Conclusion:
Be Your Son's Father, Not Your Father's Son

RUDOLPH GENE McPHERSON

My parents raised five children, all born before 1965, in suburban Long Island, New York. I am the youngest and the third son. My fathers influence is evident in all of the boys. Although it manifests differently in each of us, we all possess an aloof, pragmatic stubbornness that is a bit self-righteous. Our independence and determination were unmistakable in the ways each of us charged through our childhood years, most especially when it came to sports. Miles, the second child and oldest boy, played football and became the first player ever drafted into the NFL out of the University of New Haven. Mark, the middle child, played football until the 1976 Summer Olympic boxing team sparked his passion for boxing. In 1986, he was ranked number two in the world as a junior middleweight fighter. At the same time, I was playing at Syracuse on the verge of a professional career of my own.

From the outside, it may sound like I came from an amazing sports family, but it never felt that way to me. While sports dominated our days, it never felt bigger than our family. Perhaps it was because I never once heard my father take credit for producing such athletically gifted men. In fact, the thought of my father bragging about his sons is inconceivable. When I asked him why he never took credit for our athletic success, he shrugged it off, as if it were a mystery.

What was not a mystery was how he taught us the love of play. We were typical athletic boys, and he played with us because he enjoyed playing. He dragged us out into the street or to the park with our uncles, not because he was trying to make us better, but because he simply loved doing so.

He loved baseball. I will never forget the summer I began playing as a pitcher. While he sat in a crouch mimicking New York Mets catcher Jerry Grote, he coached me to pitch like Grotes teammate, the great Tom Seaver. We had none of the proper equipment and lived on a straight street with a long incline. Without fail, when a ball got past him, he would turn and chase it, no matter how far down the hill my wayward curveball traveled. The inconvenience didnt faze him. Instead, he was focused and determined to make the next pitch better, delivering tips and suggestions as he returned the ball to me and resumed his catcher stance.

I distinctly remember feeling amazed and grateful for his selflessness and patience. This cant be fun for him, I frequently thought as he chased balls down the hill. But then, later in life, I heard him tell stories of his childhood in Jamaica and having no one to play with. He would hit balls and then go find them in a field, only to aimlessly hit the ball again. There was no discernible game, no structure, and no opponent for whom he was preparing . . . it was just him.

Growing up in Jamaica, his father was a prominent musician and successful businessman. He had the money and status to provide well for his family. In fact, as a child, my father and his brother attended the finest boarding school on the island. They spent the school year across the island from their parents, receiving a privileged education not afforded every Jamaican. My grandfather, Milton McPherson, was the leader of his own big band and part owner of the Silver Slipper nightclub in Jamaica, and was well known throughout the Caribbean. His fame brought higher social status and the opportunity for a better life. Ultimately, this meant a move to the United States. In 1944, he and my grandmother left his family and came to America. Three years later, my father and his brother joined them in Brooklyn, New York.

The irony of having this privileged boarding school experience was that it took the children away from their parents. When my father did spend time with his father, it was usually not a warm experience. It was the norm in Jamaica and in those days that children were not the center of attention. Listening to my father tell it, the purpose of sending them away to boarding school was to prepare them to return as adults, ready to participate in the culture.

My grandparents left them on the island alone for three years. My father recalled that time with a feeling of abandonment. It didnt matter that the people around him (including the nuns at their school) believed he and his brother were privileged; after all, they would also be heading to America soon. My father considered those the most difficult years of his life. Separated from his parents, they spent holidays and summers at school, the only two students without a home base to reconnect with tradition, family, and love. The conspicuous silence of empty dining halls, playgrounds, and hallways characterized the period of my dads life from age ten to thirteen when he says he died on the vine. As he reflected on those years as an adult, he said it was all he knew, so of course he gritted his teeth and endured. Even in his later years, he still expressed special sympathy for orphans and kids who are unloved.

My father was not unloved. His parents made great sacrifices to provide a better life for their children. Hundreds of miles away, my grandfather gave up his music and took a job on a farm. As many American men were oversees fighting World War II, the best way for an immigrant man to stay in the country was to take jobs left by servicemen. Ultimately, he became an accountant and, as I remember, only played piano on rare occasions. When I think of the amount of time my dad lost with his father, I wonder how much of my grandfathers sacrifices were worth it.

The emotional disconnect in my father was as present in his personality as his ethnicity, especially during family holidays. However, when it came to playing, he was always ready for a catch or a discussion of the physical mechanics of sports. He was a good athlete who ran track briefly in college and had a short-lived boxing career, so even though he never took credit for our success, he enjoyed that we all played sports for most of his life. The way he expressed love and affection was often in the silent participation of playing. Mark used to say that the only reason our father wanted to have kids was to have someone to play with. In fact, one of my fondest memories was a moment when we were just four guys playing ball.

