By Theodore R. Johnson / The Washington Post
Just about every man remembers his first fight. It’s a common rite of passage. Mine was when I was 8 years old, on the school bus, with a classmate who was teasing my younger sister. I stepped in, and, in an instant, we were swinging.
The driver broke it up and kept us behind for a reprimand once we arrived at the school. He made two things clear. The first was that fighting was not permitted; the principal and our parents would be notified if it happened again. The second was that he understood why we were scuffling, and that these things happen; boys will be boys.
Growing up Gen X in the South, I understood that boys became men when they proved capable of building, providing for, and protecting themselves and those they love. These are social and observable actions, making one’s manhood partially up to the public. To be a good man meant undertaking these responsibilities earnestly, if imperfectly; weak men are reckless with them. Being a real man meant not shrinking from threats to any of them. And boyhood was a proving ground for them all.
That sometimes meant pushing the limits of acceptable behavior. There were years of playground posturing and contests of toughness. Challenges to authority and demonstrations of independence. And, unlike today, each of these took place mostly beyond the eye of the digital town square; the kids on my bus didn’t pull out cameras to capture the action for the group chat and social media. Boys becoming men in this century don’t have that luxury. And while time and technology have transformed our understanding of how men should be, there’s no consensus on how masculinity should evolve; or even whether it needs to.
Politics has seized on this uncertainty. Researchers and pollsters are finding that the rightward move of young men can be attributed to distinct but related factors: feeling left behind socially and economically as opportunities for women improve; a backlash to progressive movements and politics perceived to view manliness negatively; and the right’s championing of a traditional masculinity that is celebrated and free of stigma. In this promoted brand of manhood, men are encouraged to break norms and display their power. Conflict entrepreneurs and “manosphere” media figures exploit men’s insecurities and status anxieties to accrue influence, riches and power over others. The appeal is in an unbridled masculinity, one arguing that not only will boys be boys, but they must be. It’s how strong men are made.
It is a familiar refrain. As a young adult, I sought out other challenges to shape me into a real man. Signing up for the military. Pledging a fraternity. The rites for both required tests of resilience, determination and competence. They also included pain and misery. As I learned on the school bus, becoming a man not only meant being willing to throw a punch, but a willingness to take one, too. Once I had joined those organizations, I found that good men were plentiful, though extremists and excesses were easy to find. In those formative years, navigating the positives and negatives of these hypermasculine institutions was the price for the two things men need most: purpose and belonging.
Many young men today want the same for themselves. They simply have different ideas about how masculinity is defined, and they hold more liberal views on gender roles and policy that aren’t aligned to traditional models of manhood. But they are also most likely to be frustrated with how things are going for men in America and with wholesale vilification of masculinity. When politics demands young men decide between these two leanings, more of them — across race and ethnicity — are choosing to prioritize the plight of men. The right’s embrace of a swaggering masculinity offers them community and pride at a moment when they need it most, even if it requires aligning with the kind of men they don’t want to become.
There are signs, though, that men today are increasingly gravitating to a more contemporary version of masculinity. Scholars have found young men, in particular, are more open to the sort that makes room from gender equality and personal vulnerability while resisting the orthodoxy of older versions. And they have alerted progressives to the importance of competing for men’s votes alongside those of other identity groups on which they rely to win elections.
Other studies, however, have shown that when young men feel emasculated — by women, by other men, by the lack of purpose and opportunity — the support they voice for egalitarianism is superficial. Instead, they come away from the experience with the sense that hegemonic masculinity, one prizing strength and dominance and cool, remains the true measure of a man.
Now, as a dad to Gen Z sons, I find that modeling masculinity for them is its own rite of passage. They’ve had fights on the playground, testy battles on football fields and on the way to school. In this way, their youth has looked a lot like mine; some things never change, boys will be boys. But they are coming of age in a world far different from the one that shaped me. Masculinity, and society’s relationship with it, is not the same, either. Our politics will need to grow up quickly if our boys are to become good men.
Theodore R. Johnson, a contributing columnist for The Washington Post and retired naval officer, writes on issues of race, democracy, and American identity. He’s the author of the book “If We Are Brave.” Follow him on X @DrTedJ.
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