Next week I turn 52, and although growing older is no picnic, there are some silver linings. It’s easier for me to be an older male than it was for me to be a young one.
No one expects me to go to war. I came of age in the mid-1980s, and the memory of the draft and Vietnam lingered. Boys were expected to register, and those who didn’t were ineligible for college financial aid. It was also against the law not to register. Not only did the thought of being in a war frighten me, but I wasn’t like other boys, so the idea of living in a hyper-masculine environment was enough to cause me to experience panic attacks. I’m not exaggerating. I lost sleep thinking about being in the Army.
No one expects me to engage in fist fighting even if I were to be physically threatened. If someone were to punch me in the face the next time I go into a bar, no one would expect me to reciprocate. No one would ask me, “Why did you *let* him do that to you?” And I was most certainly expected to be prepared to violently defend myself at the drop of a hat when I was young in West Virginia. Boys were expected to protect themselves, and if you needed or asked for help, you were deemed unworthy.
No one expects me to play rough sports anymore. When I was growing up, I was regularly asked when I was going out for football. My father played, so many expected me to follow in his footsteps. I had no interest. I didn’t relate to the urge to run at other boys and slam into them at full speed.
It all left me feeling uncertain. I wasn’t a girl, but I couldn’t live up to the expectations placed on me as a boy either. It made me question my identity and my worth, and it put me in danger.
I grew up in fear. I feared rejection, and I feared physical assault. I’m glad the threat of those things are no longer as immediate. But I don’t want to forget. Living in fear for so long has taken its toll. And I don’t want to give even the slightest impression that I think what was done to me and other boys is necessary, acceptable or excusable.
