By DAVID ATCHISON 

In the 1982 film Conan the Barbarian, a Mongol general laments that his sons will never understand him. Being a great warrior, the general had conquered most of the surrounding territories and afforded his heirs an upbringing that he himself did not have. In one scene he asks his son, and then his slave Conan, one simple question: What’s best in life?

Mongol General: My fear is that my son will never understand me.
Mongol general: We won again! This is good, but what is best in life?
Mongol general’s son: The open steppe, fleet horse, falcons at your wrist, and the wind in your hair.
Mongol general: Wrong! Conan, what is best in life?
Conan: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.
Mongol general: That is good! That is good.

Conan’s reply is gruesome, but it resonates beyond the actual words themselves. Examining the context of his answer can reveal a lot about success. The Mongol general fears that his son won’t understand what drives him to be a conqueror. His son’s answer disappoints because it reveals that his heir is inundated with the spoils of war, rather than the war itself.

Conan’s answer pleases the Mongol general because the young slave-warrior finds reward in the battle, the work of a conqueror. The Mongol general begins to see Conan as the “son he never had” because Conan understands the “craft” the Mongol general has used to obtain the spoils of war that his son has become so preoccupied with.

In our own endeavors we too must ask, “What is best in life?” Are we too preoccupied with the eventual spoils of the endeavors we undertake? Or are we like Conan, focused on the job at hand and finding reward in the task? Most of the things that people view as success are actually byproducts of success. Varying degrees of economic freedom, notoriety, job security, financial stability, etc. are all byproducts of a job well done.

Those rewards come when a person understands what’s best in his or her own life. Today, I ask you to unleash your inner conqueror. Examine the battlefield of your life. Find what’s best in life about your job, your relationships, your existence, and relish in those things. Go to war with those things, conquer those things, and reap the spoils of your own war.

*****

David Atchison is a writer, producer and journalist whose work has appeared in a variety of mediums. He co-created and writes the Occult Crimes Taskforce with actress Rosario Dawson and illustrator Tony Shasteen for 12 Gauge Comics. OCT was optioned by Dimension Films. Atchison also wrote the Method Man Graphic Novel with hip-hop mainstay Method Man for Grand Central Publishing as well as successfully pitching True Believer, an in-production back door pilot for NBC Universal’s SyFy.

Before entertainment writing, Atchison served as military journalist and photographer for the Air Force and Reserve. Trained at the Defense Information School at Fort Meade, Maryland, he has worked in support of operations in Kosovo, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Iraq and Southeast Asia.

The Good Men Project has been in Hollywood before, but never in a private suite at the Luxe Hotel on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.

The book and DVD were given out to various celebs and VIPS who were there for the pre-Oscar hoopla. Some notable guests that walked through the suite where The Good Men Project was stationed were Quentin Tarantino (Inglorious Bastards), Maggie Gyllenhaal (Crazy Heart), Lee Daniels (director of “Precious”), Stanley Tucci (The Lovely Bones), and Woody Harrelson (The Messenger).

And we heard from our secret agent in the field that quirky actor Crispin Glover (most recently appearing as The Knave of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland) was sitting in the corner of the suite reading The Good Men Project for over twenty minutes.

Many had heard about the book, others were seen reading it during the course of the day. A few folks asked if the film was nominated in the documentary category.

Nice to know that real stories about men have a place in the glitzy world of Beverly Hills.

Information on Hollywood Suite by Josh Mitchell.

By MARK ELLIS

Ten years ago, my girlfriend, who we’ll call Sharon for privacy’s sake, planted a copse of bamboo outside my family-room window. I’ve never paid much attention to matters horticultural; indeed, the yard and its myriad life forms were utterly her domain, but I know why she planted the bamboo. It was a response to my neighbor’s removing a venerable elm tree from the location. In Sharon’s world, that was an unpardonable offence and crime against nature.

She was near tears that Saturday morning when she woke me with the news that the “idiot neighbor” had a crew out attacking the elm. I followed her blearily to the window, and sure enough, two limb-jockeys were opening God-awful gashes in the canopy of leaves.

“Why are you doing this?” Sharon assailed the owner who stood by, but he was smart and scurrilous enough to shrug his shoulders and keep his mouth shut. I reckoned his reasons for removing the tree were the usual ones: for increased sunlight and less of the often considerable bother involved in raking leaves and other yard cleanup. But I dared not mention any logical reasons for such a removal to Sharon. No, my best bet was to join with her in the demonization of the tree-slayer, to share her sense of grievance and loss.

