What is a fragile man? Aren’t we dealing with an oxymoron? Men are strong, even the weakest ones are, right? Okay, some of us admit there is something to that fragility. But, as we admit it, we have trouble imagining it. Can we really picture what it means for a man to be “fragile”. Can we picture a man who feels something? Something that is not related to his penis? Can we see him shiver from the slight touch of another’s hand on his shoulder? Can we picture him recoil in horror and wail with grief at the tragedy that has hit his family?
The word “fragile” has a Latin root which means breaking or breakable. Words like “fracture”, and “fragment” but also “friction” derive from it. When we talk about a “fragile man”, we’re talking about a man who is breakable. Have we seen such a man? And, more to the point, can we see him? Let me tell you what I think they look like:
They look like alcoholics.
They look strong and athletic.
They look like domestic violators.
They look like they’re in control
They look like fighters.
They look successful.
They look like tough guys.
They look convincing.
They look like Don Juans.
They look like they’re in a mid-life crisis.
They look like perfectionists (in their own lives and those of others).
They kill in hopes that they will be killed
They look like family men.
It’s a confusing list. Some of the items might make sense to you because we understand the pathology behind them. It makes sense, in a way, to say that an alcoholic is a fragile man. But a “family man” or a successful man? How are they fragile? Perhaps we’re looking at this wrong. Perhaps the word “fragile” leads us to imagine a man who is about to or has shattered into a million little pieces, a man of whom nothings left but a pile of shards. Or perhaps, we’re imagining a man who—in the words of the author Jim Harrison—has had his lid screwed on too tight for too long to prevent himself from letting off steam. When he finally unscrews the lid he finds he has not steam left to do anything.
You see, it’s not easy to recognize them. Because we tend not to even see the average man. We tend to see either the hero or the loser and we might understand that both are fragile and desperate to hide their fragility. In fact there is a kind of masking going on. We might understand that alcoholism, affairs and risky behaviors are masks of depression and anxiety. We might even understand that some men mask themselves by calling what they do “having fun”, being heroes, doing what it takes or “teaching someone a lesson,” being successful. But do we understand what’s going on in the average man? Do we understand vulnerability before it turns a man into a hero or a loser?
I don’t want to talk about heroes or losers. Our culture is replete with polarized images and stories of them. Our prison systems are full of fragile men. Fragile men who have used extreme masking to overcome the pain of being fragile and wounded. Broken men. Broken, often, at an early age. Broken and, yet, often so grandiose. What we have to know about them and remember about their grandiosity is: grandiose on the outside, broken on the inside. Such men often don’t feel they have another choice but to channel their grief and fear into aggression and destruction.
But don’t be fooled, those men cannot be found in the prison systems of the world only. Men who are in pain are all around us. They’re in us. We are them! I count myself in. We are fragile and perhaps broken and broken-hearted in ways we ourselves might not always be able to see or understand and much less be willing to admit.
But, lest you think, this is all about men’s willful and intentional ways of “hiding” their vulnerability. Lest you think that all a man really needs to do is get together with other men and talk about his pain . . . no, it is not just a man’s fault that his vulnerability remains hidden. In fact, it is really not that hidden. The pathology is not simply on his side. The pathology is cultural. As a culture we have remained largely silent, mute and ignorant about how men grieve, how they deal with fear, how they experience happiness and how they feel when they’re nurtured. Have we learned, do we understand, how to listen to and see a man’s pain? As a culture we have yet to learn how to perceive men’s vulnerability.
A look at male vulnerability:
But why should we? Are men vulnerable? Is there really something hidden? Is there something to be learned? I believe that there is. I also believe that it is important to know about it and to understand it. But I also believe that we need to proceed with much care and caution as we attempt to uncover some of it, because simply exposing this vulnerability will likely not do anything but expose the man, shame him and cause him to recede more into the recesses of his own un-knowing.
My questions and observations about male vulnerability are about as old as I am. They began with questions about my own vulnerability when I was a boy. Generally, I believe our chances of understanding male vulnerability and learning how to respond to it in positive ways are higher when we begin early, with boys, rather than with adult men.
When I was 5 years old I took a pretty bad spill with my old scooter. I can still see the beautiful metal bell with the Mickey Mouse design coming at my left eye as I was falling. I remember the sound it made—a dull thud combined with a happy chime. I passed out for a moment and when I came to blood was trickling down my eye-brow, into my eye. I was scared and furious at my clumsy misfortune. I started to scream, abandoned my scooter and ran home. It seemed like a long way home. Two neighbor women who lived in the apartment complex in which my family was renting a small apartment stood by the front-door talking. I remember them shaking their heads in disbelief, tsk-ing me. What is he screaming about? One of them asked the other. I was furious, lived. To this day I wish I could have kicked them. I felt so mad, so alone, so misunderstood and so ashamed. Did they really think I wanted to scream like that? Did they think I didn’t know the boy-code as well as they did? A boy doesn’t scream like that, a boy doesn’t shriek. A boy moans and grumbles out his fear and suffering. But I couldn’t help it!
