Toxic Masculinity

“There are certain things every man must know. They are, in no particular order—how to change a flat tire, do a chin-up, make scrambled eggs, do laundry, throw a punch, get down on your knees and pray, fasten the clasp of a woman’s necklace, handle a horse, change a diaper, split wood, and earn the love of a dog.”

Elizabeth Kelly, from The Miracle on Monhegen Island

When people ask me why I read so much, this is what I tell them...because, every once in a while you run across something quite beautiful, a phrase or sentence that sticks with you for a while. The fact that these sentences above were written by a woman is instructive of something, but I’m not sure what.

I’ve been hearing the term toxic masculinity a lot lately. It’s become a buzz word, a catch phrase of the media and academia. As best as I can figure out it’s meaning, toxic masculinity is short hand for everything bad about men, our tendency towards violence, brute strength and manners, but mostly our tendency for sexual aggression. It’s hard to read the news lately and not admit that there does seem to be something dreadfully wrong with us. Nevertheless, I am conflicted by this term.

When I was a boy, I learned about what being a man was from my Dad. There were no, or more accurately...few, sit down lectures on the subject. Mostly, I learned by observation, watching the way he did things. I noticed the way he spoke to my mother, always in a different voice register, with what I can only describe as tenderness. I noticed how he spoke about my mother, with respect and admiration. Even when they argued...and they did argue...my Dad always seemed restrained by some unseen thing. Mom did most of the arguing, Dad would offer only the occasional halfhearted rebuttal. It was as if he was overly aware of us kids...that we were listening. My father was a man of a different generation, and no doubt, some of his views about the proper roll of men and women in the church and the world would seem old fashioned and out of touch to modern ears. But, there was absolutely nothing toxic about him.

I was in awe of my father’s knowledge of the real world. The man literally knew how to do everything. He may have earned two advanced degrees in his time on this earth, but he never forgot the skills he learned growing up as a sharecropper’s son. Today, we call them life hacks. All I know is, if the transmission of the old Studebaker was on the fritz, Dad could fix it. He could plow a straight row in the garden with a blindfold on. He could fix a leaky faucet, perform rough and fine carpentry, do electrical repair, install drywall, drop a crow menacing his tomato plants from a hundred yards with a .22 rifle, build window fans from scratch, yet...hold the trembling hands of a grieving widow, comfort a young couple through the excruciating loss of a child, and fight back tears while holding each of his new born grandchildren. He was a product of his experiences, of back breaking manual labor as a child, of serving his country in the jungles of the South Pacific as nothing more than a teenager, and of his abiding and transformative faith.

As uncomfortable as I am with the term, toxic masculinity, it brings a ring of truth with it. When I hear the phrase, I become instantly defensive. This is not me...this is not who my brother is or who my Dad was...I know hundreds of men about whom this term would be a scandalous slur!!

But, I’m not blind. I see the news. I read the reports. I know the statistics. They cannot be denied. For a large slice of this world, men are toxic. Too many of us have confused masculinity with a twisted, brutish knockoff version, fueled by arrogant entitlement, and distorted by pornography. 

Elizabeth Kelly’s list of man-skills took me back in time. I counted off the ones I could do and smiled...(can’t handle a horse and my laundry skills leave a lot to be desired). Then I thought of my Dad. He could do them all and a whole lot more, and all without any strutting bravado. Dad’s was a silent strength. In one of his one sentence lessons to me about manhood, he would often quote scripture...Let another man praise you, and not your own mouth; a stranger and not your own lips. He assumed I would understand and expected me to learn.

Who is teaching today’s young men?

My Girl

   

 

 

This is my girl. She is adventurous, fearless, and relentless in her two-fisted pursuit of this lake.

Two minutes ago, she stood at the door gazing at the raindrops falling on the water and asked...I wonder what it would be like kayaking in the rain? 

She is crazy.

But, when she is here, she is the best version of herself. 

I can hardly keep up.

