Part of the problem
where a listener writes in for a musical prescription.
One week, it was a mum from Illinois. She had two daughters and a son. Finding songs that spoke to female empowerment was no trouble – she cited the Lemonade record by Beyonce, and The Flaming Lips’ Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots (‘‘Her name is Yoshimi / She’s a black belt in karate’’).
But she was struggling to find music that ‘‘showed [her son] he could be a whole bunch of things, but he didn’t have to be a toxic dude’’.
There was plenty of sensitivity guy, soppy romance stuff, but where were the anthems that celebrated the antithesis of aggressive masculinity? That showed her son you didn’t have to be the guy who showed no emotions, dominated his partners, and had to be the alpha?
There’s something uniquely powerful about podcasts. Because you’re usually listening to them on earphones, they really get inside your head.
And that’s what happened listening to these musical doctors and the mum from Illinois. See, she’d struck on something that I’d been pondering, but in a far less eloquent way: The importance of giving boys and young men the right type of messages.
About finding ways to make them feel proud of who they are and what they achieve, while embedding in them respect and consideration.
About turning them away from all those things that the mum from Illinois didn’t want her son to be. So, yeah, like she said.
Because if boys and young men are left behind in the conversations about #MeToo, or are pushed aside and ignored, made to feel ashamed of their gender, how will we make sure they don’t turn into guys who think it’s OK to pass things off as ‘‘boys will be boys’’?
How do we begin that process? I got to thinking about that question in particular.
And about something that happened on a back-country road up north.
A bridge to somewhere
It was a quiet, twisting highway, the kind where you think that if you crashed off the side and down the bank, no one would notice except for the cicadas which would pause momentarily in an insect memoriam.
The kind of road that has a touch of menace, and a touch of beauty; the kind where you lift fingers off the steering wheel to acknowledge those you see going in the opposite direction, and you get an immediate sense of your fellow travellers.
On this particular day, I drove around a blind corner, taking notice of the sign indicating there was a one-way bridge ahead, one at which I had right of way.
On the opposite side of the bridge, there was a ute still far enough away for me to think it was safe enough to cross, and so I started. But the ute didn’t stop. It loomed. Rapidly. Towards the bridge.
Oh, jeez – or words to that effect – I thought. I braked and figured out the only option I had was to see if I could back up fast enough.
And then a strange thing happened. The ute braked and backed up, yielding the road.
I could see it was being driven by another middle-aged guy, a beard and sunnies masking his face – yeah, we could have been brothers.
With the way now safe, I accelerated, slowly. I won’t pretend on some level I wasn’t fuming – what if he hadn’t stopped and I hadn’t been able to back up fast enough? What if we’d hit head-on?
I lifted my hand off the wheel, but, with my teenage son beside me, a new driver, I . . . waved.
And he . . . waved, and nodded back, a tacit acknowledgement that said, ‘‘Yep, sorry, I stuffed that one up.’’ And in return I was silently accepting with a wave that said, ‘‘Yep, no worries, all good.’’
There was no road rage. No middle fingers. No swearing, or honking of horns.
And I thought: This is it, this is what our role is, this is what our place on the bus is – to choose to not be dickheads. To choose nonviolence, every time, in every way.
To be kind. To be empathetic. To be compassionate. To be an example. To show that to be a strong, good man does not mean you have to overtly prove anything. That you do not need to assert anything.
That there are many, many times when it is better to stay silent, to butt out.
But to know that there are times when you should speak up, and when you should stand up.
To acknowledge your privilege and to use it as a force for good, for others.
To love. To be happy.
Oh, in case you’re wondering, the songs those rock doctors prescribed? Kids, by MGMT, and Boys Keep Swinging, by David Bowie, but performed by Susanna Hoffs.
I think I’ll take a listen next time I’m on the bus. And smile.