Where Are My People: When Connection Comes at the Price of Identity (and Health)
What my brother taught me about belonging.
“Sometimes this whole world
Is my worst enemy
And I know where to run
When it gets to me
No one else but you
Can make it all make sense
My come whatever
Unfair weather friend.”
-”Unfair Weather Friend,” Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson
A few times a week, I must correct someone on the right way to say my last name, "It's Pah-GAHN, not PAY-gun" (I rarely have to say anything if it's someone in the Caribbean diaspora). Over time, I've heard how family members offer their edits to the mispronunciation, but I've only been surprised once about the lack of correction from one of my kin.
Twelve years ago, my family tasked me with the most important job I'd ever tackled—acting as the executor of my brother David's estate. We didn't have much of a relationship, and as happens in death, you often become closer to the deceased when dealing with their affairs.
David lived in Calvert County, Maryland, more than a stone’s throw away from his “uppity” family (his words). A mechanic by trade (and a damn good one), David ran around with the bikers and gearheads of Southern Maryland, many of whom became my weekly social network during this funky time of dealing with the assets of a lovely but dysfunctional family member. There was a Sunday towards the end of my run as “estate man” when I scheduled a gaggle of these buddies to come to David’s property to pick up vehicles that they had left for my brother to work on (in total, I got rid of about three dozen functioning scraps of metal on the property, including jet skis and a dump truck).
At 1 pm, seven of David’s peers stood around me as I held titles and keys to various vehicles. To the new faces, I introduced myself as “Mark Pagán, David Pagán’s brother.” There were a few confused responses until one friend, maybe David’s closest, offered the explanatory comma to the group, saying, “Yeah, David’s last name was Pah-GAHN, not PAY-gun—he was Puerto Rican.” The guys nodded with a “huh” energy, and I realized that David never corrected these fellas on his name or identity. To them, he wasn’t David Humberto Pagán but David PAY-gun, a good ol’ boy from Maryland.
Recently, this incident came to mind for a few reasons. I was in dialogue with these fellas during another contentious election cycle—Romney versus Obama in 2012—and while searching for sporadic income sources, I was parsing through an identity shift. For many, many years, I had been a smoker, and after a successful attempt to quit, I found myself without a crutch to rely on as an identity marker or self-designated “stress reliever.”
Leading up to that time, people had known me as a smoker. The last time I saw David (at a Bonefish Grill for dinner), I had just quit (which was very top of mind, as well, since eliminating my post-meal smoke habit felt like I was dealing with a phantom limb). For the 12 years since I quit, I’ve been known as someone who doesn’t smoke, and to the people I’ve met over the last decade, someone who maybe never smoked.
I stand here, twelve years later, with a secret to share—for the last few months, amid a job loss, sporadic work, and a contentious election season, I’ve been a private smoker.
My secret habit started as a crutch during a time when I lost my routine and secure income. I discovered a bodega in my neighborhood that would hook me up with “loosies” whenever needed. Like a “basterd” infiltrating an SS tavern, I’d walk in and put up my fingers to designate how many I wanted for the day.
With what I’m about to say next, I won’t brush past the fact that a drug ultimately causes this gnarly habit—nobody elects to embrace this crutch without feeling consumed by the fix for an addictive hit of nicotine. That being said, an interesting observation occurred over the last few months, all around the familiar and familial feeling of fellow smokers. With requests to bum a smoke, or chats with a fellow smoker outside a bar, conversations opened up with my neighbors, all with an undercurrent of an “us versus them” mentality—a way of finding community within an addiction that makes one feel othered. My daily interactions with smokers have revealed moments of charity among my fellow city dwellers. Around the block, a guy who goes by “Coach” gave me two smokes, when I asked if he had any left in the pack next to the bike he was working on, all of this leading to a delightful three minutes talking about dogs and motorcycles. The role of generosity in smoking culture really hit me during a recent trip to the airport where I saw a single passenger puffing on a 100 in the AM air in front of the departures gate. With my nervous flight energy pulsing through me, I asked to bum a smoke and she smiled, like, “Oh, I was wondering if I’d find any company out here.” When she finished her cigarette, she was the only stranger during my journey who said anything of comfort, with her Mid-Atlantic siren farewell: “Hey hon, have a great flight and trip, ok?” She reminded me of my grandmother, a lifelong smoker, who helped raise me. I’d spend most Saturdays sitting on her bed watching matinees on Channel 20 while she sipped on Diet Cokes and knocked off packs of Benson & Hedges. Regardless of the monstrous struggle I put my young lungs through, that space was always sacred and safe to me. I am now surprised to encounter the noxious smell of burning, manufactured tobacco as a strange, morbid reminder of care and affection.
