Jane Caro: To the men in my life

If my critics are right and I am a man-hater, what is it about men that I hate?

Jane Caro

If my critics are right and I am a man-hater, what is it about men that I hate?

Apparently, according to some of the more fragile yet vocal — on twitter, I am a man-hater. This is because I stand up for the right of women to be taken seriously (aka I am a feminist).

According to some – both men and women — rights are a zero-sum game and if women have any, men don’t or vice versa. It amuses my husband of 43 years to see me described in such terms, as he feels — quite accurately — that I clearly love him. But perhaps he is the exception that proves the rule. If my critics are right and I am a man-hater, what is it about men that I hate?

I hate that sweet, soft-hearted, funny, affectionate little boys like my grandson are constantly judged on their toughness (good) or vulnerability (bad) from a very tender age. This is a little boy who is not even quite sure as yet that he is a boy. For at least half the time he is a dinosaur, or an elephant (on four legs, marching with a ‘military air’) a cheeky monkey, Bob the Builder or ‘Tor-tor’ (Thomas) the Tank Engine. I get to be Cranky the Crane when we play that game. A friend of mine’s son spent an entire year as a lawnmower complete with sound effects (he grew up to be a composer) and while I loved his imagination, I did grow to hate the constant lawnmower imitation. Not as much as my friend. By the end of that year she felt like tearing her hair out.

[MB1]

I hate that young boys must accept a limited colour palette from the minute they are born. My granddaughter can wear all her brother’s clothes and then some. All the colours of the rainbow are available to her. Alfie has been stuck with muted blues, greens, browns, neutrals and the occasional rusty red. My daughter has rebelliously put him in clothes from the girl’s section from the very beginning – fuschia, mint green, lavender, fluoro yellow, electric blue, watermelon – much to the consternation of strangers when they discover that the cute little girl they are admiring is actually a boy. One found it so hard to compute a boy in pink that they responded to an introduction by saying “Alfie? That’s a funny name for a girl.” I hate that we think masculinity is so fragile that pretty colours can destroy it.

I hate that apart from machines like robots, trucks, tractors and other machinery, the living creatures depicted on my two-year-old grandson’s clothes are all predators — foxes, bears, lions, tigers, sharks, crocodiles — even owls. I hate that our culture seems intent on encouraging the more aggressive parts of his nature and discouraging the gentle ones. I really, really hate that.

I hate that my kind and gentle husband was mocked as “father of the year” (it was not meant in a nice way) by his work colleagues because he was a hands-on dad with his two daughters and gave full rein to his nurturing instincts when they were babies. I hated that the fact he did his own ironing, packed his own bags when he travelled for work and could turn his hand to any household chore was seen as weak and an affront to his masculinity. I also hated that because he saw himself as my full partner in paid work, housework and parenting, he was regarded as henpecked.

I hated that many of the kind-hearted, decent men I worked with in ad agencies had to adopt a tough-guy persona when they were in groups of other men. I hated the one-up-man-ship of that sort of blokey socialising. On the occasions when I and a few other women were included in such gatherings, I ended up in a lather of anxious sweat as a competition to make the wittiest remark took the place of real conversation. I hated the pressure those men were under to perform, to conform and to keep their place in the pecking order. I hated watching a kind and loving father put his fist through his office wall in pure frustration because he wanted to keep [MB2] his job — he felt he could not be beside the bed of his very sick son.

I hate that my loving, funny and soft-hearted father remains awkward and uncomfortable around babies, even his own great-grandchildren. At some point early on he was taught there was something unmanly about being as openly soft and gentle as you have to be with very little children. That muscle in him has withered from lack of use.

I hate the statistics around male suicide and that the brutal methods they choose to end their own lives (after all the effort our culture puts into making soft little boys hard, why would we be surprised at that?) means they often succeed in their intention. I hate that they die younger than women across the board at least in part because they find it harder to admit any vulnerability and seek help early enough. I hate that they are more likely to turn to violence and rage when they feel vulnerable, weak and afraid. I hate how emotionally isolated so many men are behind their got-it-all together mask. I hate the fear that I may lose the men I love too soon.

I love that some men have always found the strength (real strength, not the pretend toughness that we admire so much) to reject what Tim Winton calls the straitjacket of masculinity. I love how supportive, gentle and loving my two sons-in-law are and I credit my husband for my daughters’ ability to partner with good men. He set an example for his daughters of the kind of man to choose as a life partner. I love that young men in general are becoming more comfortable with their vulnerability, their humanity and their softness. I love that they can cry more easily than any generation before them — that in itself, I believe, will cut rates of violence both against themselves and others. I love that they can love open-heartedly with every part of themselves, not just their genitals.

I love that the men in my life give me hope for a better world, simply because of who they are and how they behave. I love that men now help themselves through organisations like the Movember Foundation and recognise that a hand held out to help is not an insult but an act of love.

I love that men — like women — are finally throwing off the stereotypes of gender and learning to be themselves, whoever they may turn out to be.