fight. When Sidney landed the first blow, the ringing in my head seemed more perverse than the fight itself. Once it started, I had no choice but to physically defend myself.

As a crowd of fifth-graders gathered around, I became unsure who was a spectator and who was a potential "second puncher." Like most middle school fights, the "boxing" portion didn't last long. Within seconds, Sidney and I were rolling in gravel, wrestling for the dominant position: one on top of the other, knees pressed against opponent's shoulders and crotch in his face. As the chanting and screams of our classmates grew muffled and distant, I thought I was going to pass out. The crowd parted briefly enough for me to catch my breath and allow Miss Dyches, the school disciplinarian, to swoop in and grab us by the backs of our collars like puppies. As Miss Dyches dragged us to her office, Sidney, who seemed strangely familiar with her, was honest and contrite: "I'm sorry, Miss Dyches, I got in another fight."

Sidney and I had started the day as friends but at some point, during recess, we began throwing rocks at each other. Initially, it was fun trying to dodge each other's rocks, but when we started adding commentary and epithets like "sissy" and "fag," the rocks became stinging exclamation points to each insulting word. Just before the first punch, I remember Sidney saying, "I ain't no sissy!" I had touched a nerve. Like most kids, I understood how such language was hurtful. What I didn't fully understand was why. At just ten years old, why and how did we learn to respond so decisively and in physical ways to certain language? We didn't even understand the true meaning of the words but knew that we should not tolerate being called them. We were just reacting and, in the process, demonstrating the way in which the violent behavior of boys is rooted in sexism and misogyny.

But our behavior was so normal that it was barely noticed. Miss Dyches handled us with the efficiency of law enforcement processing an arrest. We were booked, given detention, and sent back to class. My heart was still pounding, my face sweating, and thoughts of what would happen after school occupied my mind. However, if it were not for the whispers and pointing of fingers by other students, I would have thought I was the only one to experience the altercation. From the adults, I sensed nothing but indifference. They had seen it before. Boys will be boys.

The truth was that the conflict was driven more by the ideology of boys not being girls. Sidney and I were not trying to establish who was "boy enough"; instead, we were fighting in defense against being associated with girls.

I had never been in a fight before that day and, at age ten, I had an instant realization—I didn't like fighting and never wanted to do it again. It's clear I was a pacifist at an early age and I remember how absurd that choice seemed at the time. I hated the subsequent, ever-present threat of violence that was a part of being a boy. Something I had learned, separate from my disdain for violence, dealt with the performance of masculinity: I learned that my reaction to the fight was critically important; I had to appear nonchalant in the face of violence. My response to the fight was more important than my performance in it, in that simply being willing to fight and subsequently show indifference had greater value than actually "winning" the fight. Sidney and I were friends again by the end of the day, and other than the notation in Miss Dyches's daily ledger, there was no evidence of the scuffle or lasting animosity between us. But the impact of misogyny and sexism that bonded us, though imperceptible, was profound.

There was nothing particularly compelling about my fight with Sidney Crawford. In fact, it was outstanding how ordinary it actually was. Sidney and I were on a playground, standing our ground and staking our claim as "king of the hill." The reaction from adults only confirmed that our behavior was expected. There was no real follow-up about what led to our lunchtime skirmish; in terms of misbehavior, it was comparable to being late for class or missing homework; it was accepted as inevitable and even expected. However, if our fight had been examined more closely, what triggered it would have been revealed.

There were plenty of other insults Sidney and I could have traded with each other. I had just transferred from Catholic school, he was shorter than me, and I doubt either one of us knew how to dress ourselves with any sense of style. However, when I called him a "sissy," I purposefully evoked the universal nemesis of all boys—girls. Sidney's response was immediate and unequivocal.

Misogyny is defined as the "hatred, dislike, or mistrust of women, or prejudice against women." The word itself often elicits knee-jerk, animated responses from men who assert the contrary by expressing their passionate love for women. The performance of masculinity in this case is not the overt demonstration of hatred toward women, but it encompasses a multitude of attitudes and behaviors stemming from the misogyny embedded in our masculine identity. Although linking the performance of masculinity to a hatred for women may seem illogical, the behavior of boys and men tells a different story. Drawing that link is really just as "illogical" as a ten-year-old pacifist rolling in the gravel, trying to punch his new best friend. Even when the misogyny planted deeply in our masculinity triggers men's destructive behavior, our responses don't delve into a gendered analysis. We simply fall back on a sexist refrain—Boys will be boys.

