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     Growing up as a man, one is often told to, “be a man.” That very phrase is meant to conjure up thoughts of emotionless resilience to difficult situations, where we are forced to “swallow those feelings” or “push it all down so that nobody can see it.” In movies, women are often shown sitting at bars, biting their lips in a frustrated manner, telling their friends that they would do anything to find a “real man.” If you were to come up to her with some simple questions, it would probably go something like this:

“I Hate it When a Guy is Sad. It is Such a Turn-Off.”

 “Well, what does a ‘real’ man look like?”

 She would get a bit defensive at the question, and say, “Oh, it’s not necessarily the way he looks. It’s the way he acts.”

 You might scratch your chin and want to know more, so you ask for more. “Well, how does a ‘man’ act?”

 She takes a sip of her apple martini and rolls her eyes. “Well, I don’t need another ‘me.’ I’m the girl. I have the right to be emotional and vulnerable; he has to be tough and protect me.”

 “So you want him to rid himself of emotions?”

 She gets defensive again, impatiently trying to signal to the bartender that she feels uncomfortable and proceeds to order another drink. “I’m not saying that. He can be emotional from time to time. I don’t mind if he gets angry. I find it kind of sexy when a guy has a temper.”

 The reporter is trying to keep up with all of this, feverishly jotting down notes, crossing them out, and writing new ones. “Why is it okay for the man to be angry, but not honest, shy, or even sad?”

 She pulls a cigarette from her purse. The muscle bound bartender obliges to light it for her. She takes a huge drag as she rolls her eyes again. She gives a short response of, “Eww.”

 “What? ‘Eww’ what, exactly?”

 “I hate it when a guy is sad. It is such a turn-off.”

 “Why is that?”

 “Because I’m the one who is allowed to be sad, and he has to hold me in his arms, remain tough and tight lipped, and you know…be a man about it.”

 The reporter’s hand and mind are both becoming cramped keeping up with this. The reporter silently nods to continue.

 “He’s not allowed to show sadness,” she says. “To me, it shows weakness.”

 “To you?”

 “To all women, I think.”

 “Please explain.”

 “I don’t know. A man is sexiest when they are stoic. I don’t need him blabbering about all of his emotions. If he’s insecure or doubts himself in any way, I’m looking elsewhere. Most women are looking elsewhere.”

 The reporter exhales loudly, fogging up their dark-rimmed glasses. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you could…let him in? Let him know that it’s okay to be sad and that it actually shows strength instead of weakness? Shouldn’t his willingness to be honest with you be admirable?”

 “I don’t want him to be honest in that kind of way,” she says as she dangles the apple rind through her cherry lips and snow-white teeth.

 “How is he supposed to be honest?”

 “He needs to be honest with me when he looks or thinks about other women, or if he looks at adult films when I’m not around, or if he’s messing around behind my back. I hate liars.”

 “But if he’s hiding his emotions from you when it comes to vulnerability, aren’t you forcing him to lie?”

 “That’s a lie I’m okay with.”

 “Because it only relates to you?”

 She taps her foot impatiently, her tanned wrinkled sole peaking out of the pump—an indicator of a long day. Her only response is, “Check please.”

Always Back to the Same Phrase: “Be a Man.”

 Growing up and entering “manhood”, I’ve sat at this bar several times. I’ve heard this speech several times. The effect of these words is silently felt among countless men around the country, as they are told to silence the screaming voices inside them. Chicks hate guys with feelings, they’re told. Don’t be a little bitch, is another. When all the other cliches have run their course, it always comes back to the same phrase: Be a man.

 This phrase is proudly shouted from the beds of pickup trucks and the bleachers of Little League games. Hell, it’s one of the first “pieces of advice” that boys ever hear from their fathers. Maybe that’s not fair, as I can’t speak for all fathers. I can speak for mine, however, and if anyone else experienced this, they are more than welcome to vocally join in. From a young age, I’ve always been extremely sensitive. I couldn’t tell you where it came from, as not many people in my family have this quality, or at least if they do, they haven’t shared it. In any case, when I was little, I became emotionally attached to a stuffed dog that my mom had given me when I was a baby. I took it everywhere as if it were my own pet or child. Me and Pluto were inseparable. He had a long black cotton tail sewn to his butt that I would often tap across my mouth for comfort whenever I was nervous. My brother was more of a traditional thumb sucker, so I guess I was pushing the envelope with new methods of pacification.

