Dude, You're Not That Weird
Why (and where) lonely boys go looking for answers.
Let’s start this out with a proverb that EVERYONE should print out as a reminder of a universal truth:
The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.
Now, onto the rant thoughtful commentary.
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Every few weeks, someone sends me something in the media cycle to comment on. I always appreciate the outreach, but if you’ve been following this space for a while, you know I rarely share opinions on the news. I mostly leave breaking commentary to other voices.
But a deluge of think pieces in the form of Louis Theroux’s Inside the Manosphere, the New York Times’ recent opinion piece, America Has a Masculinity Crisis, TED Radio Hour’s Beyond the Manosphere chat, and The New Yorker’s look at Men’s Retreats has made me nauseous to the point of hollering (reading audience commentary with the usual shade of “men will do BLANK, but not therapy” responses only makes my stomach more curdled).
The underlying thread in these pieces makes me sad and angry—pointing to the actions of lonely people, often in an arm’s length way to nail algorithmic success (JFC, the masculinity crisis headline is older than William Randolph Hearst).
Hence, I, reluctantly, show up here today to respond.
I was surprised by a recurring memory that came while reviewing these pieces, thinking, “Maybe this is one of those moments that point to the ethos of why I spend day after day, week after week, year after year in this space talking about the private things men think and do.”
🤔
What was that memory? My first hangover.
I was 16.
My friend and I raided a case of Bud Light from his dad’s fridge. We probably split six beers. Whatever the amount, it was enough to get hammered without any sickness. I liked the feeling, even if I woke up the next morning with a day-long headache. Then came 11th grade.
When I started my junior year, I couldn’t make friends. It was like I lost the ability. I wasn’t a great student, athlete, or even an extracurricular kid. Circa the rules of late 90s masculinity, my ability to spend more than 30 seconds on my clothes made me girly. Boys thought I was gay. I wasn’t really Latino enough for the Latino kids. I wasn’t wealthy enough to buy myself into social acceptance with the rich kids. I tried the coded rules, like asking a bunch of boys over to watch a Friday night boxing match (one of the perks of my mom’s remarriage was getting cable, namely HBO, baby). When that Friday came, my stepdad bought four pizzas for the guests I’d invited.
No one came.
Instead, my septuagenarian stepfather and I—the least athletic guys in Montgomery County, Maryland—watched the bout and ate slices.
I couldn’t acknowledge how painful this moment felt at the time, but damn if it doesn’t reverberate in adulthood.
I felt a part of nothing. I had no direction.
I’d allow anyone who knew me to offer commentary on the kind of teenager I was, but I doubt I generally came off as anything other than nice and quiet. My grades were so-so. I just floated by. On the surface, I imagine most people would see a stable teenager, perhaps content. But what teenager is content?
My rebellion was always very secretive.
I connected my feelings of ease with those cans of Bud Light from the previous summer, and started a habit of spending Fridays and Saturday nights alone, going up to my parents’ liquor cabinet and pouring something for myself. I would stay up watching cable, drinking whatever was in that glass. Eventually, alcohol joined harder drugs. That’s the way it goes. The next week, I’d float through the hallways at school. Just existing.
If that sounds sad, it was/is. I don’t even want to share this now, let alone 30 years ago.
The thing is, I wanted to be outside of my body. To be someone else. To have a guide who saw me, someone who could guide me. I don’t know if I would’ve given anything, but the feeling is still so palpable even now that I can only imagine I would have.
By my senior year, I fared much better. I found friends and became part of a scene (back to my hip-hop roots with some raver energy thrown in). I stopped using hard drugs, went to college. Career, love life, travel, disposable income. Now, I’m married and living in New York City.
But I think of the rejection I felt during those months and how it tempered my relationships with men for the rest of my life.
When I review the various think pieces sent to me with the deep feelings of disconnection I project onto these guys (whether audience members of the Manosphere or those who attend self-improvement retreats), I connect with is one of the most recognizable parts of my adult self—the one who still feels like that 16-year-old boy. Even though that’s a time in my life I never want to go back to, the tendency towards self-medicating and isolation, rather than face social ostracism, is one that I continue to reckon with.
In regards to the quote I shared up top, we wait until we see clear, physical proof of someone taking a bold public action to acknowledge that someone (or a group) feels alienated. The thing is, “burning down a village” isn’t just a solitary action—it’s often self-inflicted. The destruction of a village also means the destruction of the individual within the community. Whether it’s booze, sex addiction, cutting, or simply retreat—they’re all actions based in disconnection.
It’s a different world in so many ways. I will never know what it’s like to be young and navigate social pressures online. I feel for these young men who are so damn lost. Even though the environment is different, I understand those same impulses for connection.
I find myself thinking of the boys and young men who make their way, looking for someone to get them out of themselves. How much I ache for these young guys and how lost they feel, even if they can’t put words to it. How good it feels just to find something, someone, just some group to be a part of.
I don’t often connect with the phrasing, “You are not alone.” That’s not totally true. Your experiences are yours. That feeling of “alone-ness” is true. The truer statement is, “Your experiences are universal.” Trust me. Dude, you’re not that weird—I see you.
That’s why I’m here, day after day, month after month, year after year. Not to tell anyone the answers. To say this is what I’ve discovered, and here’s what I’m still asking.
Adios, ciao ciao, byeeeeeeeee,
Mark✌🏼
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