What about men? The Sequel

On the other hand, there’s the thing about men that even Hemingway acknowledged -- the curse of loneliness. That’s the drawback to the splendid isolation men seem to prize; thus isolated, they are safe from vulnerability, and for vulnerability, read “intimacy”.

Hence, intimacy, with a woman, threatens the loss of independence, loss of opportunity to have sex with any OTHER woman [who will have him, but that’s another story], or freedom to do all those fun, faux-jousting things like play poker and smoke cigars and eat junk and pull ligaments shooting hoops with each other until dark or until somebody ELSE’S wife makes him come home (pussy!).

As for intimacy with another man -- YIKES! we won’t even discuss that here; way too scary. For this kind of intimacy, it’s much more comfy to substitute that ligament-pulling b’ball, or, for the less robust, chess or academic department politics; it’s still rivalry, competition, you know, MANLY stuff. It is said that all sorts of intimate conversations are held in these contests, that they say many, many things to each other without the use of mere words, but the topics seem to be truncated, limited to subjects such as, whose is bigger, who’s smarter, who’s tougher, etc. Short conversations indeed.

When are the conversations about their common terrors? Do they admit their loneliness to each other, and seek comfort through this confession? Do they share their fears of impotence, of death, of irrelevance? Men can write about these things, and some beautifully -- McGuane in "Gallatin Canyon", his new book of short stories, Robert B. Parker, James Lee Burke, the aforementioned Hemingway; what happens to those men whose medium of expression isn’t words, or painting or music, or to those who have been successfully conditioned OUT of exercising self-expression except through violence, or its bedmate, depression?

I am not the first woman to be puzzled and sorrowed by the terrible, even if self-inflicted, wounds of men. I remember a Phoebe Snow song from the 70s, “Have mercy on those men with no feelings”, with the haunting line “10 stories up and out on the ledge”. Another one, sung by Margaret Whiting and then Rickie Lee Jones, “The Ballad of the Sad Young Men” I reprint in full here:

Sing a song of sad young men
Glasses full of rye
All the news is bad again so
Kiss your dreams goodbye

All the sad young men
Sitting in the bars
Knowing neon nights
Missing all the stars

All the sad young men
Drifting through the town
Drinking up the night
Trying not to drown

All the sad young men
Singing in the cold
Trying to forget
That they're growing old

All the sad young men
Choking on their worth
Trying to be brave
Running from the truth

Autumn turns the leaves to gold
Slowly dies the heart
Sad young men are growing old
That's the cruelest part

All the sad young men
Seek a certain smile
Someone they can hold for a little while
Tired little girl does the best she can
Trying to be gay for her sad young man

While the grimy moon
Watches from above
All the sad young men
Play at making love

Misbegotten moon
Shine for sad young men
Let your gentle light
Guide them home tonight
All the sad young men

[Lyrics by Kurt Elling, music by Tommy Wolf & Fran Landesman, from "Close Your Eyes"]

Where were these guys’ mothers when the little boys were learning about the world? I admit mixed success with my own sons: they are all sensitive, all thinkers, and while they’ve each had moments of stunningly poor judgment, not to mention visibly wrestling with the demands of overweening ego, on the whole they do okay. They married strong, capable, interesting women, and they love and value them. Since there are three male siblings, there have been some (to a woman, their mother, anyway) very scary competitions, and times when I truly thought somebody might die -- certainly some kind of urge had taken over through which the desire to kill was almost palpable.

Oh, hell -- I’ve felt that myself in RAISING those kids; so angry and frustrated, and, here’s the kicker, so damned LONELY in that endeavor, I could understand how someone could hurt a child very badly, or over an extended period of time do great psychological or social damage to them. I had not much help in the trenches of child-rearing, not from absent husband (5 days a week on the road, making as much money and gaining as much corporate power as possible, as fast as possible), not from extended family (scattered to the winds, as my mother often said), not from peers (all of whom were, like me, ashamed to admit they had trouble being housewives and mothers, to admit even to themselves that they might need help). Anyway, there we were, all of us mothers of sons, doing our damnedest, but against the heavy odds of isolation and loneliness, and shame. And without a guide book but with the best of intentions, trying mightily to teach our sons how to be human, sensate and sensitive, courageous, discerning, loving. And to sustain their sense of humor!

Anyway, I still don’t completely understand the human male. I’ve come to accept him as he is, learned to enjoy some of that machismo, while staying well clear of its baser consequences. And sometimes I just throw up my hands and retreat in bafflement.

Since my last blog which poked a little fun at them, a couple of men have asked me if women have any handicaps, and I respond that of course we do, but I just can’t see them as clearly, standing here and not over there looking at us and scratching my balding head.

I would love it if somebody out there would offer some of that clarity here, either way.