It was Christmas Day 1985, a balmy fifty degrees in New York. Miles was home from San Diego (the Chargers didnt make the playoffs), and I returned from Syracuse after a disappointing bowl loss with my team. Naturally, in the midst of such great weather, my father roused us for a game at the local park. It was not enough for him just to play catch; he demanded we make a game out of it. So, Mark and Miles set up on defense, I played quarterback, and my father was my wide receiver. During the game, he asked me to give him routes and pass patterns, as if he understood the offense I ran at Syracuse. He was in decent shape then, and at one point he asked for a deep route, figuring he could surprise Miles and run past him. For about twenty yards, he looked real smooth . . . until he pulled his hamstring.

We all limped home that daya boxer in perpetual pain, two football players bruised from a four-month season, and their father experiencing the pain of watching his sons usurp his reign of physical dominance. But at least he had someone to play with.

When I was in the fourth grade, long after he put a second floor on our house to accommodate the growing family, he broke ground on a new pool. I can vividly remember the planning process: blueprint diagrams, fencing specifications, and, of course, the diving board and lining pattern. But in all the years of meticulous upkeep, of decorative rocks, finely trimmed shrubbery, and pH level balance, one thing struck me as odd. I never saw my father relax by the pool. He worked on it tirelessly, but never enjoyed it. In fact, about once a year he would actually go for a swim. Invariably, his wallet would be on the clothesline afterward, because he had never actually planned to take a dip. Rather, his plunge would come after hours of sweating in the hot sun, working beside fifty thousand gallons of pristine, cool water. Ah, screw it, was the declaration in his head before he dove in, clothes, wallet, and all. For him, the pool was not his source of enjoyment. His enjoyment came from providing the pool for us. For him, it only served as a temporary relief from that responsibility, the epitome of dutiful masculinity.

Early in life, my father was an enigma. He did so much for us, yet aside from playing ball, he seemed not to enjoy himself. He also shared so little of himself. He worked hard, not asking much of us while doing what he needed to give us a better life than the one he had. As with his own parents, Im sure this is the noble intention of every generation. But it offers very little to go on in terms of what is actually expected from the next generation. The lack of dialogue left so much to interpretation.

 

CONVERSATIONS WITH POP

As I got older, I realized that one of the benefits of being the youngest of five siblings was that in interactions with either of my parents, especially my dad, I got less parent and more of a raw, authentic adult. We discussed serious topics on a daily basis. As early as middle school, we had conversations about each major decision regarding my future, like when I chose to transfer school districts simply for the sake of playing for a better football team. It was a lengthy process with a great deal to consider, and in the end, it was my decision. The process was repeated when I chose a college, hired an agent, and bought my first car. Its hard to put into words what his trust in my judgment and respect for my decisions did for my self-confidence.

My fathers influence is evident in my speaking style. I have always managed to address complex and difficult issues with an idiosyncratic levity that characterized most of our interactions. Our conversations were always intellectually compelling yet sprinkled with dry humor. Very rarely did he impose his worldview on me. He always presented his arguments with a pragmatic and objective consideration of the facts. When he took a position, it was definitive but almost self-satisfied in that he didnt care if you agreed. I remember sensing that he was always curious about how I was experiencing and interpreting the world because he knew it was different from the one in which hed been raisedalthough there was that one time when my perspective pushed his patience.

During one of our existential conversations about racism, the state of America, and the pressing social issues of the time, I expressed an opinion that made him somewhat uncomfortable. I felt his discomfort through the phone, but pressed on. He grew more and more silent until finally he interrupted: Yes, Donald, but you have the He dropped off as abruptly as hed begun.

I knew what he wanted to say so I finished, I have the luxury to think that way, right?

Yes, he replied.

To which I added, Yes, thats right, I doand that is a luxury I have because of you!

He worked hard so that we would have a better childhood, a better life, than hed had as a child. There is no denying how well he achieved that for my siblings and me, but Im just not sure if he truly understood his role in shaping my ability to fully appreciate and maximize the opportunity his life afforded mine.

It was not until I reached adulthood that I came to understand the depth of his sensitivity and how firmly rooted and concealed it was in his identity. When I interviewed him for this book, he told me there were times, unbeknownst to our family, when he would leave the room because a television show or commercial made him emotional and he was afraid he would cry in front of his children. He didnt just hide his emotions, he literally hid with them. A few years after my father died, I learned from my mother that he actually left the stands during a football game because he was overcome with emotion. After a very hard hit, I lay unconscious for a few minutes. When I regained consciousness, my first thought was of my family in the stands, so I made a gesture that I knew my brother and father would interpret as an indication that I was okay. I figured they would laugh and react with their characteristically blunt humor that bordered on being cruel. Never did I consider that my dad was pacing the stadium concourse in tears.

