Men Talk Articles - August / September 2000

Men and Violence: Who are the Victims?
– © 2000 Kevin Walker

It is almost a given in the major media today that women are the victims of male violence, that this fact is a terrible disease in our society, and that something must be done about it. A recent issue of a local newspaper announces the receipt of a $10,000,000 federal grant for the purpose of preventing domestic violence. Yet domestic violence, where women and children are often the victims, is hardly the place where most violence occurs, and women and children are hardly the primary victims of violence in general.

Despite the perceptions, it is men who are most often the victims of violence in our society, a fact that is rarely pointed out, much less made into an issue. Let’s look at the facts for a moment. In figures for the year 1995, black men were murdered at a rate of 56 per 100,000; black women at a rate of 11 per 100,000. White men were murdered at a rate of 7.8 per 100,000; and white women were the victims of homicide at a rate of just 2.7 per 100,000.

In every other category of violent crime men were the victims more often than women, with the exception of rape and sexual assault. These categories include robbery, simple assault, and aggravated assault. Men also commit suicide far more often than women. What do these statistics reveal? Despite the myth of women as the primary victims of male violence, the fact is that it is men who are the victims of violence, at a rate far greater than women. What the numbers also point to is that there is a terrible disconnect in our society between perception and reality, and it points to a cruel double standard.

There are numerous examples that illustrate this: one of the most obvious is that women are not allowed to be combatants in our military. The old argument that women might “lower morale” seems antiquated, especially if one considers that other countries do use women as combatants in their militaries. While it may be true that men are better at some kinds of activities in the services than women, this hardly seems to be the reason that women are kept out. The truth is that, as a commentator once observed, society does not want to see women coming home in body bags. Of course, the implied other half of that statement is that it is okay for men to come home in body bags, relatively speaking. How much more stark can a double standard be than when it implicitly states that it is preferable for men to be killed than women?

Another example of this double standard: a few years ago a young American man, the son of a diplomat in Singapore, vandalized some property and spray painted some cars and buildings there. He was caught, and his sentence, meted out by the Singapore government, was to be a beating of his behind in public. When polls were taken in the United States, it was found that this punishment was wildly popular with Americans. Putting aside whether the American public was engaged in a bit of sexual sadism, it hardly seems likely that such a punishment would have been popular had the defendant been female. What this example illustrates is that violence against men and boys is often quite acceptable in our society; it is viewed as an answer to many problems. Yet when men commit acts of violence against women in particular, as opposed to other men, this is viewed as unacceptable, and downright evil. Rarely is this double standard recognized.

One other example should suffice. Recently a woman was executed in Texas. Weeks before her scheduled execution, there were outcries from around the country, and even the world. It was said that she had become a Christian, and was a good person, but few dared to utter the hypocritically obvious: we shouldn’t execute women. In other words, as far as most people are concerned, there is no problem with executing men, even men who are mentally impaired. The fact that many men become devoutly religious in prison does not affect people’s attitudes on the matter. Most people say that they believe in the death penalty, and religious conversions are viewed with suspicion. However, this was not the case with this rare circumstance in which a female was to face the wrath of the people. Despite the protests and pleas in the end she was put to death. Putting aside the question of whether it is just to execute anyone, the double standard exhibited here was hard to miss: in the eyes of most there is no problem with the execution of males, but when it comes to females well it is highly controversial.

Male violence is something that is often studied, and it is noted day after day, year after year, that women are victims of this violence. It is true that women are far more concerned about their own physical safety than men, at least within the middle classes of society. Yet it is the men who are victims of violence, especially poor and minority men, as well as boys. For all the talk of social transformation, of enlightenment, so much of our thinking about ourselves from the standpoint of gender, remains mired in very old thinking. Perhaps much of the concern about violence against women, cloaked as it so often is in feminist garb, is really little more than “chivalry,” the idea that it is important to keep women safe and secure, all the while forgetting the men.

The whole idea of a new male consciousness should be that men become aware of their own physical, as well as emotional vulnerability, and begin to demand that their need for safety be recognized and heeded. It should not be okay that boys be spanked and knocked around, while girls get off with a scolding. It should not be okay for the state to execute an ever increasing number of men, while the country raises its hackles about one woman being put to death. Violence against women should not be escalated, rather violence against all should be lessened.

Society, including men, needs to recognize the basic psychological fact that when violence is perpetrated against a person or category of person, it is likely that person will turn to violence later on. Once men and women decide that it is no longer acceptable to kill and hurt males in a way that it never would with females, then male violence will be decreased, if not eliminated. This recognition begins of course with each individual: if we recognize and eliminate this double standard within ourselves, then maybe we can begin to get rid of male violence, as well as male victimhood.