I remember damning him over coffee that morning, “Idiot.”  

The view out my window had featured a panoply of the seasons as experienced by an elm. Fallow-branched in winter, it would start a gorgeous cycle of budding growth in spring; come to full, hardy, waxy green eloquence in summer; and turn handsomely in October to all the reds, yellows, and golds associated with fall. Removal of the tree created a view of the neighbor’s mossy rooftop and pedestrian back yard. Sharon was determined to regain our privacy and lot aesthetics in the quickest way she knew how.

Just over the fence from the scene of destruction, which now featured a sad pile of neatly stacked elm firewood, she planted the few bamboo stalks that came in a plastic pot from Home Depot. Within the year the small stand had fanned out over the fence and was reaching for the sky.

Thenceforth the bamboo, which I have since learned is actually a species of grass, grew prodigiously, unstoppably. It is amazingly resilient. Neither summer’s roasting, 100-degree-plus days nor winter’s most intractable freezes seem to have any effect on it whatever. It has turned one entire side of the house into a wilderness area. There’s a gate in there somewhere, though no one has been able to walk through it for years. 

It is said that in tropical climes you can actually sit and watch the bamboo grow. I don’t know about that, but I do know that the copse Sharon nurtured to life a decade ago is now a veritable wall of slender stalks and light green leaves that rustle against the eaves with every gust of wind.  I can tell you this: The sight of my neighbor’s roof and backyard is a distant memory. In fact, the bamboo has outlasted the neighbor who took down the elm. Unfortunately it also has outlasted Sharon, and the joke now is that unless something is done, it will outlast and perhaps overwhelm me. 

*****

Mark Ellis is a writer in Portland, Oregon.

[Photo by rcbodden]

1.) Who taught you about manhood?
My father, through his own thoughts and actions, but also through those fathers he introduced me to, like Bugs Bunny, John F. Kennedy, Groucho Marx, Mel Brooks, Jackie Robinson, Luke Skywalker, John Coltrane, Richard Pryor, Frank Sinatra, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Joe Montana, Steve Martin, Bob Dylan. My father also facilitated my meeting poetic fathers like Ralph Waldo Emerson, Carl Sandburg, Wallace Stevens, John Berryman, John Ashbery. Like most fathers of poets who aren’t artists themselves, he didn’t—still doesn’t—understand exactly what I do, but I know he’s proud of me.

Humor teaches you to be both tough and tender. One must have great empathy to be funny. My father has a great sense of humor; my mother did too. Hers was a dry, dead-pan New England sensibility, veering towards the tall tale and vaudeville, very often surreal. My father, growing up in Brooklyn in the ’40s and ’50s, has more of that Italian/Jewish/New York sense of humor, also dead-pan, very dark, caustic, with Borscht Belt undertones.

2.) Has romantic love shaped you as a man?
Absolutely. My relationships have taught me never to take a woman for granted (though I sometimes do), to be honest with her (I always try to be, even when I shouldn’t), to treat her as an equal (metaphysically impossible for me to do otherwise), to not hold her up too high (I always tend to). I’m definitely a romantic.

My mother and father were great models for me. They had problems like any couple, but they also had a great partnership. They were very loving with one another. A man needs someone whom he can rely on, can be weak around, can reveal all his insecurities and doubts to, who will love him no matter what, will give him the space to catch himself. He should gladly do the same in return. When you’re in love, it’s easy.

3.) What two words describe your dad?
Intelligent and organized.

4.) How are you most unlike him?
Less purely analytical, more outwardly passionate, which, I know, is odd to say about an Italian-American father. Most of the men on my dad’s side of the family are quiet, unless sports are involved.

My father’s father, my grandfather, was a supply sergeant in the U.S. Army during World War II, deployed before my father was born, in 1942. He didn’t see his first-born son until the war was over. My father grew up in a working-class household with a large extended family that had lived through the Great Depression. He was driven to get that high-paying white-collar job, to provide for his family all the things he never had. While I certainly wouldn’t turn down a $100,000 job offer, as a poet, that’s just not a salary I can realistically expect to receive in my lifetime, unless the Weinstein brothers want to option some of my poems. I’m grateful that my father gave me the time and space when I was a child to get into the habit of creating: poems, stories, songs, paintings, drawings, movies. It’s the habit of artistic creation that keeps me alive.

