"I did not draw or write again today, and I feel guilty about it as usual. I learned last night at work that J--, a young black man that used to work at the Avalanche Journal [newspaper], was killed in a motorcycle wreck. C-- told me and I was shocked by the crude way he related it. He asked, "Did ya hear 'bout James?" while smacking his fist into his other hand and saying, "splat!" Fortunately, B-- had told me minutes before about the accident, so I wasn't too shocked by C--'s insensitive communication. I liked J-- and was sorry to hear he was killed. Once again, I am aware of how fragile a thing life can be, while at the same time, humans are able to endure extreme physical tragedies. A contradiction, I know."
MANHOOD REDO: What about the end of this excerpt where at the age of twenty-two I present myself as wise and knowledgeable about death and the human condition? It seems I was trying to approximate what I thought was a literary, writerly voice, but much like traditional masculinity, it was a performance. I undoubtedly felt pressure to sound more erudite than I was, just as with manhood there's pressure to perform toughness and control.
Why didn't I write about a priest who was a close friend of our family, who would come over every week to drink scotch, smoke cigars, and play cards with us, who would shower everyone with compliments and generosity, who would buy German sausage and bring it over to fix, who would play basketball with me in our driveway and ping pong in the garage, who talked with me about my music and shared his, who was the best gift-giver I've ever known, who was one of the most important role models in my life and still is, who never said anything negative about anyone - until he became sick with cancer. He was a big man and lost a lot of weight, his hair turning gray. When he was in the hospital and I sat alone in the room with him, he asked me to empty his full catheter bag, which I did. I found the task unpleasant, and yet I never felt closer to him than at that moment.
He had passed away sometime during the year before I wrote the above journal entry excerpt. I couldn't produce any tears when my mother called and told me, stuck as I was in the cliche that men don't cry. I jumped in my Custom Ford and drove around Lubbock, angry, beating the steering wheel, yelling and cursing at the top of my lungs, until I grew hoarse. Now, as I write about it, though, I'm starting to tear up.
What if we men stopped performing? Wouldn't it be a relief?
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