I realize that my shrieking and screaming took from those women the opportunity to reinforce in me and in themselves the belief that a boy or man should just shut up and take it (like a man). They believed in the fundamental necessity of a man’s stoicism. And they believed that as a boy I needed to learn to act that way. In fact, they reacted with surprise and disgust seeing that, despite being a member of the male species, I didn’t seem to know how to act.
But they weren’t just taken aback by my reaction. There reaction to me exposed a fundamental helplessness and powerlessness on their part, one that rendered them vulnerable and, subsequently, angry. By exposing my pain and shocking vulnerability, I exposed them. I made it impossible for them to say things like “wow, look at all that blood” or “you’re so brave” or “took a bad spill, didn’t ya” or, worse even, “you’re acting like a man”. They couldn’t say that to me, because I wasn’t any of those things—in their eyes. Rather, I pointed, loudly, at my own suffering and said I’m not brave, I’m scared and I want my momie. As members of the female species, whose task it is to praise their male counterparts’ heroism, my reaction had just undermined their role. What was left for them was to think of me as a loser.
My mother did come quickly, comforted me and I remember a certain feeling of glee. Some women, I might have thought, get it. She doesn’t shrink away from my pain and anguish. She doesn’t expect me to hide it and just suck it up. At least, not yet, for the truth is, events like this one and many others when I did scream or cry, did not prevent me from looking to hide my pain, feeling embarrassed by it, feeling vulnerable and weak in the face of my own tears. My mother’s care and readiness to jump to my rescue did not protect me from becoming a man who, like all other men, is more likely to appear like he is in control of himself.
I wonder now: What if my father had been there to comfort me? Had he come to comfort me, pick me up, dab the wound and take me to the doctor, would I have felt differently? It seems to me that his unashamed presence could have given me a sense of permission. It could have been a root of some kind of identification, from man to man, through which it becomes okay to express pain.
Derrick and his father
Emotional Expressiveness in Males
Men tend not to shriek and scream, cry in sadness or anger. In fact many men don’t emote in extreme ways at all. Rather, they choose a patina of stoicism and control. Meaning to reassure others about their continued grip on things men tend to maneuver themselves into impossible emotional dilemmas out which they often choose the path either of inward death or outward destruction. But this type of “reassurance” is not just meant to calm others even more so it’s meant to reassure ourselves about our continued grip on things.
A former client, whenever he was faced with an emotional challenge had developed a habit of responding by first staring down, then clearing his throat, then as if in deep thoughtful reflection, lean forward to pick up a crystal that always lies on my table, lift the crystal to his eye and peer through it into the light. “What do you see,” I asked him once. “Nothing,” he responded.
I have to tell you, we never really got away from that “nothing.” This wasn’t only because he wouldn’t be challenged on this. It was also, because I knew I could not simply challenge him without taking the risk of shaming him. He would have felt exposed, naked and ashamed of himself in ways that would have lowered significantly his chances of understanding himself better. Instead, we talked about “Good Will Hunting”, that movie about a young man who sees “nothing” because his grief has become so overwhelming. Only a counselor who understands grief in men and a male friend who challenges him not to continue to see “nothing” eventually enable Will Hunting to see something instead of nothing. To have hope, to try his luck. I cannot tell you how many men have brought up that movie in my practice.
This is the story my client held on to. He could never say “I am Will Hunting”. All he could do was allow himself to show public sympathy for the character of Will Hunting. All he could do was hope that, some day, he could hope and—in the words of the movie—“go see about a girl.”
Here is another exchange that occurred many years back. The client is mourning the loss of a battle for a woman’s affection.
C (staring down, moving his knees up and down, legs slightly parted): I’m so sad.
T: How does it feel to be sad?
C: It feels weak (Quick look up at me, then down again, legs clamped together, knees moving faster)
T: What’s it like to feel weak?
C: It’s stupid, risky (now he stares at me, knees stop moving).
T: Like something bad’s about to happen?
C: Yeah . . . (frown, then looking down again; knees move again)
I feel like I need to be hard.
T: Because, if you get soft . . .
C: if I get soft, I’ll lose myself (very quietly)
At this point the client’s leg-movements increased he pulled his already tight cap down into his face and clenched his fists.
Rather than paying attention to the words alone, I find it important to look at the physical signs of my client’s vulnerability as well as his frustration with that vulnerability.