My father hid his emotions well, but he did not hide his caring. It may have been awkwardly expressed at times, but there was a real effort on his part to be a better father than his own dad. That didnt stem from any animus toward him; rather, he wanted to offer us the love and attention he did not receive from his parents. Although his parents failed to overtly express that love, he felt it nonetheless and understood it as a form of love defined by the culture and times in which he was raised.

Despite doing so much to give us the things he did not have as a boy, he still struggled to give us certain things we really needed from him. He gave us plenty of timetime he never had with his dadbut that time often lacked emotion. That is easy to see now, but it was the norm then, just as it was normal not to attend the birth of any of his children or ever change a diaper. The role of fathers was quite different in the 1970s. The expectations of their participation as nurturers and caregivers were minimal; therefore, my father had little reason to reconsider his role.

But so much has changed since then. Arguably, one of the greatest challenges facing parents, and fathers in particular, are the rapidly changing social norms around gender. This is not simply about changing diapers or the new occupational roles that men must assume in a technological age. Nor is it simply about the advancement of women in areas once considered mens domain, or the imperative to confront systemic gender violence and inequality.

By choice, men have been left behind in an important conversation about gender roles, behavioral expectations, and the way that behavior is policed in our society. This is a collective blind spot, and as an unintended outcome of privilege, men have been allowed to opt out of a public discussion regarding the expectations placed on their own expanding roles and responsibilities. This problem is further exacerbated if men do not understand that they are gendered beings influenced by and living on a gender spectrum.

 

MARRIAGE "EQUALITY"

In 2003, Massachusetts became the first state to legalize same-sex marriage. By 2015, it was legal in all fifty states. While many opponents maintain that same-sex marriage threatens the institution of (heterosexual) marriage, I have always seen a deeper motivation in the fight to deny people who love each other their fundamental rights as partners: what opponents actually want is to uphold marriage as a tool of patriarchy.

There are examples people often point to illustrating the patriarchal traditions of traditional marriage, such as the protective wedding ritual of a father giving away his daughter to the groom, symbolically transferring power over her life, and the convention of a wife losing her family name to assume her husbands, thereby affixing her identity and worth to his. In fact, there are a host of other social, religious, economic, and legal ways that marriage is governed by patriarchy. Essentially, removing the dogma of heterosexualitys exclusive claim on marriage takes power and control away from men. But contrary to what opponents believe, same-sex marriage actually strengthens the idea of marriage, as it necessarily emphasizes the requirement of a mutual partnershiptrue marriage equality.

It is in this mutual partnership where the need for men to live in their wholeness is critical. But this is difficult for the current generation of men who have had few role models or examples of what that evolving role looks like. We have programs and discussions about dads and daughters driven by the movement to raise safe and healthy girls, but this is consistent with the mode of protective patriarchy that fails to recognize a greater risk factor to girls healthunhealthy boys. What about a fathers influence on a sons healthy development to become a whole person and, eventually, a partner in a true egalitarian relationship?

Our current generation of fathers is challenged with learning to perform tasks and assume roles we never witnessed our fathers doing. Its interesting to hear older men refer to a fathers time alone with his own child as babysitting. The implication is beyond subtle: the role they are referring to, one typically performed by the thirteen-year-old girl next door, is temporary and comes with limited authority and low performance expectations.

Some people believe that the changing gender dynamics are emasculating for men, which clearly exemplifies the patriarchal notion that gender equality represents an abdication of mens power. Instead of us blaming women for our emasculation, we should consider how the demands of the mandate of masculinity render us incapable of viewing women as our equals. To borrow a phrase, many men have grandmothers, mothers, daughters, wives, and partners, and they are not adversaries bent on our destruction. Women are not the enemy; its not an either/or proposition. Men must also recognize that in the fight for gender equality, women have an ever-growing allymen. The dogmatic and rigid way in which men consider gender is changing, even in our most draconian male environments. This has accelerated social change more quickly than many are prepared for, and while progress can be debated, it cannot be ignored.

 

COURAGE TO BE VULNERABLE

In 1934, a Jewish boy named Richard Raskind was born in New York City. His mother was a professor at Columbia University and one of the first female psychiatrists in the United States. His father was an orthopedic surgeon. Raskind was a three-sport athlete (football, baseball, swimming) at Horace Mann High School and went on to Yale, where he captained the tennis team. After college, Raskind pursued his medical career with a specialization in ophthalmology, studying and working in the most renowned hospitals and medical centers in the country. Raskind later joined the US Navy and, in addition to continuing his medical training, won the all-Navy tennis championship. But none of this is what brought Raskind notoriety.

