Dear Future Man,

I write this not knowing if I will have raised you well enough that you would still listen to me. But if you would, just a few things:

1) Hygiene is important. You do not attract a mate by scent any longer, particularly your own unwashed scent. This is the modern era. Also, shave - studies have shown men's beards contain more harmful bacteria than dog fur. You are not a dog.

2) Nobody cares if you cry - just stop eventually. Get in touch with all the emotions you want, but once you're through that limbic system sit down and look at the situation from a position of reason. Remember your hormones don't fluctuate on a monthly basis while your body writhes in its own bloodletting. Use this potential for good.

3) Learn to live on a deflated ego. The world is not a kind place, even if it is male dominated. Don't expect to be the center of attention, the hero, or even the breadwinner. Instead appreciate the role of a supporting character when necessary. Remember Samwise? Be Samwise.

4) Do not rely on women. If you were a woman, Oprah would say you don't need a man. Women get told that everyday and, statistically speaking, they outlive you. Learn to channel that independency and do for yourself. Vacuum. Wash laundry. Dust. Knit. Whatever gets you out of gendered co-dependency. If you're lonely get a pet, even if it's a cat - just stop at two or you'll be doomed to bachelorhood forever.

5) Please just cook. Obesity and heart disease are rampant, and you're likely going to spend most of your life stressed out and sitting down. While exercise is important you can't outrun your diet. So learn to cook. Stir fry, soup, chili, grilled cheese even. Aim for a dinner plate that's half veggies and half protein with a side of carbs if you can.

If I teach you nothing else in life but this basic survival skill I will die a happy parent.

Live well, my son.

He laid under her stool where he had fallen. His eyes looked up at her through their swollen and bloodied lids. He had fought well, but there were too many. That’s what happens when you piss off Lysander Constantino, as she well knew.

She had “belonged” to Lysander for a while, several years ago. She used the term “belong” because it had not been a consensual relationship. It had been a time of nightmares. Without asking for permission he had pushed his way into her apartment, taking her when he would, animal-like, rough, hard and fast. Some couldn’t help her, others wouldn’t. Lysander was a huge man, Greek, with curly hair, flat lips, and dull eyes. Once he had stripped her naked and done it to her brutally on the floor of her apartment in front of his Greek cronies, just to show them that he could, to show them his control over her, to make her fear, and to make them fear him. She had been afraid to ask for help. She didn’t know anyone as strong as he was, or as powerful, so she had bent to his will and she had suffered.

Lysander had grown bored of her and moved on, but she still saw him around the neighborhood. He still looked at her and smiled that horrible, knowing smile that terrified her yet. She saw him with younger girls and she saw their fear... it was easy to see it when you knew it, the rounded eyes, the huddled walk, the ridiculous clothes he made them wear that he thought were sexy. When she saw him she always felt an intense desire to run. To run fast. To run anywhere. She felt that desire now, but the man under her stool was looking at her through his swollen slits of eyes... and he was smiling. “How,” she wondered, “could he manage a smile after a beating like that?”

Knowing what it would get her, she wet her napkin and climbed from the stool. Her body trembled with fear as she crouched beside the beaten man and wiped the blood from his face. She heard the devil yell behind her, but she continued to wipe. She heard him coming, but did not turn her head. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see it coming. The man’s hand found hers. He rose from the floor, pulling her behind him with the hand. Even in her fear she noticed the hand’s warmth, and its strength. It was a hand that touched hers very differently than did those of Lysander Constantino.

Like two bears the men met, howling and pawing. Lysander looked to use his great size and strength to batter the man, while the stranger was smaller, but much faster. The stranger’s blows rained on Lysander Constantino’s head and torso until Lysander was chopped down like a tree, to lie still and dead on the ground. She watched it all in wonder. She had never seen such savagery, and did not know that men were capable of it. She wanted to turn her eyes from it, but she did not... she could not. It was fascinating and terrifying and shocking to see. She had watched it the same way those men had looked at her that night as they watched Lysander overpower her and have his way.

When it was over the stranger looked at her with wild eyes through heaving breaths. His clothes were bloody and torn, just as his skin was. Once more, through the blood and around his swollen lips, he smiled at her. He took a whiskey bottle from an abandoned table and took a long pull before staggering to the door, and then he was gone.

No one tried to stop him. No word broke the silence. Men gathered around what was left of Lysander Constanino, a bad man. Finally a voice asked the question, “What started it?”

A finger from the crowd pointed at her. “Lysander called that woman a whore.”

This time she followed that intense desire to run... to run, and to run fast. But this time she ran with a different kind of fear. This time she ran not from a man, but to a man.

In all my life, I've ever only met two real men. One of them was my Daddy. He worked hard every day and then would come home and deal with the eight of us. Mama never worked, but with all of the foster children, her biggest threat was, "Wait until your Daddy gets home!" But he always listened to our side of things first, before meting out any punishment. When he would walk in the door at the end of the day, he would call out, "Hello Sunshine!", grab Mama and kiss her soundly. Her face was always a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment when he did that, but I'll always remember his greetings to her as an example of true love and masculinity. I remember at dinner, every night, he would give the blessing and then he would say to Mama, "Delicious dinner, Mother! Don't you think so, kids?" And we would all chorus back, "Yes!" If we didn't, it was considered disrespectful and he wouldn't have it. He ruled with an iron fist, but it was always open when it came to Mama, she was the love of his life.