C (staring down, moving his knees up and down, legs slightly parted): I’m so sad.
As my client was approaching the moment of expressing his sadness his nervous knee-movements increase. His body is tense, shoulders tight, he keeps stroking his thighs in a forward hand-motion (not unlike a runner warming up his legs for the next sprint). He works hard at seeming relaxed.
C: It feels weak (Quick look up at me, then down again, legs clamped together, knees moving faster)
Then, when he admits his feelings of weakness, his legs clamp shut. His knee-movements are at their highest pace. He is ready to run.
C: It’s stupid, risky (now he stares at me, knees stop moving).
Then all movement and staring down stops. He looks at me, almost in disgust. It’s almost as if he is yelling at himself saying “stop, you moron, you can’t run, act like a man”. For a moment, all nervousness shuts down. He seems determined, ready to face whatever it is.
C: Yeah . . . (frown, then looking down again; knees move again)
I feel like I need to be hard.
He get’s nervous again as the shock of his own yelling at himself subsides. He realizes the shame contained in the confession of his weakness.
C: if I get soft, I’ll lose myself (very quietly)
In a whisper, so that nobody will really know, he admits his fear of being “soft”. His knees move fast again. He is, again, ready to run.
Some men express their pain, frustration and fear in aggressive and often destructive ways. When they can’t do that, when they’re asked to sit and listen in to their feelings, they often get sullen, unable to “read” what is inside. It is almost as if they’re missing completely the signs and symbols of their own pain.
Enter here stuff from Sanders lecture on male depression.
Biological and Gender Vulnerability
Strangely, men’s emotional vulnerability is paralleled by their physical vulnerability. This is often easily overshadowed by the high levels of risk-taking behaviors we see in men.
Men fighting wars
Men kidnapping family members
Men abusing family members
Men speeding
Men beating up other men
Men torturing others
Men using firearms
85% of violent crime in the US and elsewhere in the world is committed by males. However, males only represent roughly 50% of the world’s population.
Facts like these and more might lead one to believe that men are really the opposite of being vulnerable or fragile.
But a second look at male biological vulnerability reveals the following:
Human males exhibit higher mortality than females throughout their lives. At conception, male zygotes appear to be produced in greater numbers than female zygotes, but to be of poorer quality. An investigation of induced abortions in Finland showed that sex ratios of fetuses were highly skewed toward males during the first few weeks of gestation but then steadily became less skewed in later weeks (Kellokumpu-Lehtinen and Pellliniemi 1984). Whatever mechanism was culling males did so early on, perhaps in response to genetic abnormalities. Among low-birth weight and prematurely born infants, too, males are more like to die than girls (Ingemarsson 2003, Stevenson et al. 2000). More research is needed to determine what is killing off disproportionate numbers of male fetuses and male newborns; what is certain is that high mortality is a male characteristic, not only at this state but also during adolescence and in old age. It seems that being male is not good for your health.
Add to this the following list
Male fetuses are more likely to be miscarried than are female fetuses
More male infants die in the first year of life than female fetuses
Perinatal brain-damage,
Cerebral palsy
Congenital deformities of the genitalia and limbs
Premature birth
Still birth
Developmental Disorders
Hyperactivity
Autism
Conduct and Oppositional Disorders
Mental Disorders and Addictions
Males more likely than women to be addicted to alcohol
Despite our apparent physical strength, often superior to the physical strength of women, we are physically vulnerable in ways that in the end cause males to die six to eight years earlier on average than women and to have more chronic conditions than females across the board.
We find, then, that males are both emotionally and physically vulnerable. Physical vulnerability seems to even exceed that of females. However, we also find that men are more likely to hide, cover and gloss these vulnerabilities. Yet these hidden vulnerabilities are dangerous to men. They are the reason why being male might be dangerous to our health. Hidden vulnerabilities, pain, shock, embarrassment and sadness that are kept under a thick veneer of masculinity might be one of the key factors in understanding why men in most industrialized societies are ailing today.
Why Men Don’t Scream:
But the suppression of male fear and anxiety is far from just being a product of cultural circumstances and individual male machismo. In fact, we find these mechanisms of hiding vulnerability even in our youngest males. Similarly, they’re not just something we find in the Brad Pits, the Mel Gibsons and John Waynes among us. No, even the Little Joes, Jack Lemmons and Tom Hanks in our midst behave in this same way. Even when they do scream, they still don’t scream. There is something fundamentally male in the urge to be brave, to take risks, to defy danger and pain. It is appealing to all of us and we will always find ways to act on it.