The Apology
– © 2000 Leif H. Johnson

I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize that chivalry was dead, or even that it was sick. I’m sorry for every woman that must think about the safest place to park at the mall or library. I’m sorry for every woman who receives less salary then a man doing the same job. I’m sorry for every woman who has been abused. I’m sorry for every single mother trying to collect child support from a deadbeat dad. I’m sorry that I never realized that my sisters and female friends don’t live in the safe world I do. I’m sorry for the part I’ve played in keeping the things the way they are. And I’m sorry for what I am.
I am a man, one guilty of not knowing how good he had it. I was always happy to not have to deal with menstruation and, being the wuss that I am, even more happy that I will never know the pain of childbirth. But I didn’t realize the extent of the perks I enjoy.

I have never had to worry about being accosted while walking alone at night; never had to worry about a partner raping or abusing me; never had to wonder if I didn’t get a job because of my sex; never had, and never will, worry about being left during pregnancy.

Enjoying these benefits and not realizing it is cause enough for apology, but perpetuating the exclusion of women from them is even worse. I thought that I had always treated women well, and there were only a few men out there that continued to inflict violence against them. I thought that these men were few and far between, and any bright women could avoid them. I am ashamed at being so ignorant.

Violence is ever present in women’s lives, forcing them to question what they wear, where they walk, and whom they are with. Women must question these things not to avoid giving a wrong impression, but to avoid being physically and sexually accosted.

Violence against women takes shape in more than just the physical forms or threat thereof It shows its fact every time a women gets pinched on her buttocks in a crowd, every time she isn’t given equal pay, and every time she is refused a place on a boy’s sports team.

I finally realized all of this and, again, am sorry and ashamed it took me so long. Working at a battered women’s shelter has opened my eyes to issues I never knew existed, or never fully understood. I have met some impressive women that have been subjected to unthinkable violence, not because they picked the wrong man, but because society won’t stop it. The men who vowed to love and protect them abused these women. If women have to fear those that are supposed to love them the most, how are they supposed to survive in the society that perpetuates the abuse?

I am sorry I am a part of a society that doesn’t condemn the mistreatment of women enough to ensure it doesn’t happen. It doesn’t matter what the laws are, or that anyone asked will say that the violence shouldn’t exist. As long as society’s attitudes are the way they are, violence against women will be a dreadful fact of life. Although I have never hit a woman, committed sexual misconduct, or been in a position to underpay women employees, I am still guilty.

I’m guilty of not fighting hard enough to change the prevailing attitudes, but worse than that, I’m guilty of maintaining those attitudes. Every time I referred to women as chicks, puss, or bitches, groaned when women’s basketball was on ESPN, called a friend’s girlfriend “his” woman, or tried to persuade my date to reconsider her “no,” I was reinforcing the attitudes that hurt all women, including those I love.

This guilt is embedded in me now. Throbbing in my head as I listen to the usual masculine banter about a friend’s date or the “chick” he picked up at a party. It makes me ashamed to be a man every time I hear it. My friends are, for the most part, good guys. They just don’t realize that chivalry and etiquette should be present even when women aren’t. They are in a mindset; these are not just temporary actions.

That is why I’m pleading with men everywhere to help me with this guilt. Let’s resuscitate chivalry, although some will claim that any different treatment of women is continuing the status quo. We need to finally rid ourselves of the mindset that women owe us something. We need to treat women like, and believe, it is an honor for us to be with them. We need to offer to women the courtesy of protection... from us. Finally we need to offer the ultimate sign of respect: caring about them enough to change our frame of mind.

I can try to physically protect the women I care about, but I can’t be with them at all times. So, I have to try to make the world a place where women can feel comfortable and safe walking a dark street or going on a blind date. I have to make the world safer for my sisters, girlfriends, mother, daughters, and nieces. I have to make the world safer to alleviate my guilt of making it dangerous.

The way to make it safer is by believing that women deserve to be treated better. They deserve to have every man treat them like the impressive creatures that they are. They deserve to have me show my respect always, whether they are present or not.

I do affect what other people think. Every time I grin over the booty stories of my friends, and every time I laugh at a sexist joke lam encouraging that behavior. Those jokes and stories aren’t innocent; they are adding to a society that is ignoring the talents and beauty of half its population. I need to consciously think of how what I am doing and saying is depicting women. I owe that to them all. For only in changing one man at a time is the situation going to change, and I can’t hold up the process any longer.