My husband Joe is the other real man in my life. I can now say with a certainty, that the other guys I thought were men were truly only boys; they never helped me with anything, only used me for what they could get, and then left me high and dry. Joe holds doors for me, tells me I'm beautiful every day, and best of all, he works. He works hard. At home, and at work, and he won't let me do any hard chores. He listens to my opinion and takes my advice. We are equals in every sense of the word, but he treats me like a lady. And he would never dream of taking my favors without my freely giving them. He respects me and all other women. That's a true masculine man. And let me tell you, it's a hell of a turn on. Nothing is sexier than a man who doesn't think he's too much man to help his woman.

Being a man is all about not being a boy once you are the age of a man.

Men shouldn't be boys.

A boy doesn't know what men deal with.

A boy can't solve a crisis on his own.

A boy doesn't clean up after himself. To the contrary, a boy makes the mess bigger.

Men who have grown up deal with crises in a way that fixes the root problem, either little by little or all at once.

Full grown men clean their messes and keep them small if nonexistent.

Does it seem like a man is the opposite of a boy? That's because mentally, developmentally, they are opposites. On one end of the spectrum you have pure boyhood, with all it's adventures and discoveries. On the other end you have pure manhood, with all it's aquired skill and wisdom.

So when you ask a man what he has to show for himself, first he'll look toward his accomplishments, but what he should really be responding with are things he can teach the young. If he can help anyone, really, to do something for themselves... if he can show them how to do something, that man surely has something to show for himself.

Does a boy have that? Very young can it develop, but how much he can teach you is usually very little, for he only knows very little himself.

Somewhere in the development of males is the desire to discover things so he can teach others the knowledge he has found. That is what it means to be not just a man, not just masculine, that's what it means to be male. Full grown men, real men, are guides, teachers, servants of the wisdom required of them regardless of the role they perform to make a living.

I overheard a senior

telling the teacher what

his big project would be

for the whole year.

I admired this kid a lot,

I had heard him recite poetry

and it was good poetry too.

So I listened to what he was saying

He said

"It has to be on an issue in today's society.

I'm doing it on Toxic Masculinity."

And ever since he said that, I've been thinking.

Thinking, because what defines a man?

Is it sleeping with a woman?

Is it having a dick?

Is it showing no emotion?

Is it having muscles and working out at the gym?

Is it anything?

Is it clothes?

Really, I started thinking.

Is there a way to define a man at all?

If someone wants to be a man,

feels like a man,

then they are a man, regardless of actions or attire.

So what defines masculine?

To me, masculine

is just a different form of word

in the Spanish language.

Ella versus El.

Las verses Los.

What difference

does it make?

One single letter,

for the most part.

“Though I’m not a father, we are forced to make due. I’m sorry you had to help, and glad you called 911. At seven years old son, your more of a man that this mom deserves.”

“I hope you both know I’ve tried my best.” As I look up at my sons. Honor roll students, top notch athletes but most of all wise men since day one.

“I’ll never hit a woman.” “Keep that bottle away from me.” “Me and my brother started a business at 14.” “Here ma’am let me help you.” “Thank you mom for making me the best man I could be.” “I, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic”

Manliness,

macho stuff,

being tough,

Being hard,

Being strong,

Being virile,

Being a hero,

Being a warior,

all muscle,

no weakness inward or out,

doing needful things,

getting with the program,

having no doubts,

Anxiety not in the dictionary,

having sharp teeth,

having callused hands,

having scars,

Having a weapon,

not needing a weapon,

to project the “never mess with me!”, carrying a ton on the shoulders,

but can carry a ton more,

Bringing home the bacon,

eating the steak raw,

broiling,

grilling,

barbecuing everything,

making fire,

making war,

having sex (as opposed to making love) , deriving pleasure from sport,

from an arm wrestle,

from putting something together,

To tie something together,

For cutting , hacking something apart,

from stringy bits stuck

between the teeth,

which you pick out with a thorn,

but never dental floss,

of never buying things you don’t need, except for tools, of any kind,

And most of all:

killing everything inside you,

that goes against the grain.

The Abel within,

that contradicts,

what it is to be a Man’s man,

A Cain’s Cain.

Kill that brother,

And bear the mark,

The curse, of being a self killer,

which is also a manly thing.

"Excuse me miss?"

He loves it when that happens. He loves how awkward they always feel, how they apologise for so greatly offending him by calling him a woman. He doesn't care. He paints his nails.

He has to tie his hair up for work, but when he's free he lets it fall down his shoulders. It gets in the way when he kisses me, but then again, so does mine.

My boyfriend with soft eyes and softer lips, conditioned hair and chipped, black nails. My boyfriend who cries and smiles. My boy, a man.

The rigid softness of his chest

Cradling her head

One arm a secure embrace

The other lovingly stroking

The hair of this stranger

Her tears soaked his shirt

A gentle shhhhh, overlapping her sobs

His strength, her comfort

Fast forward

Two months

Her soft embrace

Chest cradling his head

Arms security blankets to him

Releasing his burden of unnecessary strength

Tears drenching her dress

Her hushed voice calming

It's okay, it's okay.

Barring his soul

Sharing himself

He is tough.

Man.

Manhood is what happens when you leave boyhood. In boyhood you get to explore, learn play, and hopefully grow. Manhood is similar in that you can still explore, learn, play and hopefully grow, but in this hood, you have a condition of accountability. Your actions now have consequences, and you have responsibilities. Manhood is taking responsibility, it's the moment you realize you are in control of your own life.