What it means to be masculine in a small island
“A man without passion would be like a body without a soul” — Edward Abbey
It was a typical Saturday afternoon as my eight-year-old self flipped through the television channels, looking for something to watch. At that age, my options were limited: Disney, Nickelodeon, or Cartoon Network. That day, I landed on the Disney Channel.
It featured a cartoon about a duck living with his family and friends. Despite the duck’s best efforts, he found himself constantly chastised and humiliated by his society. The film follows the duck’s journey through depression and alienation for the majority of its runtime. Just when you’re about to lose all hope for him, he encounters a group of ducks who embrace and love him for who he is. Only then does he discover that he wasn’t a duck, but a swan all along.
If you’re reading this, I’m certain you’re familiar with this story — “The Ugly Duckling” by Hans Christian Andersen. The gravitas of the story was lost on me as a child, but as I age, I find myself empathizing with the swan of my youth.
In my 30s, I’ve learned more about myself in these past few years than I have throughout my entire life. The hustle and bustle of formative years, coupled with the pressures from society and family, can detract from your ability to know who you really are. Instead, you find yourself focused on who you’re supposed to be.
I had forgotten that I was a caring and inquisitive boy, who enjoyed a multitude of things: video games, collecting music, stand-up comedy, anime, and science. Yet, somewhere along the path, in order to be considered a “man,” I felt compelled to discard my true nature to fit the mold of masculinity.
“Being vulnerable is the ultimate act of courage.” — Brené Brown
In Jamaica, society dictates that my nature does not fit the traditional mold of masculinity. To be considered a man, you’re expected to love sports, have a “bag a gyal” (a Jamaican colloquialism for a womanizer), suppress your feelings, in addition to other superfluous expectations. Deviation from these norms labels you as a soft or weak man.
My harrowing experience in 12th grade coincided with Facebook’s rising popularity in Jamaica. Initially, the platform seemed innocuous, offering a way to learn more about my friends’ interests and keep track of their birthdays — a game changer for me at the time. However, it also became a digital arena for antagonism and ridicule. I fell victim to this malicious use.
On a sunny day in Jamaica, as I hung out under the tree at the front of my school where my friends and I usually whiled away the time between lectures, I was pulled aside during a conversation. “Yow, did you know there’s a Facebook group about you?” a friend asked. Oblivious to this, I gathered more information and learned that the group, created by a classmate, was titled “Is Richie Gay?”
The group aimed to collect evidence about my adolescent sexuality because I did not conform to the Jamaican masculine archetype. The posts and online ridicule left deep-seated traumatic effects that I was oblivious to at the time and am only now uncovering in adulthood.
Like the duck from Hans Christian Andersen’s story, I remember being ridiculed for behaviors that seemed natural to me. In adulthood, I’m realizing how much of my life I spent hiding behind a facade of masculinity as a protection mechanism from being ostracized by my own society.
What I find ironic about the traditional definition of Jamaican masculinity is the hidden fear within many who are considered the epitome of manliness. Behind the facade of masculinity, there lies a pervasive fear of vulnerability. Why is vulnerability equated with weakness, and more importantly, who gets to define it as such?
In reality, my experiences have led me to a contrary belief. It’s the cowards who hide behind that facadical shield, afraid to expose their true selves to potential rejection or societal shame. True strength, I’ve discovered, is not about adhering to a rigid mold of masculinity; it’s about having the courage to be vulnerable. Vulnerability requires an immense amount of courage because it involves showing your true self, with all its flaws and uncertainties, to a world that may not always accept you.
“You can’t numb those hard feelings without numbing the other affects, our emotions” — Brené Brown
In my thirties, I find myself in the dual process of unlearning and relearning what masculinity means to me. I’ve pondered deeply on where these values originated and how the current status quo was established.
“Suck it up, you’re a boy”, “Discard your feelings, harden your heart”, “Being vulnerable is being weak” — these are the messages instilled in us as young men. Society drills these ideas into our young and impressionable minds, only to express bafflement when many men become ineffective communicators with their partners or struggle with mental health issues, viewing therapy as a sign of weakness. We’re taught that to have feelings is to carry a weakness and a liability through life.
Before I proceed further, I want to clarify my stance to prevent any misconceptions. I am not suggesting that men should solely indulge in their emotions without also displaying strength. Human existence necessitates strength to endure, be it physical or mental. However, my argument is for balance in all aspects of our lives. Men should also harness strength through processing their feelings and being vulnerable with themselves and others.
Reflecting on the origin of this mentality, the aversion to vulnerability stems from a fear of appearing weak, which in turn is rooted in the primal fear of survival — an innate human concern.
Living in an impoverished society instills a deep-seated fear rooted in scarcity. The lack of money breeds the fear of not being able to eat today, the dread of losing shelter, and the anxiety that your partner might leave you for failing to provide. It’s a constant battle for survival, a harsh reality where showing compassion seems a luxury and doing whatever is necessary to survive becomes the norm.
Growing up in Jamaica, I didn’t fully comprehend the extent of my nation’s poverty — it was my only point of reference. It was only after attending college abroad that I was able to gain perspective. Experiencing life outside my island, I was exposed to different cultures and mindsets that significantly broadened my view of the world. Upon returning home, the veil of oblivion was lifted from my eyes.
I consider myself an intelligent person, not because of an inherent brilliance or genius, but because I am a product of privilege. I am the child of hardworking, middle-income parents who made significant sacrifices to provide their children with a good education and secure a future for them. They understood something that I am only fully grasping now: knowledge is power — the power to survive.
Blessed with an education, I was able to embark on a career in a well-paying field, gradually ascending Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, which alleviated my fear of survival. Currently, I find myself navigating between the levels of esteem and love, a journey I am undertaking through therapy and my writings.
Fortunately, reaching this level of self-awareness has provided me with a vantage point that inspired this post. Many men silently suffer due to a lack of education and exposure, consequences of poverty that, in turn, limit their capacity to love and be vulnerable. In a society where vulnerability among men can be misconstrued as homosexuality, a deeply homophobic mindset persists. Consequently, some men substitute genuine expressions of love and vulnerability with a display of their conquests with women — a misguided badge of honor.
Reflecting on the conversations I grew up hearing, and regrettably participating in, I am led to question: if these men truly love women as they claim, wouldn’t they treat them with the same respect and honesty they afford their male friends? Or is their interest merely in physical gratification? Yet, the declaration “mi nuh love man” (I don’t love men) is commonly asserted. The irony of this statement, in the context of their actions, is not lost on me.
Security is fundamental to fostering a child’s development and the growth of their authentic self. Without the foundation of a safe, judgment-free environment, it becomes challenging for a child to withstand societal pressures. Children need the assurance that they are loved, regardless of society’s opinions.
However, poverty and scarcity can severely impact these needs. Families may be too consumed with meeting basic physiological needs, inadvertently neglecting emotional support, or struggle to find a balance between the two. Achieving this equilibrium is far from trivial, underscoring the complexity of raising a child.
I do not envy the responsibilities that come with parenthood, nor do I harbor any resentment towards my parents. Most parents do the best they can with the resources and knowledge available to them.
“Fuck society” — Ayra Starr
Years were spent concealing my feelings and conforming to societal expectations of who I should be, rather than embracing who I am. I consider myself fortunate to have found a partner who provides emotional security. In them, I’ve discovered the security and love I had been unknowingly searching for.
Now, as I navigate through my emotions and relearn who I am, I look forward to the day when I gaze into the pond and see the swan I am meant to be.