Richard Raskind entered the consciousness of the American public as Rene Richards, a forty-one-year-old transgender woman petitioning the World Tennis Association to compete as a woman. I remember in 1977 when Richards was first allowed to compete in the US Open. At the time we called it a sex-change operation and I cannot recall a single mature or respectful utterance by any adult about what that entailed or meant to her life. Im not sure anyone I knew considered what was actually happening in her life beyond the game of tennis. Even though I know everyone had opinions, they were never discussed openly. I think about Richards often these days as I reflect on how much more informed and understanding our culture has become about LGBTQ awareness and rights. I also wonder what Richards was thinking as Caitlyn Jenner transitioned before our eyes: an Olympic hero once on the Wheaties box, then a bizarre reality-TV star, then a pop culture icon. In the span of what felt like a few months, Bruce Jenner underwent reassignment surgery, declared her identity as Caitlyn, and, in a turn of events Rene Richards could never have imagined for herself, was honored by ESPN with an ESPY Award for her courage.

Courage is the quintessential marker of the mandate of masculinity. Vulnerability may be the most difficult for men to understand or demonstrate, but courage requires overt, purposeful, and selfless action. We often mistakenly view manhood as a fixed destination, a finite set of jobs and roles, but its more like a journey, one not defined simply by enduring or persevering but by fully embracing the journey itself. And true courage is demonstrably and unashamedly living our wholeness throughout the journey.

Courage, like the handful of other characteristics used to narrowly define masculinity, is largely viewed through a small lens, typically as it relates to facing physical violence or harm. ESPNs recognition of Jenners courage to live in her truth and in her wholeness despite the immense social pressures she faced as an iconic male athlete was culturally significant because it recognized a broader definition of courage. Jenners reality reflected a collective and unspoken truth: gender is such a manifestly fluid reality in our families and communities that it can and should no longer be confined or ignored.

Rene Richards was a true pioneer of great courage. Caitlyn Jenner represents the power of the media to expose the traditions of silence in our culture. Neither of them was a social aberration. Access to the media simply enabled Jenner a platform from which she could not be ignored and through which our culture could recognize the trans community like it never had before.

No matter where we fall on the spectrum of promoting or fighting for social change, the fact remains that its happening and we must collectively grapple with the discomfort caused by a shift from the way things have always been. However, in this age of social media, our online discourse is not always helping social progress; we are too often divided into different echo chambers where our perspectives are hardened and polarized. While change typically comes at the tip of a spear, progress has been found in the patience and mutual respect to listen to each other and advance toward a reasonable understanding and expression of truth. This applies to every generation that has strived to be better than the one in which it was raised. On every issue, from the environment to education to health care, we are better and have grown by having access to more information and smarter ways of looking at how things have always been. And on so many social issuesincluding race and genderwe must be honest and respectful of the lives and perspectives of those around us that inform the ways we improve and grow.

This is one more place where privilege creates a sad and unfortunate blind spot for men: the disabling of our ability to guide the next generation of boys toward their wholeness. Privilege removes the appetite and incentive for seeking new information because it may dismantle the way things have always been, thus threatening the power and privilege of patriarchy. Once again, the underlying privilege of masculinity is that its derived by the degradation of women. Masculinity is defined not in its wholeness but too often by what it is not. Hence the understanding that we dont raise boys to be men, we raise them not to be women . . . or gay men.

What does whole and healthy masculinity look like? And what are the incentives to encourage men to embrace a different way of looking at masculinity as we raise the next generation of boys? Naturally, there is great risk in the proposition of challenging how we raise boys, especially if it disrupts a status quo or dismantles important and venerated beliefs and traditions. How do we mitigate the impact of that risk in a ways that leads to honest and productive dialogue? During a presentation to a college football team, I offered my analysis of the insult You throw like a girl, and a young man responded with a challenge: Yes, but if your son threw like a girl, wouldnt you do something about it? I could hear in his tone his profound resolution. In his view, the act of throwing was not only a gender-normal behavior and an inherently male trait, but it also carried social capital. He supposed that if this son he imagined I had lacked the gendered skill of throwing, I would be faced with a salient dilemma: my failure to teach my son to throw normal meant I was derelict in fulfilling my essential role as a father.

I quickly responded, I am not going to make my son better by degrading my daughter. I had given that session to address the issue of mens violence against women; therefore, I had to confront the idea that such language fundamentally degrades women and is foundational to mens violence against women. It was a sharp retort, but my answer was incomplete. It did not give them anything upon which they could build.