 In bed at night, I would hold Pluto against my chest and have conversations with him. We would talk about our feelings, our fears, and how much we loved each other. He was my imaginary best friend, even though he was technically “there”. One day at day care, I had careened down the hot metal slide and felt a tinge of panic when my feet landed in the soft mulch at the bottom. Where’s Pluto? I thought. I had him when I went down the slide, didn’t I? Since I was emotional, I didn’t think, Well he probably fell out of my arms on the way down or perhaps I left him on the jungle gym at the top of the slide. I reacted before I acted, and my reaction was always to cry.

 So I cried loudly, whimpering out for my best friend. The other kids looked at me like I was crazy, or worse, a wimp. Being a four-year-old boy, that is the worst four-letter-word of them all. I cried, but not loudly. My insecurity told me that it wasn’t good to make a scene…it wasn’t good to be noticed, so I cried into my hands at the bottom of the slide, no doubt backing up the line behind me and garnering jeers from fellow frustrated kids who were getting the best part of their day ruined by some little wimp who lost his doggy. I remember a nice old lady in a dark blue sweater coming up to comfort me, listening to me, telling me it was going to be okay. If I were to tell you that someone came up to comfort me, and I asked you to picture who it was in your head, you would have most likely imagined a lady, not a man.

 I can’t remember all the details, but she went out looking for my Pluto for me while I shook back and forth with my knees in my hands on the mulch below. She had found him behind a tree a few yards away. She happily returned him to me and I cried again, this time tears of relief. This lady was so kind, as she gave me another big hug as she told me that everything was okay.

 Except everything wasn’t okay. Anyone who’s ever had a child in daycare knows that the caretaker always gives a report of what happened that day, either good or bad. When my parents came to pick me up, the nice old lady explained the little scare I had when I had thought I has lost my Pluto. My face was still red from crying, and my dad knew it. Instead of having a nice drive home where my parents told me they were glad we found Pluto, I received an earful from my dad of how embarrassed he was to pick up the boy who was crying. “I can’t believe you were crying over a stuffed animal,” he said to me through the rear view mirror as I clutched Pluto in my frail arms. “You’re a boy. Grow up.”

Struggling with Sensitivity and Vulnerability

 This is the problem; boys are always to “grow up,” but many times, it’s being used in the wrong context. If you are picking on somebody for wearing glasses, it’s time to grow up. If you are running around, slapping people in the back of the head or sticking your wet finger in their ears, it’s time to grow up. Somebody should never be told to “grow up” when they are finding themselves in a vulnerable moment, because over time, it trains that person into thinking that being vulnerable and sensitive is just as bad as putting gum in someone’s hair or tying their shoelaces together so they trip.

 Society has always told us that boys have to be “men” (there’s that term again), and unfortunately, this equates to shutting down emotionally, picking up a football or an assault rifle, and making dad proud. Again, I’m not speaking for all dads, but if I follow my own family tree, that’s the way the branches were designed. My dad was hard because his dad was hard, and his dad’s dad was probably even harder. This could go all the way back to the base of the tree. Many of my male friends have similar issues with struggling with sensitivity and vulnerability, and many times, it’s because they are trying to be the physical embodiment of a blueprint that was designed on the day they were born. They feel like they have to be the “tough guy” because…well…they’re men. Leave the crying for the women, they’d say. You’re not a woman, are you?

Call-to-Arms for Other Men

 I write this as a personal confession as well as a call-to-arms for other men who may feel that they are funneling emotions into a silencing chamber because that’s what they were told to do. It doesn’t have to be this way, in fact, it shouldn’t be this way. Go into your attic and find your Pluto, and hug the Hell out of him. Open your mind to that creative sensitivity that may or may not have been buried under the guise of generations of misinformation of what it means to be a “man.” If you ask me, I’m more likely to find “manliness” in the guy reading poetry at an open mic than chopping down a Redwood or throwing a perfect spiral, and if you feel that you have to be that way due to outdated beliefs stemming from your family tree, maybe it’s time to simply plant some new seeds.