Advice For Men

"Love yourself. Love your friends. Love your family."

Welcome to the first edition of ‘Advice For Men’. I soft-launched this project a few weeks ago and have already published a few essays directly to the site. Give them a read if this one agrees with you. There are plenty of ways to support my work, but for now, the best is simple: share the essays on social media or pass along the links. Thanks for subscribing.

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I once—last century sometime—smoked a cocaine-laced joint with an ex-con whose arms were covered in white-supremacist tattoos because, like a beggar, addicts can’t be choosers. And as I puffed away, he gave me the only concrete advice I’ve ever directly been given about masculinity: “You’re not a real man unless you’ve had the clap three times.”

Back then, I learned never to question the opinions of racist strangers sharing their drugs, so I nodded as if I were a real man who had conquered gonorrhea not once but thrice. There is nothing morally wrong with contracting a sexually transmitted disease, so I don’t want you to think I’m shaming anyone who has had one. For a brief period in college, I was a safe sex peer counselor, which meant I was a nerd who would give presentations to bored dudes in dorms about how to use a condom properly.

I don’t know why having the clap three times made one a real man. Maybe once would be enough? Because after that, you’d learn to protect yourself and your partner by practicing safe sex. I didn’t tell him my opinions on such things because I didn’t want to be rude, and I was also high and paranoid and knew from experience that one thoughtless word could ruin the party and/or my face.

He didn’t know I was an alcoholic and a druggie because I didn’t know. I was too busy trying to murder my liver. He also didn’t know I was half-Latino, which I am thankful for because I don’t think he would have loved that; at that point in my life, I rarely told anyone that one side of my family was all proud Mexican-Americans because I was desperate to fit in and it was easy to fit in with other white men because I looked like them. I’ve learned over the years that who you are on the inside is not who you are on the outside.

In my first AA meetings, I would meet dudes who looked like banged-up pick-up trucks, and they were some of the sweetest, kindest, most no-bullshit people I’d ever met.

I am sober now. Fifteen years. Jesus Christ. I hope to stay drug-and alcohol-free for another day and, god willing, another day after that. I have never had the clap, but who can predict the future? (Always wear protection when having sex with partners outside of a committed and trusting relationship, folks.) I do not know what happened to the dude with the scary tats and the ample supply of drugs. That was a long, long time ago. But his advice has stuck with me because it makes no sense, much like most advice for men.

That concept of the “real man” has been sold to me my entire life, and for many years, I made a living peddling the idea that there was one and only one way to be a dude, and the story of my life is the story of realizing I have been wrong about so many things.

Out of nowhere, my old man once said that a man only has a few loyal friends and that he should stand by them. I have more than a few, but I got the point, Dad. My mom also gave me advice: “Jesus said to turn the other cheek, but you only get two cheeks, and Jesus never said get your ass kicked.” She told me this when I was bullied in elementary school. She taught me many things, like I should buy socks at dollar stores. And how to balance my checkbook, which I know how to do but have not done in… decades? And that root beer floats are superior to milkshakes.

Other men in my life have offered up vague instructions: coaches who commanded me to walk off pain or the scoutmaster who told my troop we should all know how to set dangerous booby traps in the woods. I think he was joking, but we did whittle sticks into little spears around a campfire.

I remember a young man of the cloth visiting my fifth-grade CCD class and pitching the Catholic priesthood to the boys. “Priests eat at Italian restaurants for free,” he joked, and I was momentarily intrigued. Macho influences abounded in the 80s: there was hot and heavy rock music, hairy cops driving fast cars on TV, and big blockbuster movies where men were horny and violent and would rip a bullet out of their arm with a rusty pair of pliers without wincing.

But then I met a teacher in High School. He taught drama. I was never very good in school: I was easily distracted and discouraged. I was quick to become frustrated and lose my temper, too, and I was usually allowed to disappear into my own daydreams. I’m grateful to the teachers who tried to reach me.

One afternoon, he introduced me to Macbeth, Shakespeare’s brooding, tragic hero, undone by ambition. I didn’t always understand Shakespeare’s language, but I read it anyway, even when I struggled. So this teacher takes me aside one day and says, “Remember: Macduff is the hero.”

In Act 4, Macbeth has his noble rival Macduff’s children slaughtered. He breaks down after learning that his “pretty chickens” have all been murdered. His lieutenant, Malcolm, admonishes Macduff, telling him to “dispute it like a man.” Don’t cry, he insists, act like a man.

Macduff responds: “I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man.”

That was good advice.

I have also been paid to offer advice to men on satellite radio, in print magazines, and online. Blogs. Remember those? The advice I dished out was pretty standard stuff: bros before hos, suck it up, bacon makes everything better. I knew at the time that telling men to choose loyalty to each other over doing the right thing was morally bankrupt, not to mention crude and sexist. I knew that suffering in silence was destructive and that there was such a thing as too much bacon.

My job was to perpetuate gender norms. Bropaganda. To sell a specific brand of superficial, fake tough guy masculinity to the insecure, who would then be sold perfumed deodorant for men. All of it, ad filler. It was easy for me to do this because I was insecure and wanted to be told who to be, and being a modern man came with a simple instruction manual.

I’m older now. I don’t know if I’m wiser, but I’ve learned a few things. For instance, never name your penis. It’s not funny, nor is it cute. You are a human being, and while genitals can be a good time, amusing, and pleasurable to manipulate alone or with another person or persons, they are not your identity, nor do they have their own identity; they are just bits of extra flesh that spend most of their time hanging, like fruits.

You are whoever you say you are. You are whatever name you call yourself. You are not defined by how much you can drink, bench press, or earn, but by how much love you can carry in your heart. (More than you think.)

Love yourself. Love your friends. Love your family. Let them love you back if they so choose. Carry your friends up the slopes of Mount Doom.

Take care of your skin. Never be afraid or too proud to ask for help. Keep your eyes on your own paper. Fold your laundry. Listen. You are a man, but so what? You are so much more than your gender. Masculinity is not a personality. It is not your destiny. You are the sum of your good deeds.

I believe, without irony, in the old-fashioned virtue of ‘duty.’ Duty is simply doing something you don’t want to do because it is the right thing to do.

But wait, there’s more:

Clip your nose hair. Tip well because it’s a principle. Be precise and confident when explaining how you want your hair cut. Be polite. Money can’t buy love, but it can buy very nice shoes, so if you have the money, own a couple of nice pairs. The same goes for bedsheets.

When it comes to sex, ask questions. Can I? Do you want me to? Sex is fun. It’s fun between a man and a woman, a man and a man, a woman and a woman, or between two people who identify as both genders or neither. Sorry, that’s just the truth. Sex is messy and beautiful and silly and should not be taken seriously. Unless someone’s private parts accidentally make a funny noise. Then you should laugh.

We are each profoundly different living machines built to feel compassion and affection for other machines, even if they look different. Our capacity for tenderness is limitless, and it is only when we defy those core purposes that we reveal another, darker function, and that is to fear and hate and destroy.

Unless you’ve been told their names, greet every dog as “buddy” and every cat as “your highness.” Dating changes, but one thing stays the same: eventually, you will need the courage to tell that person how you feel. Pour the milk first, then the cereal. Cereal doesn’t want to be soggy. It wants to be crunchy even if the milk eventually wins. Honor the way things are supposed to be. For instance, humans are meant to show up for each other.

Here’s my advice for men: Don’t act like a man. Just breathe. Breathe and enjoy a root beer float from time to time; it doesn’t matter if it’s summer or winter. Breathe and be brave.

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Advice For Men: Give yourself a nickname