I left that session with a weighty and consuming question that has driven the mission of my work ever since: how do we raise healthy and whole boys without degrading girls in the process? It is a challenge for all men, but one particularly vital in my work and life.

 

INTENTIONAL MASCULINITY AND DELIBERATIVE TEACHING

I am often asked how and when I came to this work and about my particular perspective of confronting the mandate of masculinity. People assume that I had an epiphany born out of some profound experience that led to gender enlightenment. But there was no moment, as Ive mentioned. I was twenty-nine years old when I began to learn and grow, although I was still a participant in the performance of masculinity and in many ways struggling to reconcile with the foundation of my identity and the ways things have always been. But I began to come to terms with how deeply ingrained the mandate of masculinity was and how misogyny and sexism had influenced so many aspects of my life.

In the course of my work, Ive met boys and young men whose healthy masculine identity developed much earlier in life, as high school or college students. These were not just kind men by nature; instead, they recognized and confronted the myriad social pressures to adhere to sexist values. As a result, they are now empathetic, vulnerable, and kind, and also tough, strong, and sometimes athletic. Notably, all of these men share one thing in common: they were nurtured in a way that valued their wholeness as people above their performance as men.

On rare occasions when I get to meet the adults who have influenced these boys and men, I feel a strong compulsion to delve into their parenting strategies. Whether they were single mothers or fathers, same-sex couples, or heterosexual couples, these parents all raised their boys deliberately, with a keen sense that the mandate of masculinity was a destructive force. Some had experienced neglect or abuse at the hands of their father or another man and wanted the opposite experience for their children. Some had a loving father or male figure in their lives who had demonstrated empathy and compassion along with patriarchal tough love, and as parents chose to only hold on to the former. Although their motivations may have differed, again, the common thread was the deliberate way they raised their boys. They did not leave their sons to learn the rules of masculinity from a culture steeped in privileged patriarchy. They also held accountable the influences on their sons outside the home, such as their teachers and coaches.

Their boys were not competing to be the alpha male in grade school and on the playground. If they viewed other boys with jealousy, disdain, or fear, they did not act on it and therefore their identity wasnt dependent on or validated by those emotions. Most importantly, they were not shamed by their fathers or adult men in their lives. Their rejection of the mandate was wholly and lovingly supported, and it didnt damage their self-esteem or resilience; they were no less of a boy. This is not to say they did not acknowledge or understand the pressure to conform or even feel it themselves. But it was not enough to compromise the wholeness they had been deliberately raised and encouraged to embrace.

We are capable of achieving this for all boys. The secret ingredient isnt really a secret. It is a matter of intentionally holding to the set of values and behaviors we all hope to instill in our children to guide them through a healthy and happy life. But we cannot simply assume boys are okay or that this is just how they are supposed to be. Nor can we continue to ignore what we know because it makes us uncomfortable.

We are wiser than previous generations and make better decisions regarding our diet and health, cutting back on toxic habits like eating processed foods and smoking. Our lives have improved largely because we have more and more accurate information. We prepare and execute at a higher level in the workplace by using more precise data, which we now access at greater volumes and speeds. We use information previously unavailable about weather, travel, and global events. We must apply this same process of gathering essential information to how we raise and nurture future generations of boys.

This process sheds light on that exchange I had with the college football player years ago. When he asked me what I would do if my son threw like a girl, my first thought was about the mechanics of throwing a football, and how pivotal the learning process is in acquiring this skill. The oblong shape of a football and the way in which the game is played make throwing a football so different from other kinds of balls. The mechanics begin with the feet and involve the entire body, right up to the release at the tip of the index finger. Last to touch the ball, the index finger is crucial to producing the spiral, taking the wobble out of the ball in flight.

I have taught both girls and boys how to throw a football, and boys are almost always initially much more difficult to teach than girls. Most boys believe that throwing a ball is their birthright (that gendered trait), and if they falter, all they have to do is try harder. In their heads, they know what the quarterback looks like in action and they have mastered the motor movements. However, they lack the precise mechanics to produce a spiral. Most of the girls I have taught, on the other hand, have listened carefully and applied the techniques they learned in proper sequence. Unlike the boys, they werent trying to mimic a football player they admire, which can cloud the learning process. In every one of those cases, to throw like a girl meant throwing the proper way.

Years after that exchange with the football player, during a meeting at the Pentagon, I shared the story with the judge advocate general of the Air Force. I mentioned what I had gleaned watching girls learn to throw a football. He smiled in agreement: he had witnessed the inclusion of women in Air Force training programs. If we can train women to fly our planes and drop bombs with precision, he said, we can teach men to be better gentlemen.