The language Sidney and I used to insult each other was clearly degrading to girls. But to assume our violent behavior was inevitable and the product of our innate pathology is degrading to boys as well, and it illustrates the low expectations society has for them. This is what I call "simultaneous sexism": it has an explicit impact on the lives of women and girls, as revealed through the work of feminists over decades, but it also hurts boys and men. And the impact on them is rarely, if ever, examined.

 

THE ULTIMATE INSULT

For several years after college, during my involvement with the student-athlete leadership team program, I worked with elementary school children who were the same age as Sidney and me on the day we fought. Ironically, the fight never came up in discussions during those years. It was not until I began working with college-age and older men on issues specifically related to men's violence against women that I recalled the incident. Once again I was twenty-nine years old and just beginning to deconstruct the social forces of gender and masculinity on my life. Working with men forced me to examine the innocent days of my youth to better consider the origins of those forces. It also led me to probe deeper together with other men, which included asking them to name the worst insult they heard as little boys, during the most innocent period of their lives.

The consensus in their responses, across every demographic, and to this day, is striking. Though they may not use the same verbiage, they invariably say the ultimate insult is being equated or likened to a girl in any way. No matter how it is delivered—as a taunt, insult, or challenge—to do anything "like a girl" indicates inferior maleness. Their responses are sometimes visceral because of the relevance this dynamic maintains in their lives today. The ensuing conversation galvanizes them around their collective experiences as men and their uneasiness about acknowledging their inherent sexism.

Applying this conversation to a time of innocence helps men consider the truth about sexism and misogyny without being defensive. While the ultimate goal is to understand the depth and impact of misogyny, it's also critically important to identify the innocuous way it becomes entrenched. To that end, in the course of this discussion I typically ask if they have seen The Sandlot, a 1993 film about nine boys and their love of baseball, set in a suburban California town in the summer of 1962. It is a feel-good story that evokes the playful innocence of boyhood. When I mention the film, it eases the tension of discussing sexual violence. The response is always warm, with the mere mention of the film filling the room with youthful silliness. And as if on cue, someone will shout, "You play ball like a girl!"—a direct quote from one of the film's most memorable scenes. We may not all identify with baseball, suburban California, or the year 1962, but the familiar moment arrives when the innocence of boyhood is confronted by its nemesis. The boys' greatest opponent is not another team but the charge of association with girls.

The sandlot boys were innocent and seemed to only care about one thing: baseball. They competed against no opponent, just for the love of play. But the dramatic moment happens when a group of boys from a neighboring town arrive to the sandlot and challenge them to a game. The two teams line up against each other, chests puffed out in a faux-intimidating pose, and launch into a barrage of insults that at first are gender neutral. Laughter and chants stoke the confidence of the loudest players, until one of the sandlot boys throws down the gauntlet and levies the ultimate insult, "You play ball like girl!" It lands like a physical blow and changes the entire dynamic of the scene. The music stops, and stunned faces indicate a crucial line has been crossed. The only way to resolve the standoff is by playing baseball. It's time for action!

The scene is salient for me in two significant ways. First, it's a harsh, complicated expression of sexism against a backdrop of innocent, virtuous Americana, which makes it easy to overlook and not examine critically. Second, the boys' sexist message is delivered in the absence of girls or women, which helps illustrate how boys are often socialized. It generally happens in contexts where traditionally feminine qualities and viewpoints cannot be considered; this advances and cements assumptions.

The timing of the film's release was fortuitous. It was just a year before I arrived in Boston to work with Jackson Katz and the MVP team, and was initially challenged to understand my own socialization as a man and how that informed my view of women. Personally, I began to learn from Jackson and so many other social justice leaders and educators. But I was being tasked with translating the complexities of sexism and misogyny while simultaneously deconstructing masculinity and its links to sexual and domestic violence. And that felt overwhelming, especially because I was in the middle of my own self-examination. This was further complicated by the limitation of having to deliver that message in a sixty-minute lecture to college-age men. I needed to find a common point of reference with men, from which we could process through constructive dialogue the machinations of sexism and misogyny in our lives and see how they shaped attitudes and behaviors around men's violence against women.

