A man’s guide to not being part of the problem
Eugene Bingham wonders, at a time of #MeToo, of cultural awakening, where do men like him sit?
Something happened on the way to work one day. I was on a bus on my usual route, typical morning scenes of Auckland’s west rolling by, framed by the window.
Some of the streets we drive through are in the types of suburbs which draw a roll of the eye – the back of Massey, the edge of Henderson, places that some people tar-brush as westie. Whatever. To really know the west, is to know the raw beauty of this place and its people; folk who don’t think of ‘‘westie’’ as a derogatory term, who instead wear it as a badge of honour; good sorts like those who were climbing aboard the bus as it meandered down a clogged-up Triangle Rd.
I hadn’t really been conscious of what was going on inside the bus on this particular morning, as usual I had my headphones on listening to a news programme on my phone and scrolling news sites.
But as we sat on Lincoln Rd waiting to turn on to the motorway, I looked up and noticed something. The bus was packed, but the seat next to me was empty.
And it got me wondering. Have I become someone others are unwilling or afraid to sit next to? As a middle-aged male, am I somehow toxic?
And it started me thinking about the face I present to the world, and about my place in it.
At a time of #MeToo, of gender equality, of cultural awakening, where do men like me sit? Is there even a place for us on the bus that is taking us to this more enlightened place?
They’re big questions. Am I even capable of tackling them?
After all, former British prime minister Margaret Thatcher apparently once said : ‘‘A man who, beyond the age of 26, finds himself on a bus can count himself as a failure.’’
The provenance of the quote is debatable, with some attributing it instead to a British socialite, but, in this context, I quite like thinking of it as being said by Thatcher, the staunchest of female political leaders.
Anyway, notwithstanding Thatcher’s alleged antipathy, I started thinking about those questions.
And about something that happened at an after-work function.
Small talk to crazy talk
It was an early summer evening. One of those nights not long after daylight saving has started and you still can’t quite believe it’s light after six o’clock.
I was at a do in the city with a bunch of people squeezed into a slightly too-small room to celebrate the start of a new thing. Glasses of wine, beer and orange juice were lined up on a table (why are there always multiple and plentiful alcoholic options at events, but hardly any non-alcoholic?) and delicious canapes were circulating, carried by a couple of young people.
The gathering was convivial, mostly what you’d call a business crowd. I was in the middle of the room, attempting my usual awkward version of what passes for small talk. I’d been introduced to a guy who was slightly older than me, stylishly but not pretentiously dressed, maybe nearing 60, fit-looking – you could imagine him playing golf with a respectable handicap.
The conversation, such as it was, turned to the company he owned and the task of managing staff. He talked about the difference he found in the younger generation, how they were tech-savvy, but also less likely to pick up a phone and talk to a customer. He was trying to teach them the power of personal connections in sales.
Innocuous, if bland, enough stuff to chat about to someone you’ve just met.
And then it turned.
Then again, he said, the Christmas parties were still as fun as always, or words to that effect. Drinking and carry-on, you know, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
I didn’t like where this was going and bit down on a pastry-covered morsel so I didn’t have to say anything.
And that was the thing, he said, with all this #MeToo stuff – it has swung too far. Can’t people have fun any more? Boys will be boys, you know? It’s not like it was in his day, you know.
I knew exactly what he meant. But I was frozen.
I still didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, though, all that was left of the canape which I’d used to disguise my silence previously was a crumb stranded on my beard.
And so I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head, a classic distraction technique involving the drinks table. ‘‘Excuse me for a second.’’ It was a lie – I had no intention of going back.
I was shocked. How could a conversation with someone you’d just met so quickly slide down a path of condoning God knows what?
How could someone talk about wanting to educate young people about business one minute and then so quickly veer down a path of turning a blind eye, at best, towards blurred issues of consent and the safety of his staff.
Most of all I was shocked with myself. Why couldn’t I conjure up anything to say? Why hadn’t I challenged him?
Wasn’t it my responsibility to say: ‘‘Hang on, mate. No, actually, it’s not good enough to say ‘boys will be boys’. That’s totally unacceptable, not only in this day and age – but in every age, actually; it’s just that now people aren’t prepared to stand for it, and, as a boss, you certainly shouldn’t.’’ Or something like that.
As I left the function not long afterwards, and in the days and weeks that followed, I’d shake my head thinking about it. Where was my voice?
I started thinking about those questions.
And about something that happened in a podcast I’d listened to.
Music as medicine
The bus was packed, but the seat next to me was empty . . . Have I become someone others are unwilling or afraid to sit next to? As a middle-aged male, am I somehow toxic?
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.