Frances whiting

“He wasn’t right at all. Many of our boys aren’t”

what do we do to our boys to harden their edges? What do we salt their sweetness with when, as anyone who has ever had a little boy of their own can attest to, they are naturally such gentle creatures.

Every mother I know who has had a son speaks in wonder of this startling fact in those first few years.

“I didn’t expect him to be so soft,” they say. “He’s so kind.” “He’s so gentle.” Because they are, aren’t they, these boys in their early years, all that rowdiness and rough-housing not withstanding? My own boy is a man now, and gentle still, but I suspect, no thanks to me.

I remember him as a toddler, bringing me fistfuls of flowers from the garden, and I also remember, when he was around seven or eight, letting go of his hand as we passed some boys his own age. I remember the way he looked up at me, the question on his face. And my silent answer in that hand drop was, “You can’t let them see you holding your mother’s hand.” I wouldn’t have dropped his sister’s hand in the same situation. This much I know.

A few years ago I was walking across our local park and some boys were kicking a footy around, one of their fathers close by, talking on his mobile phone. It happened quickly, a flash of the red ball, a boy falling, then not getting up, his mates in a knot around him.

The father sprinted across to where his boy lay holding his leg, howling. “Don’t cry,” the father said. “Stop crying.” And then. “Stop being such a girl. Get up,” he told him. The boy kept crying.

I watched until I could bear it no longer. “I think he’s really hurt,” I said. “Maybe he shouldn’t get up, maybe you should call an ambulance.” The father looked at me with narrowed eyes. “He’ll be right,” he said. I found out later he had a broken leg. Several cracked ribs.

He wasn’t right at all. Many of our boys aren’t. Because we drop their hands. Because we tell them to get up. Because we let them down.

There’s a group of tradies working near my house at the moment; carpenters, plumbers and sparkies who all drive utes with those enormous tool boxes in their trays, with stickers of places they love across their back windows. Surf breaks. Fishing spots. Drinking holes. But one of those stickers stands out from the rest.

In looping, cursive writing it says, “It ain’t weak to speak”. Early this morning, I saw the ute’s owner get out of the car. Tall fellow. Broad shouldered. Tatts snaking up both arms. He had a white paper bag in his hand with some sort of pastry nestled in it – I’m guessing a sausage roll.

“I like your sticker,” I told him and he smiled. “It’s important, eh?” he said. I don’t know his story, or what happened to him, or one of his mates, to make him plaster those words across his car.

I just know I’m glad there’s young men like him out there, teaching his mates and the rest of us that it’s okay to wear your vulnerability like a tattoo on your sleeve. Because he’s right. It’s important, eh?