I Know...

Each morning here is a glimpse into the sublime, a fresh canvas of jaw-dropping beauty that manages to simultaneously lift your spirits while making you feel small and insignificant. As I stared at the latest sunrise, it occurred to me that this happens each and every day, whether or not I’m here to see it. An audience of one. This is eternal beauty and I see through a glass darkly. I take it all in, the grand sweep of it, and know that my redeemer lives...

Today’s Agenda

We have had two uncomfortable weather days in a row, resulting in lots of exploring. While, there’s nothing wrong with exploring, since we’ve actually seen some cool stuff and had fun, I don’t like being away from the lake all that much. Today and tomorrow are supposed to be bright and sunny, with today being the warmer of the two...upper 60’s. I intend to take full advantage. My activities will include but not be limited to the following:

Going for a run.

Continuing my assault on the bass population of Quantabacook.

Going for a swim...for the first time ever with an air temperature in the 60’s.

Kayaking to the north end of the lake...5 mile round trip.

Reading on the dock.

Taking an afternoon snoozle.

Eating a Whoopie Pie.

Having a bowl of Riverducks ice cream.

I will do all of this while trying desperately to ignore the fact that we have now entered our third and last week here.

Kavanaugh v. Ford

I blame my son for this morning’s foul mood. Him, and another cloudy, misty day in the forecast. Patrick sent me a text yesterday afternoon bemoaning the tragedy unfolding on national television. It was getting worse and worse, he said. It sounded to me like he wanted my opinion. I offered this...

I haven’t been watching, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that liberals believe Ford and conservatives believe Kavanaugh. Liberals are convinced that he’s guilty and should withdraw, while conservatives believe that he’s a victim of an orchestrated characters assassination. How close did I come?

Patrick: Pretty close, yeah.

So, thanks to my son, the Kavanaugh confirmation debacle got deposited into the front row of my consciousness at just about the time I had managed to shove it in a closet down the hall, right across from pending doctor’s appointments. In fairness to him, it’s not like I wasn’t aware that it was going on, rather, I had purposefully limited my access to news about it. When you are on vacation, the very last thing you want to be thinking about is national decline and civilization’s retreat. To make matters considerably worse, my sister stormed through the house right after Patrick’s text in high dudgeon, informing me that she had just gotten off the phone to both Warner and Caine’s offices, expressing her outrage at the proceedings. When I failed to respond, she snapped, So, you’ve just totally disengaged, is that it? The honest answered would have been...Yes, yes I have, as a matter of fact. Then, a friend sent me a long private message laying out his thoughts, wanting my take. He considered it a binary choice between two bad options, much like Trump vs. Hillary...another in a long series of Faustian bargains which have been forced upon us since the arrival of this reality show presidency. 

Almost three months ago when the Kavanaugh nomination was announced, I tweeted the following:

I don’t know the first thing about this Kavanaugh dude...but by the time the Dems get through with him, he will make Hannibal Lecter look like a Boys Scout.

Why such a dour prediction? The Gorsuch nomination had gone through with little fuss or fireworks. Well, Gorsuch was a replacement for Scalia, which would have no bearing on the Court’s direction. There was no point for the Dems to waste ammunition on him. They were always keeping their powder dry for a nomination to replace either a liberal justice or Kennedy’s swing vote. That nomination was going to be all out war. So...one week before the vote, an avalanche of skeletons come storming out of the fever swamps of Kavanaugh’s high school yearbook, and it’s on! I take no pleasure in being right about how this was going to play out.

I didn’t watch yesterday. My understanding is that no collaborating evidence was offered to substantiate Dr. Ford’s claims, other than her memory of the event. Apparently, she was a compelling witness. Many people commented on her bravery and courage. Judge Kavanaugh’s statement was also powerful and emotionally charged, defiant and full of fire. Some seemed concerned by this, believing it dispositive of an unjudicial ill-temper. I feel 100% certain that those making this charge have never had their reputations trashed on national television in front of 100 million people...along with their two daughters.