Hopefully, through my efforts, I can reverse the cycle of violence against women. I can work to influence and encourage my friends to see how we have been wrong. At the very least, I can make the women I am in direct contact with feel safe around me. And, most importantly, I can teach my unborn sons that women are to be treasured.
This is the best thing I can do. If I, and others like me, can make the next generation more sensitive to our wrongs, then they can do the same for the generation after them. We’ll start a new cycle, which will eventually lead to a world women should have been living in long ago. Inequality will never cross their mind, because it will finally be out of ours.

Leif H. Johnson is a Junior English Major at St. John’s University and is currently enrolled in Dr. Oswald Mayers’ Writing Essays class.

Memories of Father’s Day: June 18, 2000
– © 2000 Hank Bruns

Today is Father’s Day, in the year Twenty-Hundred, the final Father’s Day in the Twentieth Century. I’m feeling very light-hearted and reflective, today; happy in the thought of my three children and our relationship, and at the same time a bit pensive when thinking of my own Father and the close and sharing relationship that we never had.

Most significantly my thoughts go to Father’s Day weekend a year ago. My eyes begin to tear when I think of the totally unexpected surprise that I experienced at that time. A web of intrigue had been under way for some time during the winter, and I had been totally oblivious to it.

My youngest son, Rick, is an army Chief Warrant Officer, a helicopter pilot instructor, and Rick’s wife, Denise, is an army Lieutenant Colonel. Both are somewhat near retirement.

They had both been on two-year assignments at Fort Sheridan, near Chicago. It was really nice to be able to visit them rather easily, whether during trips just to see them, or during trips to the area to visit with members of my family of origin, most of whom still live in the Chicago area.

Rick had told me of a new policy to search out instances of personnel who had somehow been passed over for recognition of their military accomplishments and also to take action to make things right. He’s a real stickler for detail. He began asking me questions about my military career during World War II, which I seldom ever mentioned. (This had earlier been a sore spot in our family communications, because my children hadn’t known about my Navy years. No "war stories". There were a lot of details, which have been very painful to me.) He asked about stories and asked to see pictures that I had never taken out of my dusty old box. My daughter, Sylvia, got interested, and said she wanted to add some of the information into our family genealogy, which we’ve been working on together. It became a lot of fun doing these things with them. Part of what Rick wanted to see was my WW-II medals. Actually, I had not received them when I mustered out of the Navy. So being the stickler for detail that he is, he promised to contact the Navy and request that they be sent to me. I waited. You know the old military adage; "Hurry up, and wait."

Spring came. Both Rick and Denise approached the end of their two-year assignments. Col. Denise had been Commander of the Chicago Area Recruitment Brigade, and the occasion called for a change-of-command ceremony, which I was looking forward to attending and observing. Such ceremonies with all their pomp-and-circumstance are always exciting to see. Also, it is a privilege to honor the outgoing commander, who also welcomes the incoming replacement. And so I planned carefully to make sure I would travel down at the proper time. I also hoped to have other members of my family of origin present, as well as my older son, Buz and his family, so they could get better acquainted with Rick’s new wife.

The day came, and everything moved along with great precision. The ceremony was held on the parade grounds at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, since much of Fort Sheridan has been dismantled in recent years. Denise, in her address, presented awards to deserving individuals under her command, as well as some in absentia. "Hey, great", I thought. "She’s doing exactly what I had heard was the proper thing, under the new directive".

I can only paraphrase what I heard later. Denise spoke of being 17, enlisting in the military and off to war. Some time later, the war is over, and along with 15 million other service members being processed back to civilian life and leaving empty-handed. That happened 53 years ago, at Great Lakes.

What I heard next stunned me. A navy Commander in crisp, summer whites had posted himself front and center on the parade ground. I thought I heard, "I now ask that my father-in-law, Hank Bruns, step forward and post himself in front of CDR Jeff Despain." I sat frozen. I just couldn’t believe my ears. Then a strong hand grabbed my left shoulder, pulled me to my feet and as I turned my head I saw my son, Rick. He led me down the steps and out onto the parade ground. I say ‘led’, because my whole body was like a bowl of jelly. I doubt that I could have made it alone. During this time, LTC Denise continued to relate assignments, etc., where I had served.

CDR Despain proceeded to pin medals on my shirt, while I, like a child teared up so completely that I’m sure his hands were wet with my tears. I couldn’t even speak. I felt so totally proud, and yet totally embarrassed. As he finished the task, I heard Denise conclude her presentation with, " Hank, and to all the other fathers out there, past and present, Happy Father’s Day!"

