complete with confusing directions
1952 and my mother was doped up, vaginal delivery painful as hell. Doc dangled me by my ankles, slapped my behind, then said “It’s a boy!” to a woman who had borne three daughters and finally had grabbed the longed-for brass ring. Sexed I had been, and implicitly gendered, bawled my lungs out as if in premonition. After a while I was handed to Mom, who did not drop me, as drugged as she was.
We went home to three sisters, a very happy father.
Three older sisters educated me; I still leave the toilet seat down (almost always). Mom educated me. Dad educated me. Society educated me. It took me decades to get over my education.
I didn’t like cars or sports; I was a weirdo. I got bullied sometimes. I wondered if I’d ever be a man.
When I still was a baby, I fell asleep beside Aunt Mary in her bed; then Uncle Mike transferred me to strategically placed well stuffed armchairs. At some point Dad decided it was not seemly for me to fall asleep in a woman’s bed. He put a stop to it.
In my twenties I got sick of my father not hugging me, so I hugged him. Stiff as cardboard. He learned to love it.
Before I learned to talk, Mom and Dad got divorced, and Dad came to worry I’d be sissified living with four females. He sent me to six weeks of overnight camp. At age five I was dropped off at Camp Adirondack.
We were told how to emulate American Indians, by white counselors and supervisors who had somehow become experts. Before a boy could be a stoic Indian brave, he had to be an Indian squaw wrapped round by a blanket. Braves carried their blankets folded, over their shoulders. I remember the smell of cocoa from the counselors who’d powdered their white skin to make them seem dusky. The campfire was lit by a flaming rag sliding down a wire after the Chief in his headdress beseeched Great Spirit. Looked just like magic.
My best friend was the son of the director of a girls’ camp across the lake. Jay Donut was his name, which occasioned hilarity. He didn’t sleep over; he was only four. My superior age of five notwithstanding, we held hands walking down the dirt road. A couple of counselors told us not to; people might think we were “funny” they said. Confused but not daring to ask questions, we stopped holding hands. I still feel the lack.
Dad got stung by a hornet once. I asked him why he didn’t cry. He put on a fake Hollywood Indian voice. “Me big strong man! Me not cry!” I was lost in admiration. The lesson was clear.
Years later I wondered why we white folk so admired a people we had tried to wipe out. Or a romanticized version thereof, anyway.
Older, coming into manhood, I was trying to be manly, holding doors open for women. It was the seventies, and some didn’t like it, grabbed the door in a huff. Some others smiled and held the door open wide. For me. Others smiled and walked through the door I held for them. Confusing.
At Bard College I took dance. I learned how to carry myself straight, not slumped over. Dad was impressed.
I discovered sex and the charms of women; I was ecstatic, the giving and taking felt so damn good.
I didn’t grow up to be gay, despite Dad’s fears. I studied acting. “What is a man?” I continued to wonder.
Mom said you couldn’t be a man without shedding some blood. She also said men were selfish, egotistical bastards. Said somehow I wasn’t like most men. Wow. What was I, then? She’d never admit it but had a Cinderella complex. Idolized her second husband until he skipped town, leaving her with a daughter.
Dad instructed me never to hit a woman because it gave her the upper hand. He knew from experience. I’m close to seventy never having hit a woman, but for different reasons.
We were starting to hear men should get in touch with their feelings and express them. Or the feelings women felt comfortable with. Not anger, they’d had their fill of that; who could blame them.
In grad school during a Psychodrama class the male protagonist wept with good reason. In processing, a woman student said she was sick of men whining. Ah, I thought: when women weep it is sharing pain. When men weep it is whining. Brought that up later and was criticized for not bringing it up at the time. I still hadn’t learned how to be a man.
I met the love of my life who still is my wife. Became a father. Not easy, but I loved it.
Got sober and attended men’s retreats where tough guys hugged each other, wept, laughed.
We raised two wonderful, loving daughters, one of whom I had thought was my son.
Good thing I did not steer by age-old traditional stars. I’m not sure exactly when or how it happened, but I finally figured out what a man was.
Me.
~ Wry Welwood
15th of January 2022
Written in response to Scrittura Saturday prompt: stellar steering.
Attention J.D. Harms.
Thanks to KSHernandez.