To the Man Who Is No Longer Afraid
What is that like?
We moved into a new apartment last summer in Beachwood Canyon and one of the major perks of the place is that it has this beautiful open kitchen area with large windows, exposing us to panoramic views that face out to one side of the canyon. There are houses dotting the hillside, many on stilts, with outdoor decks with fluffy plants. At night, some of them have those gas fireplaces you sometimes see at fancy (or trashy) hotels. Some have twinkle lights wrapped around their deck awnings all year around.
In the springtime, as it is now, the trees grow greener and taller, blocking out most of the skyline besides the Capitol Records building. We see that, plus we can see half the red sign of The Knickerbocker Hotel. Our vantage point is askew, but so is LA's skyline.
And some days, I can see two American flags — one on the Capitol Records building and one atop the nameless building next to it. I began to notice the flags last summer. But if I were to put an adjective in front of those flags, I would suggest ominous because when I am my most paranoid and terrified, I'm convinced those American flags will inevitably become targets.
The police helicopters are very loud when they zip through Beachwood Canyon. When they are louder than usual, I watch the hawks and the crows fly through the skies and follow their flight patterns, trying to gauge if something is chasing them. Missiles, maybe.
Sometimes military jets rumble through the sky, and on those days, I think, once and for all, "Here comes the war." And if I'm downstairs or in another room, I hurry into the kitchen and nervously look toward those flags. "Take those down," I think. "They'll see us."
And when this inevitable war comes roaring through Beachwood Canyon, and my family asks me what to do, I will tell them, "SOMEONE WILL COME FOR US."
But that is one of the absolutes of what it means to be a man right now is that it is no longer an acceptable response to real or imagined danger. What it means to be a man in this confounding, constricted era of masculinity is inviolable: NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU.
Not even me. Especially me.
This fear is not new. Long before this current Trump administration arrived, I realized I had no map, escape route, or foolproof plan to rely upon if something terrible happened. If there is a knock at the door with men holding guns, I have no gun to shoot back. Should I get a gun? Will that make me feel like a man who can protect his children when the horrors of this world show up to our doorstep? When I go to this ugly place is when I'm at my most dangerous and desperate.
But after a few minutes of consideration and Googling local shooting galleries and "gun rentals," I arrive back to a lonelier, more impotent place: Some people are not meant to own guns, let alone shoot them, and I am one of those men.
Because I can't change a tire. I can't do my taxes. I can't light a grill. I usually can't hang a picture without creating holes the size of silver dollars in the drywall. (But the few times I have done it successfully, man, oh, man, did I feel like I could save us all.) I can't camp. Or ski. Or climb up ladders higher than six feet. I speak no other languages. I can't whistle with two fingers hooked inside my mouth.
I can go on. I can go on about the men I'm jealous of, the men I wish I was, the dad I wish I was, and become marooned on that thought for hours, sometimes days. Like, what good am I!
All this sobriety and I'm still left with all this Little Boy Shit. When I turn 60 – or 70 – will I be free from that? I wonder what that would feel like. But today, this very second, it is difficult for me to type this but I will just for you: I'm not man enough to protect anybody, not even from an imaginary war.
And what about you?
*****
The next installment of What It’s Like is for men only. I want all the men who read TSB to tell me what they’re afraid of — your own Little Boy Shit. What is the thing that you never want the world to shine a light on? Now’s the time to share.
All contributors will remain anonymous. Go hard, go sad, let’s spill it all out.
Please keep contributions to under 500 words.
Send your stories here: tsbcheckins@thesmallbow.com
Subject: MAN STUFF
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ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN
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More On Masculinity:
Let Things Darken As They Will
"I had foolishly assumed that no one could be snatched away while I was basking in the beauty of my blessed sober life. And sobriety has left me with minimal escape plans. Walking through the world, afraid of the dark, is its own sickness, and I needed to find a way out. "
The Broken Boys Club
"It jolted me awake and reminded me of my past, one I detailed in an essay I wrote a couple of years ago, one I buried on the old site so no one would find it because I was so ashamed of it, but here's a portion of it and I'm sure you'll see why I couldn't ignore it after reading about Mickey Mantle."
Baby Reindeer
"The day after I watched Episode Four, I was still messed up. I was distracted and barely ate. I spent most of the day trying to figure out my next move–it felt less like trauma and more like grief. I got annoyed with myself by how easily I let those words become part of my everyday vocabulary. Why does every bad feeling have to be related to grief and trauma? Can't I just have normal bad feelings like I used to and not make everything so goddamn shameful?"
MORE IN THE “WHAT IT’S LIKE” SERIES:
What It's Like to Be Medicated
When I asked for submissions from readers about their meds, I didn’t know what to expect. In the time I’ve been doing The Small Bow, I’ve noticed that some are more secretive about the prescriptions they take than they are about their alcoholism or any other addictions. I can understand the hesitation — as much as we’ve come to believe we’re in an age o…
What It's Like to Feel Ugly (Part One)
"I've struggled with convictions of ugliness since I was in middle school. I was severely bullied for my weight and looks, and that left its mark. Even when I was at my most beautiful, in my thirties, I still felt like there was something wrong with me physically. Now that I'm in perimenopause, gaining weight and losing any beauty that I once had, well, it's become even more difficult to be out in the world without feeling hideous. It's exhausting."
What It's Like to Have Money Shame: The Second Act
"I actually do save. I always have, except for when I bottomed out and I was under a few mountains of debt I accrued because I figured either I’d kill myself or capitalism would fail and either way I wouldn’t have to pay it off. The bummer is I got help paying it off and so I still fear it—I didn’t save myself. I’m still not capable."
What It's Like to Have Money Shame
"When I got sober, I owed a lot of bills, including dumb things like Bonwit Teller (a now-defunct fancy department store) and the Princeton Club (!). I had collectors calling me constantly. One suggested in complete seriousness that I should take a month off paying rent, and pay them instead. I just laughed my head off at that. I went to one of those agencies that is supposed to help you pay your debts, but it was too complicated to stick to their plan. Ultimately, I made up my own plan, paying what I could afford (which was a lot less per month than the collectors wanted) and eventually finally paying everything off after a few years."
What It's Like to Use Ketamine! (For Your Depression.)
"I think the treatment did rewire my brain, which is what the science seems to say. It made it possible for me to do the therapy I needed to get better by treating the issues behind my depression."
What It's Like To Be in Recovery for Codependency
"My self-esteem has always been so abysmally low that I never imagined anyone would want to be with me romantically, and I never trusted myself enough to establish boundaries or expectations for someone else for fear of losing them. So I give and give and give because why would I ever have a right to receive? "
What It's Like to Work a Sex and Love Addiction Program
“If I only show myself as a hypersexual person to men, then they won’t reject me for who I am on the inside. If I pleasure them and am good at sex, then they will overlook my physical flaws.”
This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.
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*****
If you don't feel comfortable calling yourself an "alcoholic," that's fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, codependency, love, loneliness, depression —whatever-whatever–come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome. We’re here.
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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
What Now?
by Gary Soto
*************************
Where did the shooting stars go?
They flit across my childhood sky
And by my teens I no longer looked upward—
My face instead peered through the windshield
Of my first car, or into the rearview mirror,
All the small tragedies behind me,
The road and the road’s curve up ahead.
The shooting stars?
At night, I now look upward—
Jets and single-prop planes.
No brief light, nothing to wish for,
The neighbor’s security light coming on.
Big white moon on the hill,
Lantern on gravestones,
You don’t count.
— “Gary Soto: New and Selected Poems”