These moments are ultimately shadowed by the shame I feel, having abandoned a healthy lifestyle and identity to mitigate some semblance of control in a messy year of unpredictability. But the search for connection is as unpredictable as our responses to grief, especially when you feel that the world is against you somehow. People often ask me to give some impression on “why men do what they do” or “what’s your take on this voting group.” With any of these requests, I say it’s always complicated, yet simple. We will do what we need to feel accepted. While appearing on last month’s The Prof G Pod, scholar Richard Reeves offered a similar critique with his observations about college attendance among rural men:
“A number of college campuses have told me that when they do their ‘belonging’ surveys, they very often find it is men, especially those from more rural areas, who will say that they just don't really feel like they belong on the campus, they don't have the right habits, the right language, the right sensibilities or whatever. I really worry about that because you start to feel like college is not for working class guys, especially from rural areas, then you're losing a heck of a lot of potential talent.”
The core reasoning of any decisions among men happens at the connection level—what are guys doing to feel connected or disconnected to maintain a feeling of safety or familiarity? This yearning for connection is especially true for men when the codes for masculinity are so rigid. Mix that with a sense of limited options, and sometimes, men will lean into wherever they can find a “you’re one of us” invitation. When the basic human need for connection and belonging fits into only a few boxes, it really shouldn’t be a mystery why troubling group participation decisions can look so puzzling on the surface.
I think about men in more rural situations like my brother. I was initially hurt when I learned that David never corrected his pals about the correct pronunciation of his name. But over time, it made sense to me. My brother was intelligent but held formal education at arm’s length, seeing it as an alienating system that “looked down” on his skills and interests. I will never be able to say for sure, but my read is David let his community of mechanics, gearheads, and ne’er-do-wells tell him who he was. He felt seen (at a price, in my judgment). How much bending have we sometimes put our core identity through to find community?
I share this personal journey because if someone like me, with access to so many options for connection and opportunity, still struggles to find his group at times, imagine how universal this experience is for men of all walks of life. We all face a road at some point that leaves us with no schedule, nowhere to be, walking the streets, asking, “Who are my people?”
Again, I’m not gonna argue that my shitty habit is because “it’s making me feel seen”—nicotine hooks me just as all the other suckers out there. But I can’t ignore the feelings of warmth (or is that a cough coming up) from someone immediately inviting me into their circle. Even though I’ve walked into Bodegas to request my fix recently, at my core, I know I’m not that guy anymore. Like all the other boneheaded decisions I’ve made to feel good or fit in over my lifetime, I hope it will offer me some patience in understanding why us men do what we do and how we can help each other find better support systems.
This may not be obvious, but I mention all of this here because I want to stop smoking. I am stopping. In the spirit of fostering positive support, I ask you to hold me accountable, corillo. I promise I will do the same for you when you need it.
Adios, ciao ciao, byeeeeeeeee,
Mark Pah-GAHN✌🏼
P.S.: I will be on vacation for the rest of the month—ON MY HONEYMOON. I’ll be back with more secrets in early November.
Liked what you read? Click Share and/or the ❤️ button! It helps more people find Other Men and is a swell way to show your support.