When we men admit to our concerns about our health, longevity, resilience and ability to withstand the odds we are putting in question our powerfulness. John Eldrige points out what he considers “the” central question “every boy and man is longing to ask. Do I have what it takes? Am I powerful?” And he concludes “Until a man knows he is a man he will forever be trying to prove he is one, while at the same time shrink from anything that might reveal he is not. Most men live their lives haunted by the question, or crippled by the answer they’ve been given.” (62)
Could it be that male aggression and stoicism are symptoms of our constant struggle with these forces of vulnerability that seem to “disease” us? Could it be that aggression is our response to the silent and never acknowledged feeling that we’re weak? Could it be that our fear of death is so great that the only way to fight it is to cause death, to dole out death to others? Could it be that we’re perennially unsure of what it takes to be a man?
Being stoic and toughing things out is profoundly male. Don’t expect men to change that attitude. It is as important to their survival and perhaps to the survival of the human species as it is to breathe oxygen.
Richard G. Bribiescas talks at length about the effects of testosterone on the male. He describes the various “masculinizing” effects of testosterone during fetal development. “Physiologically, the development of male fetuses can be likened to the creation of mutan females” (80). Most interesting, however, is his summary of the effects of testosterone on the male brain: males have a smaller left cerebral hemisphere and a smaller corpus callosum, the bundle of nerve-fibers that connects right and left hemispheres and is responsible for the transfer of raw feelings and sensory data from the right to the left hemisphere. “Why would males evolve a smaller left hemisphere?” he muses. “Adaptive explanations of male brain asymmetry are problematical to fathom. Is it somehow advantageous to be verbally challenged or less capable of recovering from brain injuries or strokes? Unlikely. What can be stated with some credibility is that asymmetry has its costs. It is probable that the asymmetry of the male brain is not adaptive at all but an unavoidable epiphenomenon resulting from the production of testosterone.” (85) “The most likely explanations involve trade-offs with other male hormone effects that may indeed be advantageous.” (87) What are these trade-offs?
Again, Bribiescas: “In humans, testosterone affects the propensity to engage in broad classes of behaviors that we associate with being masculine.”(94) It is known, for example that fetal exposure to testosterone heightens the sensitivity of testosterone recpetors in the brain. This in turn sets up the brain to be more responsive later in adult life to rising testosterone levels in the male body. Such responses include behaviors like aggression, anger and competitiveness.
Fetal exposure to testosterone also seems to prime the body of the male fetus for later physical developments such as increased and rapid body growth, muscle definition and growth, etc. Overall, testosterone seems to ready a male for life of higher risk taking behavior, higher levels of aggression and violence, less verbal emotional expression, less ability to process feelings. Of course, Bribiescas wonders, why selection would have favored males’ tendencies to take high risks over safer ways of being in the world. He speculates that taking risks may have come down to present-day males as an aspect of male bonding. He furthermore suggests that taking risks was a vital part of a males need to demonstrate reproductive fitness. “Staying home under the covers, while surely comfortable and potentially good for survivorship, is not likely to be beneficial for reproductive fitness.
This may explain a lot about why men have such a hard time talking about their worries, weaknesses and concerns in a way that reflects their vulnerability. Doing so simply lowers their chances at reproductive success. It makes them less competitive over against other males who succeed in sucking it up. Men do not like to talk about what ails them. It is not only that talking about one’s health, feelings and other concerns is an embarrassing admission of my own weakness. No, it’s almost as if the admission itself contributes to my felt weakness. As long as I can hide from it, or ignore it, I’m okay.
It is easy to see, I believe, how men’s tendency to suppress their fragility both emotionally and physically became easy to exploit. Unacceptable working conditions—not only in blue-collar jobs, but also in white-collar work situations—are more likely to be tolerated by men who do not like to admit that they’re overworked and stressed. Warfare, still a largely male domaine continues to exploit and foster men’s willingness to take risks and be aggressive. Warfare exploits men’s embarrassment about saying they are afraid—and sends them to fight.
One thing seems beyond all doubt: Codes that suppress male pain, suffering and grieving, both for boys and men, are common in cultures across the board. Their purpose, however, may not simply be the general repression of male anxiety and fear. It is, in a more complicated way, also about the repression of past and present cultural experiences that would be, if expressed, scary.
I believe that my screaming reached even deeper, far down into the cultural abyss of Germany’s most recent chapter in history, WWII. A war that had been hailed as the most heroic and brave chapter in German history had been lost. Moreover, Germans had to accept not only military but also moral defeat. This war was wrong. Yet, nobody, especially not German males, dared to scream out in pain. By screaming I quit being complicit with the collective silence, still prevalent in Germany then. This was a silence about how much blood had been shed, how bad it had been, how scary it was. Without knowing it then, I had started to grieve much more than my unfortunate accident with the scooter. I had started to grieve all the things that had gone wrong in the past.
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