I had received the American Campaign Medal, the Asiatic-Pacific Medal, and the WW-II Victory Medal, along with the Navy Unit Commendation Medal with one star for service aboard the USS Crescent City in the Okinawa Campaign. Then the Commander told me to turn around. Rick was standing behind me. He had framed all together, a picture of my ship, several pictures of myself, which he and Sylvia had assembled, and several other mementos, including one each of all the medals.

What a tremendous honor I received that day. I will remember it, and all the feelings it engendered, for as long as I live (which I intend will be a long, long time). And so, as a Dad, and as I do each day, and not only today, Father’s Day, I honor each of my children and their spouses and my grandchildren for the great pleasure they have been to me, and the great honor they have brought to bear a year ago this week-end. Thank you, guys. I Love you all.

That’s not the end of the story: Some time later the Navy did come through with the mail. In the box I received, there were two medals which they had failed to list. I had also earned the Navy China Service Medal and the Navy Occupation Service Medal for action aboard my ship after the end of WW-II, in assistance to the Chinese Nationalists in combating the Chinese Communist invasion.

Understand and/or Accept
– © 2000 Ron Prieve

This is the beginning of an essay, a work-in-progress, a journal entry made public in the thought that other men may connect with some part of my experience. I want to share some of my reflections on the death of my mother, who passed away in February.

I initially intended to keep these reflections private, part of a goodbye letter written to my mom in an effort to examine and make final peace with some of my ambivalent feelings towards her—feelings of love and loneliness, acceptance and rejection, legacy and loss. I wanted to identify those aspects of her character I’m proud to claim as my own and those I want to dis-identify with, or rather, move beyond. I intended to keep these reflections private until it occurred to me that my personal story and my response to it might be part of a more universal experience shared by men of coming to terms with their relationships with their mothers, and by extension, their relationships with other women. (I want to add that as a heterosexual male, I can only see this issue through my eyes. I’m not sure if it translates well to gay men in relation to their mothers, other women, or their male partners.)

This is the basic issue I confront and grapple with as I think about my mother: I was unconditionally accepted by her, yet never completely heard or understood by her. My mother gave me the kind of unconditional love that only mothers can—she cheered me on and was proud of me—yet she didn’t listen to me well or always seem to want to know me to the depth of my heart. This confused me and hurt me. My mother didn’t (or perhaps couldn’t) listen to my attempts to reveal my innermost thoughts and feelings to her. She cared to the depths of any issue, but didn’t want to know beneath the surface. I see this as part of her conditioning, that it is a very dangerous thing to go beneath the surface of constructed family harmony or male-female harmony to see or hear the real truth, a truth that might fracture the pretty picture.

Yet I’ve always believed in the possibility of getting to a deeper intimacy beyond the pretty picture, and so I felt a great sadness that this barrier or limitation existed in the relationship between my mother and myself. I also have to admit that I’ve had limited luck with partners willing to open up to this possibility of deeper intimacy. The type of relationship I experienced with my mother is the pattern of relationship I’ve found myself in with other women. This of course raises the question for me: is this just my issue or is it a comment about limitations in the way men and women relate to one another, or an even broader comment on the limitations of intimacy possible between any two people?

I’m not completely sure what I believe about how much of my feeling misunderstood by women is due to limitations I learned within my family, and how much is due to inherent limitations in how men and women (or any two human beings) relate to each other. I only know I often feel sad that this limitation exists. Sam Keen, in a magazine interview (The Sun, October 1999), spoke in terms of how utterly mysterious people remain to each other:

Sun: You once described love as appreciating the mystery of another person. In that sense, to love somebody means to accept that we may never understand him or her.

Keen: That’s true. When we really look at the people we know best, we discover that, despite the time we’ve spent with them, they remain utterly mysterious to us. The deepest mystery comes not when we don’t know somebody well, but when we do. For instance, my wife and I have been together for a long time, and in some ways I know her very well. But there is also a way in which she is utterly mysterious to me. I don’t understand why she is the way she is, or why she does the things she does.

Keen’s suggestion that we may never completely know each other has forced me to reflect on which is ultimately more important—understanding or acceptance? And can they be experienced separately? Can we feel truly understood and not be accepted, or can we feel deeply accepted without being understood? My own belief is that unconditional acceptance can be given without deep understanding, but then the feeling of acceptance doesn’t have much value. On the other hand, acceptance defined as including complete understanding is a set-up for failure, a way to never sense a deep level of acceptance from others. I also want to note that understanding without acceptance is quite possible, and can be both very painful and very valuable if a truth is learned about the relationship.

The best of all worlds, and I believe it’s possible to attain and it’s good enough, is to take the gift of acceptance and then work to deepen the understanding, in order to give them both value. Just don’t ever expect to get it perfect. Viva la Mystery.