 

LESSONS FROM JOHN GLENN

During the past three decades, I have grown increasingly critical of the role of sports in American culture, especially as it pertains to children. My critique is not because I had a regretful experience. In fact, I still truly love sports, and that is why I am often critical. One of my key targets is the way youth sports have undervalued the importance of practice and preparation, and how parents have been deceived and manipulated by their hopes for their childrens success. As an educator who uses the platform and appeal of sports to teach, I find this distortion of priorities troubling. And as my understanding of masculinity has evolved, and Ive seen how sports perpetuate the worst myths about it, my critique has only grown sharper.

During a moment when I was looking for wisdom on this issue, I found it upon meeting one of my heroes in life, US senator and Mercury Seven astronaut John Glenn, which occurred on that evening in 2008 when we were both honored by the National Football Foundation. I was a junior in college when I first considered Glenns historic feat. I saw the film The Right Stuff, chronicling the selection of Americas first team of astronauts, the Mercury Seven, and I was fascinated. I identified with Glenns personality and demeanor. It became one of those films I would watch occasionally as fodder for my football dreams. It would motivate me to live for something greater than myself. Through the hyperbole of sports, I could compare a Saturday-afternoon game to being among the first group of human beings to travel into outer space. I imagined I too had the right stuffthose fundamental qualities that enabled ordinary men to reach extraordinary heights.

On February 20, 1962, John Glenn was the lone pilot aboard the Friendship 7 and became the first American to orbit our planet. On December 9, 2008, he and I shared the stage at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City at the College Football Hall of Fame awards dinner. He received the Gold Medal Award and I was inducted into the Hall of Fame. Despite the amazing honor and grandeur of having my football career celebrated, meeting Senator Glenn was the highlight of my night. It was also the moment he destroyed the movie I loved, though he did so for all the right reasons.

I did my best to keep my cool as I approached Senator Glenn, but I also wanted to give him the proper reverence he commanded. He was gracious and the celebratory atmosphere of the evening made the conversation easy. I was delightfully relieved that my hero was indeed forthright, gracious, and magnanimous (a line from the film). I wanted to walk away before that impression was ruined, but as images of The Right Stuff and all my favorite scenes with astronaut John Glenn filled my head, I could not contain myself. I blurted something like, The Right Stuff is my favorite movie! (Actually, its Jaws, but he didnt need to know that.) He paused, squared his body, and sharply expressed his disapproval of the film, adding that Apollo 13 was better.

For those not familiar, Apollo 13 tells the story of what was essentially a failed space mission. Damage to the capsule during liftoff forced the crew to abandon their mission to land on and explore the moon. The crew was then faced with an entirely new missiongetting back to earth in a highly compromised spacecraft. Proceeding through a series of checklists, the crew had to determine which parts and systems were still functional, and how they could be repurposed to make them operational for their new mission.

Seeming to be back in the moment, Senator Glenn lit up as he talked about the process of preparing for a mission and the courage required to sit on what is effectively a bomb that would propel him into outer space on a tiny aircraft, realizing that, to quote fellow Mercury Seven astronaut Alan Shepard, ones safety factor was determined by the lowest bidder on a government contract. This is the kind of courage I referred to earlierbravery in the face of the threat of death or grave harm. Separate from that, Glenn asserted that the real work lay in the process of preparation for all those things that might go wrong. He talked about visiting the factories where every part of the spacecraft was manufactured and tested so he and his fellow astronauts knew how to work backward with every piece of the ship in the event that any one piece failed. He talked about all the painstaking and meticulous drilling, testing, and more drilling. Then he referred back to Apollo 13. As the entire world looked on with trepidation for the fate of the men and their mission, more than two hundred thousand miles from earth, the crew went through their checks.

The process Glenn talked about is summed up by something else Alan Shepard said: You probably spend more time in planning and training and designing for things to go wrong, and how you cope with them, than you do for things to go right. This is precisely the essence of sports and the process of preparation that anticipates the heat of the moment. Preparation is rooted in striving for excellence while honestly considering the reality of all possible outcomes.

Shepards statement is a recognition of ones vulnerability, weakness, and lack of complete control. Its also a recognition that in every circumstance, being able to utilize every tool available, and knowing how to apply them, especially in the heat of the moment, is an absolute requisite for successwhether you are an astronaut, an athlete, or simply a human. It doesnt matter how great or small the challenge.