 

THE LANGUAGE OF MISOGYNY

"You Throw Like a Girl" became the title of the lecture I have delivered on college campuses since 1998. As an insult, it is arguably one of the most aggressive assaults on the psyche of boys and men. And it is a quintessential example of simultaneous sexism. Boys suffer because the insult demands a decisive response that also diminishes them. They are forced to express the narrowly defined qualities of the box of masculinity—that they are tough and emotionless and their allegiance lies with the promise of masculinity. The significance of this experience on the overall health and well-being of boys cannot be overstated because the effects of these early-life behaviors and the formation of attitudes about themselves literally last a lifetime.

The language is direct and purposeful as it creates solidarity among boys by enlisting them in a position against girls. Further, it establishes the belief that girls and women are "less than." Early in my work, I called this the "language of sports" because of its pervasiveness in that world, but it is universal in our society. As boys grow up, "You throw like a girl" devolves into targeted and crude epithets like "pussy," "bitch," and "faggot." A direct line can be drawn between these kinds of verbal assaults and men's attitudes about, and subsequent violence against, women. If we categorically believe that another group of people are "less than," we are more likely to disregard them in a multitude of ways and to negate their feelings and rights. We are also more likely to stand by idly in the face of mistreatment and violence. It is hard to separate the culpability of men in general when the (silent) majority tolerate the behavior of those responsible for commiting the violence.

When some boys choose to stand up for girls and women, social pressures often discredit their intentions. Such advocacy will attract a litany of insults that question their masculinity and, most importantly, their solidarity with other boys. The intensity of the pressure varies by situation, but general consensus suggests that concern for the rights and safety of girls and women is below the interests of boys and men. Outside of protecting one's daughter, the notion of supporting women's issues is relatively nonexistent in the discourse among men. The very fact that we call such matters "women's issues" prompts reflexive postures ranging from indifference to defensive hostility.

Most people would agree that teaching sexual violence or even hostility toward women is not the goal of such language. They generally assume that it's most often used with positive intentions. It's a challenge voiced among men to achieve great things or in the spirit of rivalry and competition, just as "innocently" used in The Sandlot. Nonetheless, the message for boys is clear, and the language helps establish strong opinions about the inherent value of girls—that they are inconsequential and their overall behavior and interests are trivial. If degrading a boy comes from comparing him to a girl, then he'll want no association with girls and will do whatever it takes to dispel any notion that he is like them. Respect for girls is lost without even interacting with them. Many boys learn to reject all things feminine, and as they mature, the divide widens between their masculine identity and the qualities associated with women such as vulnerability and empathy.

In the early stages of their development, these formative lessons for boys don't immediately manifest as problematic behavior. At an age where social and emotional differences emerge, boys may express their slight distaste for girls and vice versa. But any real threat of mistreatment can be easily mitigated if parents and other adults recognize the socializing influence of language and the attitudes and behaviors that precede and perpetuate violence, just as adults could have recognized the sexism and misogyny in the interactions between Sidney and me that anticipated our violent behavior.

Unfortunately, the "boys will be boys" mind-set usually prevails, allowing boys' unhealthy attitudes to advance into the teen years and adulthood, during which they intensify and lead to more troubling behavior. For example, when a young boy hits or is physically rough with a girl, adults often excuse the behavior as his way of expressing affection, essentially saying, "He hurts you because he likes you." The message this sends to girls is obvious and disturbing, while the message to boys is equally disturbing since it suggests he is incapable of appropriately conveying feelings of affection. It also reveals a reluctance on the part of adults to nurture the wholeness of boys. Moreover, it implies that he is not required to ever learn how to express himself appropriately. He doesn't have to dig into his emotional toolbox for the purpose of expressing his feelings in healthy, nondestructive ways.

At some moment in a boy's life, the presence of girls provokes his greatest dilemma to that point. He has to reconcile the dissonance between what he has learned about girls with the innate feelings he has for them. Solving this puzzle is not simply about navigating dating or relating to girls as intimate partners, but understanding the role girls play as it applies to the mandate of masculinity. In boys' early interactions, girls serve to fulfill a part of the mandate that tells boys that being a man is the demonstration of power and control over girls and women, as well as a kind of sexual prowess devoid of any emotional vulnerability or connection. Whoever is the first boy in a group with the courage to simply talk to a girl, he often demonstrates it with a cool indifference.