5.) From which of your mistakes did you learn the most?
My DUI in 2004. No injuries or damage to personal property, but embarrassing and definitely a wake-up call to slow down.

6.) What word would the women in your life use to describe you, and is it accurate?
Intense. Men and women, once they get to know me, have often relayed that they were intimidated by me at first. Sometimes at second and third, too. I can be quiet, shy really, and I think this, coupled with my natural tendency to observe what’s going on around me rather than run my mouth, causes people to think I’m aloof or unapproachable. I’m not. I’m just taking it all in.

7.) Who is the best dad you know, and how does he earn that distinction?
Besides my own father, I’d have to cite my friends like Mark Horosky, Daniel Nester, Brad Vesneski, Gennaro DeAngelis, Matt Hart, and many, many more. They’re just young dads doing their dad thing the best they can.

Douglas Crase must also be mentioned. Not only has his own writing been a direct influence on mine, but his advice and counsel since we’ve known each other have brought me tremendous joy.

I also appreciate the exploration of fatherhood that Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim engage in on their show Tim & Eric Awesome Show Great Job! You just have to watch it to understand. Or not.

8.) Have you been more successful in your public or private life?
Private life. I have so many friends and family who support me through good times and bad, highs and lows. I’m proud of the friendships I’ve forged with my close friends. I have no real concept of any kind of “public life” I may or may not have.

9.) When was the last time you cried?
In August 2009, my father suffered a series of seizures brought about by sleep apnea. I flew down to Florida to be with him and did a lot of crying in those first few weeks. I was reliving my mother’s death (1995, breast cancer) and facing the possibility of having to care for my father for the rest of his life. He’s since made a complete recovery, due in no small part to his own fortitude.

10.) What advice would you give teenage boys trying to figure out what it means to be a good man?
Read Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Essays. Not because they’ll teach you to be like Emerson or like a certain kind of man, but because they’ll teach you, in fact, that you don’t need to take your cue from anyone. Remember when you read them that Emerson was a Yankee through and through, had a wicked sense of humor, is as self-deprecating as he is self-confident. This is an aspect of American Transcendentalism that many people overlook.

I think of this passage from the famous (and oft misunderstood) essay “Self-Reliance”: “There is no more deviation in the moral standard than in the standard of height or bulk. No greater men are now than ever were. A singular equality may be observed between the great men of the first and of the last ages; nor can all the science, art, religion, and philosophy of the nineteenth century avail to educate greater men than Plutarch’s heroes, three or four and twenty centuries ago. Not in time is the race progressive. Phocion, Socrates, Anaxagoras, Diogenes, are great men, but they leave no class. He who is really of their class will not be called by their name, but will be his own man, and, in his turn, the founder of a sect.” We should not feel unworthy or intimidated by the distant past or even our immediate forefathers, for every thing that was available to them is available to us.

For Bonus Points: What is the your most cherished ritual as a guy?
Hanging out with other guy friends, shooting the shit, trying to verbally one up each other. I love having conversations comprising solely in-jokes, Simpsons or Aqua Teen Hunger Force references. Annoying to others? Sure is.

*****

Michael Schiavo is the author of The Mad Song. His writing has appeared in The Paris Review, Tin House, The Believer, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Yale Review, LIT, jubilat, Forklift, Ohio, Seneca Review, The Awl, and elsewhere. He is the founding editor of The Equalizer, an occasional poetry journal that will launch in 2010. He is also an editor of Tight and contributing editor to CUE. He lives in Vermont and blogs occasionally at The Unruly Servant.

By SHAWN KIRSCH

I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting recently, much of which I’ve blogged about on my website, That Tall Dude. I kicked it off on a Monday, the anniversary of my return home from Iraq. Nothing that has happened since my return was part of “my plan.” I made many mistakes; I wound up in places I had no plans of returning to; and all of it made me a better version of myself than what I had been.

On that Tuesday, I posted a guest blog on my website, which was simply a paper my sister wrote about me for English 110. As I read through it again, it hit me a lot harder than it had when I read it years ago. I’m a bit older and wiser now, and I am realizing just how much people around us notice what we do, for better or worse. For people like me, who seemingly get involved with everything, there are even more people who see how we act.

The rest of the week, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’ve changed, how people view me, how my tiniest misstep can change someone’s perception of me. I never realized, growing up, that my sister looked up to me and how my arguments with our parents would leave such indelible images in her mind.