Although Senator Glenn destroyed the image I had from afar, he perfectly framed my feelings about sports and masculinity in a different context and in an empowering way. He encapsulated what I was trying to achieve in my mission to not just debunk myths about masculinity, but to elevate the way in which we engage each moment with our best (and best prepared) selves. For me, this means honestly recognizing the limits of how masculinity is currently defined and aspiring to live differently, embracing and utilizing more tools such as empathy, sensitivity, and vulnerability. Lastly, he reinforced my resolve to pursue the answer to how we raise healthy and whole sons without degrading our daughters.

Certainly, Senator Glenn had to be tough, strong, and a master of his emotions. Similarly, Eileen Collinswho, on February 3, 1995, became the first woman to command a space shuttlecalled upon those same qualities in her own leadership role. Her success, like that of so many women who have excelled in roles and environments once considered the dominion of men, embodies the wholeness of humanity. Women athletes, elected officials, corporate leaders, and members of the armed services have proven that the wholeness of humanity is demonstrating that being tough, strong, and physically dominant does not supplant or diminish the ability to be loving, caring, and vulnerable. Men must likewise recognize that being caring and loving makes us better partners, bosses, and leaders. Sensitivity and empathy make us better listeners and healthier about our own needs and emotional and physical health, not to mention that of the people in our lives. Embracing and understanding vulnerability makes us better fathers. We are not reduced as men by deliberately demonstrating these qualities; rather, we are made whole.

 

TO BE A MAN—LOVING, JOYFUL

During one particular visit to a college, following a morning session with a football team, I conducted a session with professional staff on the same campus. It was a large, mixed-gender staff of social workers, counselors, and advisors from various departments on campus. During an overview that included what I had discussed in the morning session, I asked the group the same question I asked the football team: What does it mean to be a man? The response from this group of caring, sensitive, and highly trained men in the room was no different than the football teams, touching on all the stereotypical attributes reflected in the box of masculinity. I pressed them, asking if in their daily work with young people, did they not demonstrate empathy, vulnerability, and sensitivity? As I drilled further, they explained that in their jobs they utilized those qualities, but as men, they ignored them. It was a revealing moment. They used phrases such as, You know, its different when Im with the guys. They were stuck in that place of performing masculinity for other men even when it belied their true identities.

Years later, I had the opportunity to once again ask a group of men what they thought it meant to be a man. In this instance, I was asked to participate in a panel discussion of fathers whose boys attended a private school on Long Island. Before the panel there was a screening of the film The Mask You Live In, a brilliant documentary on masculinity produced by Jennifer Siebel Newsom and Jessica Congdon. I immediately accepted the invitation but with a caveat that I could spend time with the dads who volunteered before the event. They agreed. On a cold, rainy November evening, a diverse group of men trudged through New York City rush-hour traffic to discuss a film they had not yet seen and that would challenge their notions of masculinity. And that discussion would be with a man they had not yet met, who was going to talk about their roles as fathers.

When I ultimately asked them for their definition of being a man, the predictable responses followed, similar to those Id received from the football players and the male college staffers. I forcefully (with some personal sadness and frustration) explained how amazingly loving, sensitive, vulnerable, and caring they were to voluntarily come out on a cold November evening to examine and challenge their understanding of masculinity. I said their desire to be better fathers to their sons was lovely. Each man wasnt just being an involved dad but was also truly demonstrating themselves as whole men who were considering a new approach to being fathers, better fathers than the ones theyd had. I repeated these praises because they needed to truly hear it. Being a loving father is not just providing for our sons, but acting as these men were. We need to be accessible, exposed, and honest, showing our sons the same authentic, vulnerable love we want for ourselves.

In addition to teaching and nurturing in a deliberate way, men must model the qualities of what I call joyful masculinity

fathering by embracing the vulnerability of expressing joy. Modeling happiness and love passes down happiness and love. We pass on the love of our favorite sports teams to our children not because we decorate their bedrooms with propaganda and memorabilia, but because they observe what makes us happy and brings us joy. Sometimes the joy, like that demonstrated by the dads that evening, is learning how to be a better father. In the example of my own father, it manifested in him learning the sports we played so he could play with us. The most distinct behaviors my father passed to me were those that brought him joythose subtle delights that may be less obvious but are no less profound, and that are not governed by the performance of masculinity or directly in service to children.

Each time I sat down to work on this book, I had jazz pianist Keith Jarrett playing in the background because I have vivid recollections of the peace his music gave my father. I knew and appreciated the things he had to do to provide for us, but I also loved the things he wanted to do that were not about us.

