David Magallanes
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The original form of the following article was published in the Focal Points Newsletter for Professional Women, March/April, 1995, of the Ventura County Professional Women’s Network (of which I had been a member):
By David Magallanes / Guest contributor
In past years, being dubbed a “sensitive male” was denigrating, humiliating and downright insulting to a man. The target of this epithet might as well have been called “dweeb,” or worse yet, “sissy.” Largely because of the feminist movement, the term is now something of a badge of courage, a mark of esteem, something that could be flashed about at a party on a button that is pinned firmly and proudly to a man’s shirt or jacket.
Unfortunately, this is true only in certain strata of society. Whereas the label draws admiration and maybe even envy in groups that concern themselves with political or psychological correctness, it would draw only guffaws and possibly worse at the shipyard, the gun range, or the sports bar.
Let’s face it. We guys that have been made aware of our “sensitivity” are walking a tightrope. If we, especially in the more professional circles, are not quite sensitive enough, then we bring to ourselves the disdain of those men and women who profess to have “seen the light,” and refer to us as an “old male” — referring not to our age but to our Neanderthal tendencies. If we are too sensitive, we run the risk of having our sexual identity come up for review.
Sensitivity is a double-edged sword. Wait. I shouldn’t say that … that’s an obviously “male” term, such as “going down in flames,” “getting shot out of the water,” “hitting below the belt,” or “it’s Miller time.” In any case, there are two sides to sensitivity. We sensitive males tend to revel in the intricate subtleties of art and music; we want to express our appreciation of beauty in a burst of poetry — even if we know we can’t actually compose poetry; we’re the ones the women want to talk with because we can relate. We even talk about our feelings, forgawdsake!
But then there’s the inevitable “on the other hand …” We sensitive males can’t enjoy a boxing match with our male buddies because it’s hard for us to be entertained by two human beings who are knocking each other’s brains out. We can’t find it in ourselves to hoot and yell with glee over sexist or racist jokes told by our buddies. In fact, we probably don’t even have “buddies”! (Sensitive males have “friends.”)
The bad and sad news impacts us more profoundly. We’re the ones that can be watching a poignant movie with someone close, wipe away a tear and of course complain about the ozone level inside the theater that caused it. If we’re “first generation sensitive,” we tend to not spank our children, and then as they run over us, we ask, “Well … how do we discipline them?”
It’s far easier for a man to grow up with a certain amount of sensitivity inculcated in him from the start, than for a man in his forties, say, to suddenly “decide” to become sensitive. That’s like me deciding at age 45 to learn how to dance, and then find myself surrounded by all these protégés of Fred and Ginger who have been dancing since age 4. Believe me, it’s not easy, as I found out in my forties.
In my case, I had a father who was staunchly and traditionally “male” (World War II combat veteran, Army judo instructor, blue-collar typesetter), but who also had a sensitive side to him (“don’t step on those flowers or I’ll swat you”). Just kidding, dad. My mother, whose upbringing was strongly influenced by her artist father and brother, was the epitome of sensitive beings upon the planet.
How did this parental combo affect me? I grew up learning how to appreciate beauty in all its forms. At the same time, I was raised with the idea that if I had to fight some bully on the schoolyard or on the street, then I would fight honorably, whether I “won” or “lost” a fight. In those days, “losing” a fight didn’t mean losing your life.
I was always surrounded by art and grew to be keenly aware of the emotions that were conveyed in those works. The emotional side of me didn’t at all prevent me from serving successfully in the armed forces during the Vietnam Era. My mother always took the time to share her views with me. Whether or not I agreed with her, I probably acquired insights into the female psyche and thereby became attuned to that frequency, which would serve me in later years.
At this time, for example, I feel comfortable in my male nature. I apparently don’t transmit much, if any machismo — if the reactions I get are any indication.That’s probably because of my conscious effort to limit my swagger as I walk! I feel secure in my manhood. I used to strive to serve as a male role model for my daughter so that she would choose a man not necessarily just like dad (the farthest thing from her mind at the time), but one who, like him, would listen to her and treat her with respect.
If I were giving advice to a young man, I would tell him that we don’t have to play war games or beat drums or even enjoy football to “be a man,” although there’s nothing at all inappropriate in these activities. I would make sure he’s aware that being a man is more than occupying a male body and following the age-old precepts of traditional manhood, which today can be stultifying, counterproductive and downright deadly. I would inform him that we’re at a turning point in the evolution of the interface between men and women.
Then I’d punch him in the arm and say, “Hey, let’s go have a beer…”
— David Magallanes is a writer, speaker and retired professor of mathematics. You may contact him at adelantos@msn.com