I moved in August. I quickly jumped into a great church and wasted no time getting involved in the community. In a few short months I have become a volunteer with the youth group, a go-to guy for tech support, a sound board operator relentless in making the worship team sound better, and the beneficiary of others’ wisdom in Bible studies.

One of those Bible study groups has a passion for father-son relationships. They put on an annual event called Boys to Men at Crystal Springs Baptist Camp, in Medina, North Dakota. They invite fathers and sons to come and try to provide an environment for them to connect with each other. There’s a little time for teaching and worship, but most of the weekend you’re free to do what you want, and lots of activities are available: trap shooting, ice fishing, four-wheeling, basketball, football, ping pong, board games, dodge ball, roller skating, snowball fights, massive bonfires, and more.

I attended the event at the end of the aforementioned week and was struck though, during discussions with the fathers and sons, how different my relationship with my dad is compared to others. At an age when I should be finding more and more things to talk to him about, I continue to struggle to find common ground where I won’t ultimately feel encouraged, or worse, like a disappointment.

Throughout my junior high and high school years, Dad was a truck driver, so he was gone most of the week and too tired to do much when he was home. Being a teenager, I had my fair share of arguments with Mom throughout the week, and then I had them again every weekend when Dad got home. It was a double dose of getting yelled at every week, and I still struggle to get over it.

Perhaps it would be different if I weren’t the oddball of the family, a major geek among digital neophytes. The only solid connection I seem to have with my dad is the farm we lived on before moving to town. I can talk about that stuff with him. But it seems we have to be driving in the pickup, just the two of us, traveling through areas he is comfortable in, before we can have even those conversations.

By the end of the weekend I had come to a strong conviction that relationships among men need to be set early in life, and they need to be kept positive. As technology advances, there are ever more distractions to come between us. We have the same amount of time previous generations did, but we spend it differently. Is there not something we can cut out of our schedules to spend some quality time with each other?

As I observed others that weekend, I saw fathers who at times were a bit bored, doing activities that can become mundane after 30 years of doing them. But they were also doing them with their sons, who were more than thrilled to be doing things they don’t get to do every day, and doing them with Dad. This was especially noticeable with younger sons. All of the fathers and sons were able to get away from the hectic pace of everyday life and talk about stuff they usually overlook.

As for me, I’m now 90 miles from Dad, who is still gone most of the week, and I have a schedule that keeps me busiest on nights and weekends. It isn’t getting any easier to connect with him. In fact, it’s perhaps more difficult now than ever before. I hope that someday we can work everything out and be as tight as some of my friends and their dads are. I hope that if I ever have a son of my own, I establish a great relationship with him at a young age and never let it sour. It may not always be easy, but from my point of view, it looks like it will be worth the time and effort.

*****

Shawn Kirsch describes himself as a 25-year-old, 6-foot-7 single male, who is a Christian, a drummer, a basketball fanatic (and player), a geek, a freelancer, an early adopter, a music lover, a networker, and a veteran.

[Truck photo by aturkus]

This essay is the latest in a series of monthly submissions from members of the Society for the Psychological Study of Men and Masculinity, Division 51 of the American Psychological Association. SPSMM’s objective is to advance knowledge in the psychology of men through research, education, training, public policy, and improved clinical practice.

By BRIAN J. MISTLER

Two heads are better than one. Most of us understand that this maxim speaks to the importance of community. Together you and I can do more than either of us could do apart. Relationships help us achieve greater life satisfaction; build bigger, better things; and make more money. In the language of business, focusing on relationships adds value to the bottom line.

And most of the time we do value our relationships. But often we—I mean, especially we men—act as though we don’t value relationships. In fact, I frequently see men damaging and even destroying relationships they say they value and have certainly worked hard to create. Why? Usually because anger, pride and a belief that pushing back is the way to get what we want causes us to lose focus. The irony is that when we do this, we are often acting in a way that gives us less control and less of what we want.

It’s not a surprise. As men, we grow up idealizing the battle-hardened, zero-tolerance gun slingers who embody the archetype of the detached man doing what it takes to get what he wants. In the Wild West the quickest gun wins, and callin’ me a name is reason enough to shoot ya’. A few thousand movies and maybe a couple playground battles later, and we get it: If someone hits you, hit him back. Of course this often degrades into a broad teach-them-a-lesson mentality, and one that doesn’t apply just to hitting. It applies whenever our pride is threatened or our ego bruised.