Even when boys take an aloof posture with girls, they betray an innate craving for connection and love. But after being taught not to express emotions or appreciation for girls and then discovering an attraction to them, with the expectation of engaging with them intimately, they are left with a trail of inadequate explanations for how to do so. It becomes difficult and confusing to manage what they've learned and what feels natural as a person. This is not just with regard to girls but within themselves as boys. They've learned not to appreciate female characteristics, yet have those characteristics themselves. And after learning to use phrases like "You throw like a girl" and worse, they are told to treat girls and women with respect and as equals in the classroom, workplace, and at home? There is no real social movement to help them navigate and resolve these dilemmas in healthy and productive ways.

 

THE IRONY OF THE PERFORMANCE

The performance of masculinity contains a profound irony: although the essence of our humanity is that we are tough, strong, and aggressive, and vulnerable, sensitive, and dependent, our performance is an exaggeration of the former in order to mask the latter. This applies directly to men's relationships with women. Many believe men's violence is not only inevitable but necessary as a protective instinct. Some will further suggest that tough, violent masculinity is a function of testosterone, the hard-wiring of our DNA for our own survival and the protection of others.

But aren't strength and courage best defined by confronting our vulnerabilities and dealing with them, rather than ignoring conflict or adversity, hiding from each encounter, with our emotions tucked away? Surely, if we have to defend against an imminent threat, we have the right to call upon our physical prowess and even do so with force. But in recognizing there are some things worth protecting, don't we also reveal our vulnerable humanity? Don't we convey that we hold loved ones and cherished values dear in our hearts and that they give our lives meaning and purpose?

Another piece of the irony of the performance is that we have been conditioned to categorically disrespect women yet care about them passionately. We have been raised to ignore our own feelings and understand women as being "less than" in part because we perceive their expressiveness as a sign of weakness. They unavoidably become a mirror of our own humanity and evoke the disdain we have for our own vulnerability.

In the mandate, there is no more venerable role than the chivalrous and gallant protection of the women in our lives. Hard-wired or socially learned, the defense and protection of women to whom we are most vulnerable is one of the first lessons of the mandate. Sadly, it is also when men subtly experience the first woman they understand to be "less than."

When I ask men the worst insult they can remember as little boys, other than being compared to a girl, they say any insult of their mothers or mere insinuation about them. Although "momma jokes" have long been mainstream and considered harmless fun in many circles, they are rooted in the notion that women are in need of protection and it's the role of men to provide it. At an early age, boys demonstrate this understanding of dutiful and protective masculinity in their attitudes about their mothers, which is why momma jokes are so provocative.

When I ask men if "daddy jokes" would be as provocative, the answer is almost universally the same: "No, because my dad can take care himself." It is in this response that I came to understand one of the most unsettling ways that misogyny is deeply rooted in masculine identity. Our mothers are the first women we learn to see as "less than." Yes, our mothers, who nurture and care for us and often control nearly every aspect of our lives. As boys, many of us are told that she requires the physical protection of the "little man" in the house. This may be presented innocently as chivalry, but when the same protection is not applied to his father, we conclude on a fundamental level that Mom is less capable than Dad. This also cements the role of men as protectors.

To be clear about this point, boys don't necessarily understand what "protect" or "take care" of Mom means in their role as the "little man," but they do understand the physical obligation in those narrowly defined terms. They are not encouraged to be wholly supportive of Mom, but to physically protect her. To be supportive would require adopting a broader interpretation that recognizes those duties for which it's assumed are her responsibility and concern (namely, women's issues). Many boys learn a limited role in maintaining and supporting the household, and, as a result, are relegated to a more elemental position as "guardians at the gate." In reality, this typically results in boys being tasked with killing spiders and carrying the heaviest bag of groceries rather than actually providing protection from a real threat.

Clearly this process does not take place in every household or for every boy, but to varying degrees, every boy who moves beyond the nurturing care of his mother and toward personal independence must reconcile with the emotional detachment prescribed by the mandate of masculinity (lest he be labeled a "momma's boy"). This can be a confusing time as boys search for independence by ignoring their emotional selves to seek validation from a patriarchal culture. Boys will not only detach from their emotions but from the girls and women who can access those emotions, and those relationships will push them further from their own emotions because of the need to control the intensity of those feelings. They are ill-prepared or discouraged from expressing feelings, which are evoked by those they love.

