Toxic masculinity, toxic femininity, and the marathon of life
By Alfred P. Doblin
In 2006, I ran the New York City Marathon – not well. Out of 10 marathons run, it was my worse time. Yet, the T-shirt I bought before the race remains my favorite. The shirt features illustrations of the six stages of man above the months of June through November.
The six months represent the average training time for a New York City marathon runner; the race is always held the first Sunday in November. The first illustration is of an ape and the subsequent ones follow an evolutionary path to a modern, “shredded” runner.
All six images are male. That’s a statement right there.
Female runners are as impressive as male ones. Biology may affect what a body physically can achieve, but as in other sports, biology is one part of the equation. Your mind is the other significant force. It’s negotiating with your body every step of that 26.2 mile-journey.
The marathon shirt is front of mind for a couple of reasons.
I just finished a piece in The Washington Post by Megan McArdle on female toxicity. She writes there has been much discourse over toxic masculinity, but toxic femininity is ignored, and it contributes to our currently dysfunctional society.
I don’t agree with all she wrote, but it’s an interesting point of view. I don’t agree with much I have read about toxic masculinity, either. Except that it is real.
But from a gay man’s perspective, toxic masculinity isn’t new. It’s not a MAGA invention. It’s existed since the primate on the far left of my T-shirt began advancing toward the 21st century. What’s different today, is we have the technical ability to more quickly advance any trend.
To suggest that things are worse now ignores that things were never all that good for most men who didn’t fit a traditional heterosexual stereotype. Legal protections gained in the past 30 years have changed what can be criminalized and successfully prosecuted in a court of law, but that has little do with the lived LGBTQ experience outside the urban bubbles of New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and a few other cities.
Last week, I saw a trailer for the film, Wicked: For Good (Clearly, I don’t fit a traditional heterosexual stereotype). In one sequence, Glinda discovers a “Tap to Bubble” button on the floor of what becomes her famous flying contraption. She plays with the button. Inflate bubble. Pop bubble. Inflate bubble. Pop bubble. You get the idea.
In this iteration of the Oz story, the bubble appears not to be magic, but a technological achievement. Either way, it’s not permanent. Bubbles never are. In Oz. In America.
McArdle’s essay has me thinking about how masculinity is expressed. Three showtunes – yes, showtunes – have been playing in my head. “Proud Lady” from The Baker’s Wife, which is being revived by Classic Stage Company, “She’s a Woman” from Kiss of the Spider Woman, and “I Am What I Am” from La Cage aux Folles.
“Proud Lady” is a paean to the male peacock. The guy is strutting his stuff as he announces his intentions to woo another man’s wife. Here’s a lyric describing his plan of attack: “I’ll know exactly what I’ll wear, a belt that’s tight, a shirt that’s red, and open just enough to show a little hair.”
I know that guy. At times, I’ve been that guy although not looking to impress a woman. The song, out of context from the show, is funny because the guy is a self-absorbed poser.
In “She’s a Woman,” an imprisoned gay man voices his desire to be a woman, describing the beautiful life of his film idol. The song ends with, “How lucky can you be? So lucky you’ll agree. And I wish that she were me, that woman.” Modern audiences may hear it as his desire to transition, which may be accurate, or the character could just be yearning to express his femininity while remaining a biological male. I don’t know.
“I Am What I Am,” is a “power anthem” sung by a drag queen who refuses to hide who he is for anyone.
In order, the three songs are about preening, yearning, and proclaiming. Which brings me back to the T-shirt with the six evolutionary stages of a runner.
Preening, yearning, and proclaiming – they define how men evolve from primate to who we are today.
None of us can escape these stages – even a showtune-loving man like me. I peacock more than I would freely admit. I sometimes yearn to express the showtune side with the preening side, as I still lament what a miserable marathon I ran in 2006. And I want the courage of self-belief to proclaim, “accept me with all my contradictions.”
At the root of toxic masculinity is an inability to merge those three different stages of human development.
Men too often get stuck in phase one. They preen. They may express that as a rant or an attack. Or they can’t move past the yearning stage and acknowledge the chasm between what they believe they want and who they authentically are. Without that, the anthem in the final stage rings hollow. It should proclaim who I am, not who I think I should be.
Life is a marathon, and we get to run it only once. No one should be silent in the face of oppression, hate, and toxic masculinity or toxic femininity. But we can’t cancel people like they are a bubble to be burst because there is no easy redo, no “Tap to Bubble” switch to activate.
My 2006 New York City Marathon T-shirt reminds me that I used to run marathons, and I did preen about with my finisher’s medal later that day. That is a part of me. But I kept moving, albeit with less cartilage in my left knee. I evolved. I am evolving. I’m not the shredded runner in the last of the six illustrations. I never was. I never will be.
Toxic masculinity. Toxic femininity. Buzz words don’t do much. They are not anthems to proclaim.
I am what I am, but you are who you are. That would be a song to sing.
Until next time, Alfred with P