I do not possess the ironclad certainty which is the blessing of partisans. I can’t simply take my cues on what to think based solely on who wins and who loses as a result. I am burdened by the facts that are available to me. Part of me ponders the eleventh hour nature of this revelation, the way it was held in reserve, a rusty trap to be sprung at the last minute, designed to cast doubt by raising what the Dems knew would be an unfalsifiable, impossible to collaborate charge. But, another part of me ponders why anyone would volunteer to have themselves thrust into the national limelight and the prying eyes of millions, for a made up story? When the first accusations were followed by three or four(I lose count) others, I start to wonder what the hell the FBI was doing the six previous times they performed background checks on this guy? You mean to tell me there was a band of gang rapists showing up practically every weekend at parties which Kavanaugh attended for months and months, and the FBI could find nothing about them? Not one speck of evidence? But I also start to ponder that age old adage about the simultaneous presence of smoke and fire. 

So, I am left with yet another Sophie’s Choice. Do I simply...believe the woman, and allow her unsubstantiated accusation bring down a nominee to the Supreme Court, the power of a suppressed memory being enough to override a lifetime of honorable legal service on the bench? Or do I support the confirmation of a man who is being accused of despicable behavior by a multitude of women from 30 years ago? Is this the best we can do? Apparently, in 2018...it is.

Feeling Better About The World

Perhaps the most beautiful building in Camden is the majestic Camden Public Library. Built in 1927 on land donated by Mary Louise Curtis Bok, and with money raised entirely from locals to match Ms. Curtis Bok’s generosity, the award winning architecture and landscaping dominate the hill overlooking the town...

The other day, I walked in just to sit in the grand window seat overlooking the harbor like I did on my very first visit nearly 15 years ago. Back then, I curled up in that spot and read the New York Times while Pam was shopping down the street at the Smiling Cow. The amphitheater down the hill from that window hosts a variety of events during the year, from private weddings, to concerts, Monday night movie nights, and Shakespeare in the Park productions. Whenever I visit there is usually someone with a small child or a rambunctious dog, or vice versa. But always, every single time, this place warms my heart. It’s the kind of library where people still whisper inside. The craftsmanship of its construction, the beauty of its interior, the majesty of the art work suggests to all who enter that this is a special place. Leave your presumptuous entitlement outside, along with your loud yawps. Come here to learn and be quiet for a minute. Put your money away. It’s no good here. It will not buy you influence. Take the ear buds out. If you are crude and disrespectful enough to attempt a cell phone conversation in this place, we might have to ask you to leave...but we will do so respectfully. 

I asked the white-haired lady at the desk if it would be ok for me to take a brief 360 degree video of the place. She said...Of course! Who wouldn’t want to?? She then went on in a practiced whisper to brag about the room, giving me the lowdown on all the paintings on the wall. Her smile was broad and earnest. When I told her that I come in every year to take it all in, her face lit up as she clasped her hands under her chin. Isn’t it just amazing??...she asks. I ask her how long she has worked here. She says...Oh, I don’t work here. I’m a volunteer! The white-haired lady is very proud to be a volunteer. She has the manner of a person who very much believes that this library belongs to her...and every other citizen of Camden. This is their library. Her ancestors, great and small, they raised the money, they hauled the lumber and the bricks, they labored in the hot sun and the freezing cold to build the place. It belongs to them...not the state, not some corporation, the people of Camden. And with that ownership comes great responsibility. 

Before I left, like I always do, I find the donation box. I drop in a $10 bill, take my video and head back down Commercial Street, feeling considerably better about the world.

A Fish Story

Let me begin by saying that despite recent photographic evidence to the contrary, I am not a fisherman. By this I mean to say that I don’t think of myself as an avid angler. I only take it up once a year...here in Maine. I can’t remember the last time I went fishing back home. It just never occurs to me. But the minute I arrive in Maine, I’m all in. It’s like a temporary obsession. For three weeks, I channel my inner Roland Martin and get after it with great enthusiasm. But it never, ever translates into Virginia.