As boys mature and the rules of masculinity grow more rigid, it can lead to them feeling an unspoken sense of isolation—of being alone with the fact that they lack the permission or ability to express themselves fully, and of being forced to deal with the complexities of life while lacking a mastery of the emotional tools they carry. This can lead to a troubling place where emotional angst collides with the rigidity of masculine identity and expression, culminating in violent behavior.

 

INEVITABLE VIOLENCE AND PROTECTIVE PATRIARCHY

In a society held together by laws and social structures created by men, there is an incentive for men as well as women to advance and uphold patriarchy, even when it manifests in destructive ways. People accept violence as inevitable and even promote its use for the sake of maintaining order. I call this the rationale of "protective patriarchy," the same one that argues that a strong military fosters peace. Lethal force is justified—if you are on the right side of the violence.

However, when violence does not serve the dominant group, it's swiftly called a grotesque display of inhumanity and vilified in ways that divert our attention from a true examination of its origins in privileged masculinity. We are quick to blame the victim, or we incessantly argue about gun control, mental health, and radicalization. Or we call perpetrators "monsters," likening them to the ghosts and whatever unknown forces feed our hardened, irrational fears. Mired in the morass and debate, we fail to confront hard truths about patriarchy and masculinity.

In regard to men's violence against women, one hard truth people ignore is how protective masculinity is used to mask misogyny. And nowhere is this more prevalent than in the confounding relationship between many dads and their daughters. Long before girls reach dating age, most fathers consider in very specific terms the safety of their daughters around boys. For some, it literally begins when the child's sex is determined in utero. He begins to talk about having his "hands full" protecting his little girl. The disturbing underlying message is that girls are objects and "prey" in a world controlled by their only natural "predator."

The father becomes the proverbial "protective dad" who is driven by fear, guilt, or redemption, and he vigilantly surveils his daughter's relationships while striking an intimidating posture. In this familiar narrative, a popular trope is the father cleaning his shotgun in front of a boy who wishes to date his daughter. It's part of an explicit affirmation of the inevitability of men's violence, including the violent protection of women and girls.

Fathers' attitudes are shaped when they are very young. The "little man" directed to "take care of your mother" becomes the father who implores another man to "take care of my little girl." He thus never escapes the utilitarian dimension of his masculinity. I am not questioning the paternal instinct to protect one's child, but since many dads don't have the same protective behaviors with their sons, what messages are they subtly conveying to their daughters about personal autonomy, privacy, and the role of men in their lives? At what point do girls and women no longer require the physical protection of their fathers or the men to whom their fathers "transfer" that responsibility? And when will men lay down this burden of "protection" and learn to live lives of love and caring, recognizing the family dynamic as a shared egalitarian experience?

The protective-dad narrative also perpetuates the notion that a woman's safety, empowerment, and even her identity are derived through her relationships with a man. This is the other edge of the protective patriarchal sword: the insidious notion that renders her always vulnerable to his inevitable violence. In fact, most men who are violent toward women do so once trust and safety have been established in a relationship. The deeper the trust, the more sustained the violence becomes. It's a noxious intersection of several elements: the trust and belief many women have in men's dutiful, protective masculinity; men's emotional angst; and the rigidity of their masculine identity and expression. What results is a violent eruption that occurs "for her own good" or because he "loves her." She made him do it by usurping his privileged authority or by not recognizing a passion in him that is so intense that he is ill-equipped to understand or control it.

When men violate the fundamental role of "protectors" and perpetrate violence against a woman, the excuse for his behavior reveals the intrinsic misogyny that says it's his responsibility to protect his woman. The examination of his behavior is selective and feckless. What remains more uniform in our reaction is that women are blamed and their behavior is scrutinized before we search for pathologies in the behavior of men.

 

WHY DOES HE STAY?

In September 2013, a video became public showing NFL running back Ray Rice punching his girlfriend Janay Palmer, leaving her unconscious on the floor of an Atlantic City casino elevator. Due to Rice's celebrity status, the video became the center of a national spectacle and a sad, sobering account of men's violence against women. The footage made it indisputable: by using physical violence to resolve an argument, Rice betrayed the trust of his partner in a loving and committed relationship.

The video, which was released seven months after the attack, silenced those who initially attempted to diminish its brutality, some even raising doubt that an assault had actually occurred. For those who were quick to indict and discard another violent black athlete, it was easy to label him a bad man who deserved harsh consequences. Yet, when the media frenzy slowed, it became clear that the outrage was selective. Only those who cared about Rice's football career or the issue of domestic violence had a sustained and cogent interest.

