I’m not going to complain. That wouldn’t be prudent. Not while my family is happy and healthy. They are at the beach right now. My six year old daughter is surfing and my pregnant partner is likely offering an empathetic ear to another parent who is dealing with a burden — those unavoidable side effects of adulthood. I haven’t been to the beach in months, even though it’s a short walk from our home. We are remodeling our house, a significant expansion to make space for our new child. I’m working on three different books, in three different genres, all in different phases of development. We have a new puppy. He’s cute, though he’s a chewer. He’s at my feet right now, munching on my sandals. He’s been fed and walked a few times today, between paragraphs and between conversations with the foreman regarding the location and number of electrical outlets in the baby's room. These conversations take place in my second language, a language I study everyday from 6am to 7am so that I don’t accidentally ask him to put a duck next to the window. I hope the lessons are paying off. Time will tell.
I’m not going to complain. That wouldn’t be prudent. Twelve years ago I was living on a friend’s couch. My fiancé had left me. The business I’d started, and put every dime I had into, had gone under. I was without a job and without a dog (she took the pooch when she left, along with the ice cube trays. True story.) I also had a fat yellow envelope from the IRS filled with official papers covered in strong language saying I owed them a lot of money, money I did not have. On top of that, I had a few issues still lingering after returning from those two wars that are no longer popular enough to mention. I was receiving a heaping dose of the run-around from the VA, all the while more and more of the men I served with took their own lives.
At some point between then and now a term gained popularity: Male privilege. Obviously, this incendiary phrase has waned in popularity, replaced by other terms which spread easily due to their inflammatory nature. They incite reaction, response, division. Which is why they easily proliferate popular culture. This term and terms like it are profitable because division is profitable. Fear is profitable. Anger is profitable. The reason: we pay attention to it. Our attention is time, and time is money. There is no shortage of these words which seek to manipulate our emotional state toward victimhood. Buyer beware.
I understand the phrase “Privilege” in the way academia intends it: an expression of an historic systemic advantage. How my great grandmother was not legally allowed to vote, while my great grandfather could. I don’t see how any of us benefit from the disadvantages of our own ancestors. Though it is common knowledge that academia has a track record of peddling victimhood the way we used to trade pogs. It makes no sense to me to seek retribution or to apologize for the actions of those who died before you were born.
A term like male privilege provides a scapegoat. It is an attempt to create an irreversible and permanent excuse as to why others (perceivably) have it better. It implies that the life that they were born into is systemically easier. The term is effective in getting under the skin of a person who has struggled to lift themself from a broken home. A term like that discounts and belittles those who have worked their entire life, against the odds, to make something of themselves. A phrase like that heats the blood of a man who had to sell a hunk of himself just to feed and shelter his children. That is how a phrase like privilege gains popularity. Because it is a contradiction. From the common man’s perspective, their life, like all life on earth, is a struggle for survival. A struggle to make ends meet. A struggle to build a safe place for their offspring. A struggle to appease the powers and systems that be. A struggle to provide. A term like male privilege is marginalizing. It’s the type of statement that avoids eye contact with the human who lives beneath the skin.
I’m not going to boast. That wouldn’t be prudent. But I have an awesome father. He raised me and my two sisters. Though he had us full time due to our mother’s severe addiction, he was still required by the court to pay her every month, the same courts that awarded full custody to the unstable addict mother, despite our father’s desperate pleas, and despite him clearly being the more stable parent. She moved us to another city, but was unable to sustain the responsibility of three young children and a drug addiction. She showed up to work late, and then not at all. She lost her job. We had to move. Then we had to move again. I do not fault my mother, I do not see myself as traumatized by the tumultuous nature of my adolescence. I view those hard times, six years old and no food in the house, no way to get to school, no Christmas morning, as a great gift. I have known for decades my own capacity to overcome, thanks directly to these early hardships. They were the gift of perspective and resilience. Thank you mom.
My father worked two full time jobs and never missed a dance recital or wrestling tournament. He never said a negative word about our mother and he never complained about the weight of his responsibilities. Which makes it pretty impossible to call him and vent about the stress of this remodel and how I am utterly terrified that having another child is going to spread me beyond my capacity.
I’m not going to boast. That wouldn’t be prudent. I have a group of world class friends. We served together during those two unpopular wars. The depth of their character is oceanic. These men would do anything for me. They are strong and have for decades carried the same weight, oftentimes more, than what I am currently holding. And not one among us talks about these things, why? Because these are the baseline expectations of a man. To provide a safe and stable home. To show up for our children and our partner with compassion, regardless of what other responsibilities we are carrying. To alleviate, not add to, the burdens of others. To be, at the same time tender and tough.
This little puppy is biting at my toes right now with his needle teeth. He is loved without condition. He is loved without judgment. His eyes are soft and blue. I speak words to him that I have never been told without condition, words I can not speak to another man. I say, “You are welcome here. You are loved.” And I tell him how lucky he is to have the love of those two women, that little girl who likes to surf and the beautiful pregnant woman with an open and empathetic ear. He’s not listening now, he’s chewing on the old rug, the one that gathers beach sand at the front door. I look down and tell him, “we are blessed, but that does not mean we are not burdened. It will soon be your job, as it is mine now, to protect this home. To be a comfort as well as a guardian. This is our responsibility and our privilege all at once.”
My partner calls this privilege love.
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With much love and respect,
leo jenkins
Well said... well said.
It is a privilege to love and be loved. I am so glad that you do, and that you are.
You are also prudent…a word not often used these days.