Anyway, for reasons that remain a mystery to me, I have enjoyed tremendous fishing success in Maine, despite the very clear fact that I don’t know what I’m doing. Whenever I go out in the kayak to fish, I spend literally half of my time trying to untangle the lines, or trying to disengage those confounding triple hooks from either some tree branch, a lily pad, or...most often, some article of my clothing. I would make an excellent outtake reel for one of those fishing television shows. In addition, the thumb and forefinger of my right hand both have taken on the look and feel of raw meat from the sixteen thousand times I have accidentally hooked myself while trying to remove a hook from a fish. It is fair to say then, that describing me as a fisherman would be the equivalent of describing Donald Trump as an Intellectual. If true at all, it would be entirely by accident.

Having said all of this, I must report that yesterday at approximately 11:30 on a sunny but windy morning, the temperature hovering around 50, I stumbled upon the mother of all fishing holes. I took the kayak all the way to the south end of the lake, where the water narrows into a creek, no more than 30 feet wide. At the end of the creek, there’s a small slab of concrete which serves as a dam...

Since I was having a hard time fishing from the kayak because of the power of the wind-driven current, I decided to drag the kayak into the rocky shore and try my luck from the shore line. It was then that I noticed the very deep water on the other side of the dam, the beginnings of Quantabacook Creek, and this perfect little rock placed perfectly amongst some bushes...

At this point, I should mention my good Maine buddy, Alan Smith. He is the husband of one of Pam’s cousins up here, Lisa. We’ve known them for years. Alan actually is a fisherman. He’s forgotten more about catching fish than I will ever know. Last year when we were here, they came to Loon Landing for a visit. When he looked at my tackle box, he took on the facial expression an opera singer might get when hearing a choir of tone deaf bricklayers performing a hip hop version of Handel’s Messiah. It was like...Oh my...Dude, what is all this? It was so bad, he goes to his truck and put together what amounted to a care package...a collection of lures and big-boy fishing tackle, among them...this baby....

He told me that I could use this in places where there might be a lot of sticks and stuff below the surface. This guy floats along the top of the water and doesn’t get hung up...or something. He tutored me in the proper technique of its use. I listened intently, staring at him with partial understanding, picking up every third word or so, nodding my head solemnly.

Up until yesterday’s triumph,the entirety of my catch over the previous 9 Days had been limited to one respectable smallmouth bass, a handful of tiny ones, a yellow perch and one freshwater pike. Then, I stepped up to the rock in the above picture and cast out into the deep. Instantly a fish knocked it out of the water.i was so shocked I snapped a picture...

The second cast yielded the same result. Then a third...each fish a little bigger than the last. Over the next forty minutes I caught 9 largemouth bass, and my clumsiness allowing another five or six to wiggle off the hook. As the frequency of the haul began to slow, I glanced down at my watch and saw that was almost 1:30. Two hours had evaporated in what seemed like an instant. It was easily the most fun I have ever had with a fishing pole in my hand. But, I felt like I needed to get back to the cottage. For one thing, Paula and Ron were due to arrive any minute, and for another, I was starving to death. I kept telling myself that this next cast would be my last. On the very last cast, the fish took the bait almost gently, barely moving the water...but as soon as I pulled back to set the hook I knew that something was different. It was almost as if I had hooked a leather boot. Then suddenly he broke through the water. Good Lord, I thought...I’ve hooked Walter!

For the uninitiated, Walter was the great elusive monster bass which always eluded Henry Fonda’s character from On Golden Pond. Anyway, this fish broke the water three different times in angry defiance. When I finally brought him in I found that he was barely hooked. I took a picture, congratulated him on his valiant fight, and released him back into the best fishing hole in the history of the world. What an incredible two hours!