Perhaps a tit-for-tat approach is the best way to handle substantive negotiations. If we’re dividing up the marbles, justice may be approximated when I give you another marble only when you give me one. If instead we’re talking about community building and our long-term individual and group interests, we do a heck of a lot better if we also focus on our relationships. And there’s no risk’ Things like compassion, appreciation, and forgiveness are not limited resources.

So as a man, how can I begin to focus more on relationships? To start, listen—listen unconditionally. If I seek first to understand you, I benefit whether or not you reciprocate by understanding me.

Next, be consistently respectful. If the other guy or gal is being unreasonable and antagonistic, I can still do my part by behaving in an honorable, constructive way. In this way, I hold on to the power I have to prevent our conflict from escalating out of control when there is miscommunication and overreactions. In their book Getting Together: Building Relationships as We Negotiate, Roger Fisher and Scott Brown of the Harvard Negotiation Project reach this same conclusion: Putting relationships at the center of our negotiation strategy is critical.

It turns out the Wild West was not tamed just by lone gunslingers—far from it. America was built building by building, town by town, through countless acts of cooperation.  The same is true for today’s communities. Same is true for today’s workplaces, universities and families.

To build a relationship long-term, we can’t make our relationship conditional on the outcome of each quibble. Sure, I’ll lose sometimes. Would I rather get what I want? Absolutely. And if the relationship consistently causes me more pain than it’s worth, you better believe I’ll find another relationship.

Until then, if I can keep my head in the game and focused on the relationship—even when my girlfriend, boyfriend, spouse, partner, work colleagues, or family members do not behave the way I would like—I’ll ultimately have better relationships and get much more of what I want. While two heads are better than one, one is better than none.

*****

Brian J. Mistler, PhD, is a psychologist at Hobart and William Smith Colleges and a senior business consultant with Excellence Tree. Named an International Ambassadorial Scholar by Rotary in 2001, Dr. Mistler received his master’s degree in conflict resolution from the University of Bradford in the United Kingdom and regularly provides consultation and training in conflict resolution and building multicultural communities. He is the author of more than 50 scholarly and popular articles and a member of APA Division 51 (the Society for the Psychological Study of Men and Masculinity).

2.) Has romantic love shaped you as a man?
Definitely. My kids (all grown up now, from 22 to 37 years old) call me “cheesy.” I fell madly in love, like love in the movies, once. I was 21. I was totally infatuated, and convinced her after a few weeks to actually marry me, which we managed to do (some extra logistics were involved, since she had returned from school to her home in Mexico City, to stay) about half a year later. We were both 22 when we married. We had a couple years together before our first child, and we ended up growing up together because we were both so young when we started. Love for us changed a great deal through the 40 years we’ve been married. We’ve changed, we’ve been many different people, and we were not always synchronized, but I do think we made each other better. We have annoyed the hell out of each other to different degrees at different times, but I’m amazed, in retrospect, to realize how lucky I was to have found her when I did—and how glad I am that we’re still together. She still amazes me, scares me sometimes, teaches me a lot, infuriates me, worries me, loves me, and reminds me of who I am (ugh), and who I want to be (much better).

3.) What two words describe your dad?
Mensch. Integrity.

4.) How are you most unlike him?
I’m spread a lot further. I’m more confused and less certain.

5.) From which of your mistakes did you learn the most?
For years I imagined that I had built my career, and particularly Palo Alto Software, by myself. I failed to recognize that my wife made it possible for me to work hard at the work I loved without losing the people I loved. It was really we, not I, two of us, who did that. But it took me about 40 years or adulthood to realize how much I had depended on her doing what she did. I did the business, the consulting, the books, the software, and so on; but she did the harder things that made it possible to do that and still be a human, with a family. I still regret how long I spent with that kind of blindness.

6.) What word would the women in your life use to describe you, and is it accurate?
I cheated on this one. I asked three of my four daughters. One said “dependable.” One said “dependable, honest, hardworking.” One said “reliable, dependable.” I’ll take that. And yes, I do think that’s accurate—boring, but accurate.