 

BILL MAXWELL

Bill Maxwell was my quarterback coach in college. He was a masterful teacher, always positive and enthusiastic. In the coaching moments that required him to explain something in detail to me, his tone softened and he spoke in simple, unambiguous terms. I also spent a significant amount of time with Bill off the field. In addition to our endless football meetings, there was plenty of downtime on the road and at promotional events, as well as in countless impromptu meetings in his office, when the conversation strayed from football to academics, family, and life goals beyond college. The man I encountered in those times was forthrightly kind. It was a no-nonsense kindness, the sort necessary to nurture and support college football players who were balancing their bravado with a secret insecurity they hid behind a mask. What I marveled most about Bill Maxwell and what has remained in my memory after long-forgotten lessons of the game was his incredible generosity, patience, and respect. He was the first person who taught me that respect is given and not earned. I watched as he gave the custodian the same deference as he gave the university chancellor. He was never condescending and was uncommonly patient. The world around him was like crabs in a bucket and, unwaveringly, he was not. Bill was authentic. His gentle presence, juxtaposed with the environment of big-time college football, was conspicuous. His loving humanity and welcoming demeanor was not tolerated or excused by his coaching peers or the athletes he coached. It was cherished. His presence fostered an environment around him that was freed by his example from the mandate of masculinity.

Bill Maxwell was also meticulously organized. It was a necessary trait for a college quarterback coach. His notes were cogent, his penmanship perfectly legible, and he used colored pens to organize and highlight every game plan. This was consistent with his overall steady and contemplative demeanor. Honestly, I rarely gave Coach Maxwells style much thought. He neither expected nor suggested that we (the other quarterbacks and I) adopt his approach. In fact, it was not until he passed away that I truly considered his subtle yet lasting influence.

My days in the NFL were completely uneventful. I never became a starter or even a regular player. But as a quarterback, I was still required to submit a game planthe list of plays I felt comfortable executing according to the games situations. Since my playing time was not a priority for the coaching staff, I was left to my own devices to organize my plan. Naturally, before my first professional game, my first stop was an office supply store to buy a set of colored pens. I did so for each of the seven years I played professional football, the last set purchased from a small card store somewhere just south of Montreal prior to the training camp of my final year. Even though my heart was no longer in the game, Bill Maxwell was in my heart.

When Bill passed away in 1998, I attended his funeral with those pens in my pocket. Grieving his death, and without adequate words to express what he meant to my life, I grabbed a symbol, a physical representation of how his life had influenced mine. The utility of the pens in that moment revealed to me what I was incapable of articulating: his example as a loving, kind, and gentle man was not just something to which I aspired as a twenty-two-year-old college student; he also provided me with a game plan on how to live my life.

The most profound and lasting qualities I took from Bill Maxwell were those I had consistently observed. There have been other men who have had a tremendous impact on my life. Similarly, their impact on me has been rooted in their observable behavior. Spoken and written words have inspired me and informed the philosophies that have guided my life, but my behaviors have been most influenced by watching men for whom I have great respect and admiration and who possess the qualities to which I aspire.

The journey I have been on since 1994, deconstructing masculinity and engaging men and boys in the work to end all forms of mens violence against women, has been personally transformative. It began with an awakening facilitated by the amazing survivors, advocates, and educators who opened my eyes and heart. The innumerable individuals who made up each audience fueled my resolve with their willingness to courageously delve into the issues, traversing the pain and distress that often come with growth and progress. The young men who have demonstrated what whole and healthy masculinity looks like have given me inspiration and hope for the future.

 

I LOVE YOU, MAN

In the final years of my fathers life, he and my brothers and I shared more I love yous than we did in the entire preceding forty years of my life. Caring, sensitive, and vulnerable, we put aside the performance of menfathers and sonsand were guided by our loving humanity. I fully recognize the amazing blessing it was to have that. It also made clearer the profound controlling power of the mandate of masculinity that had made the absence of that demonstrative love normal and okay.

Its often said that masculinity is in a state of crisis, that the paradigm governing the lives of boys and men is misleading and perilous. Perhaps this is true, as so much violence and social discontent stem from the aggressive defense of patriarchal values. And male privilege continues to keep us from seeing the destructive nature of living with only a portion of our wholeness and humanity.

But the real crisis is in the relationships we have with each other, and that begins with men and boys. Workshops, lectures, campaigns, slogans, and public-service messages will do nothing without the full engagement of fathers and men who serve as true role models and daily examples for boys. Boys not only aspire to emulate us; they have no choice but to become us. As the world around us evolves, so too must our understanding of what it means to be a man: a real man, a whole man, helping boys navigate our rapidly changing world. And while change can feel abrupt and scary, we must choose to be part of a transformative process. This is an amazing time and opportunity in our cultural history as adult men to be immersed in the process of teaching boys how to live in their wholeness, by courageously revealing and modeling our own whole humanity.