When Janay Palmer agreed to marry Rice, the conversation splintered into different camps. Regarding this private matter in the public discourse, after all, she had forgiven him, and public opinion should have no bearing on her decision or their lives. This was especially true for those who had an interest in using her story to support their larger agenda. For instance, when Janay Palmer appeared in a press event convened by the Baltimore Ravens and expressed regret and culpability for her "role . . . in the incident," it was done at the behest of the Ravens organization and in the interest of Rice's football career. We can assume that the Ravens fans following the press event generally accepted the inevitability of men's violence against women. They were concerned only about the fate of their running back.

But to the domestic violence prevention community, her statement appeared forced. It was as if she were apologizing for failing to remain subservient, or saying that she should not have "provoked" him, knowing he would inevitably be violent; that his passion was so intense, he was like the little boy who hits girls to express affection. While there was some recognition of the blatant "victim blaming" of the press event, it was the omission of an explanation for Ray's behavior following the incident that stood out to me. It was a hard truth that was either ignored or at least not thoroughly considered. Whereas privileged patriarchy dictated that we wonder why Janay Rice stayed in an abusive relationship, we failed to examine why Rice himself stayed in the relationship. This is precisely the way in which sexism harms men and perpetuates unproductive strategies of addressing the problem.

One of the more significant threads in the responses to Palmer's decision to marry Rice was from women around the world who saw themselves in this situation. Via social media, these women articulated "why they stayed" in relationships with men who routinely hurt them. They provided a litany of social, emotional, legal, and economic pressures they faced, as well as pressures in the form of oppressive cultural norms. They stayed, in part, because they were socialized to rely on the protection of men and the patriarchal decorum and financial structures that supported men in providing that protection. For women, the clear penalty for violating or being disloyal to protective patriarchy serves as an outright threat to their safety and autonomy, and it is a prime example of how patriarchy is an oppressive force in their lives.

In contrast to the public conversation about Palmer, the one about Ray Rice was centered on his football career. The consequences to his actions were limited to his playing career and, following his release from the Ravens, the question of which team in the NFL "needs a running back" and if he was worth the risk. There was little interest in understanding Rice as a person. People dismissed the assault as "uncharacteristic" and a "mistake." They also pointed out that Palmer and Rice were in a fight preceding the punch he delivered, as if that served as an adequate explanation.

Ray Rice is not a monster and his violence was not a "mistake." He is a successful man, nurtured by a culture that does not teach men how to express their feelings or embrace their vulnerability. Again, it's a culture that considers violence an essential and unavoidable element of masculinity, and in this case, it simply found its trigger.

Rice and Palmer got married in the midst of the media and legal firestorm surrounding them. It is clear he genuinely loves and cares for her. I cite their story not to interrogate their relationship but to expose the social discourse around such situations that is unproductive and designed to allow privileged patriarchy to go unexamined. In all our public debate about what happened, we never delved into why. Why would Ray Rice act so uncharacteristically—throw away his career and hurt the woman he loves? For those who saw him only as an NFL player, the behavior was either inevitable and therefore predictable, or it was random and senseless. It was as illogical as a ten-year-old pacifist rolling in the gravel as he fought his new best friend.

The public discourse paid little attention to Rice's violation of his fiancée's trust and, more poignantly, completely failed in dissecting the question of why he stayed. Why did he or why does any man stay in a relationship where threats, abuse, and violence are part of how he functions as a partner? And why do our public and private conversations ignore this question? If patriarchy is teaching our girls to expect and even depend on the inevitability of men's violence, either as a force to protect them or to hurt them, then what is it teaching our boys?

The privileged patriarchy allows men to be silent about these questions as well as many other matters of intimacy and personal relationships. We are not expected to have cogent, rational, and deeply considered views on caring relationships and emotional fulfillment. Our privilege allows us to choose silence and indifference over accountability and responsibility to our partners and ourselves; we laud the strong, silent type and see others who express themselves in emotional or nuanced ways as being effeminate or not "real men."

The voices and perspectives of women traumatized by violence have defined the narrative about abusive relationships. Again, until men engage in an honest dialogue that recognizes masculinity as a gendered phenomenon, gender violence will remain a one-sided issue. Moreover, we cannot continually expect women to bear the scars and responsibility of abusive relationships alone.