7.) Who is the best dad you know, and how does he earn that distinction?
I’m glad to say I know a lot of good dads, starting with my own dad, who managed to love us and teach us and stay true to himself and teach integrity by example. My son and my son-in-law are very active fathers, very involved with their children, very much on the right path, but their kids are still very young. I know several men who have been happy with their careers but found time to watch and even coach the kids’ teams, get home for dinner, get away with them for vacations, and keep their balance while teaching by example. How does one earn that distinction? By keeping priorities straight, getting out of the office on time for games, talking to teachers, changing diapers, playing ball, playing computer games, reading books after dinner, getting home for family dinner, being with the family on weekends and not in the office, taking kids into bed when they’re scared, staying up with them when they’re sick, listening to them when you can’t help and the only thing you can do is listen, giving advice that’s advice and not orders.

8.) Have you been more successful in public or private life?
I can’t answer that question because I’m superstitious, and an answer would be tempting fate, which I try not to do. I do know for sure I made the right decision when I married my wife of 40 years, and that’s really important. And I’m very proud of all five of our children.

9.) When was the last time you cried?
In 1999, when my mother-in-law died. I loved her very much. I know this is a man-oriented site, but she was a great woman who managed to give something special to every one around her.

10.) What advice would you give teenage boys trying to figure out what it means to be a good man?
Don’t get caught up in all the sludge that bombards us all. Become the man who stays around people he loves, who walks uphill when he has to rather than always downhill, who tells the damn truth, doesn’t make excuses, keeps promises. Look for somebody who is the same person all the time, not different characters for different people or situations, and that’s a man.

For Bonus Points: What is the your most cherished ritual as a guy?
Waking up early, long before anybody else wakes up, grinding the coffee from the beans, finding the plastic cone and paper filter to make my own cup, and then working on my writing, at the computer, until others wake up.

*****

Tim Berry is the founder and president of Palo Alto Software. Berry is an expert on small-business and entrepreneurship issues. He blogs at Bplans.com, which he founded, and at Huffington Post, USNews.com, Small Business Trends, Up and Running, and other business news sites.

By RON MATTOCKS 

When I was a boy, I watched my dad sink an axe blade into his right leg. He was trying to crack a welded join, connecting a pair of fifty-five-gallon barrels, when the axe head ricocheted off a drum and struck him square in the shin. I remember the dull thump of the metal hitting his leg and the bloody splinters of bone hanging from the cut in his jeans; but mostly I remember the calm way in which he went into the house, took a shower, and then drove himself to the hospital. Aside from muttering something about being stupid, Dad never said a word. Still, the pain contorting his face at every jagged step told me how much agony he must have been in.

It took him maybe twenty minutes to clean up, put on a sports coat, and walk out the door just as casually as if he was getting ready for church. When he backed the station wagon out of the driveway, I could hear the crackling of the gravel under the tires—the same sound that woke me the next morning when he left for work.

If there are tougher men than my father, I’ve never met them. The youngest of six and the son of an alcoholic father, Dad had strength that was formed from tough circumstances and years of manual labor on the family’s farm, and it served him well later in life as a decorated Green Beret fighting in the jungles of Vietnam. Now, at sixty, he might be beginning to show the signs of aging, but that hasn’t made him any less durable.

After his doctor repeatedly recommended knee surgery over the years, Dad finally agreed to the procedure—but only on the condition he could postpone it for eight more months, so that his recovery and rehab coincided with college basketball’s March Madness. Dad’s knees had been giving him trouble for God knows how long, and his legs were so bowed he looked like a plastic action figure made specifically to ride on a toy horse. Yet for all the discomfort this caused him, alleviating it could wait. “Winter’s coming,” he explained. “I need to cut and haul wood before it gets here.”

I’ve always hoped to be as strong as my father, but sitting behind a computer most of the day, I find it difficult to see myself as such. When I call my mother to see what Dad’s up to, I feel a twinge of guilt when she says he’s outside shoveling snow from the driveway. Moments like these make me realize there’s almost no comparison between us in this respect, which is why it surprised me when he admitted to something that he couldn’t handle.

“I couldn’t do it,” he said as I told him of the latest difficulties I was having with my ex-wife and her not allowing me access to my three sons. He shook his head. “You’re tougher than I am.”

It was strange hearing him say this, especially since he said it while we were inspecting the length of a fifty-foot wall he had constructed from rocks he hauled in a rusty wheelbarrow from the woods behind his house. I knew his sentiment was sincere, but I downplayed the problem nonetheless. Yes, it was difficult having to contend with the emotions of living hundreds of miles away from my own children while at the same time overcoming their mother’s roadblocks to my involvement in their lives. These were circumstances I had no choice but to live with, like a life-long illness for which you can treat the symptoms but not find a cure. Even so, I hardly considered my situation on par with hacking one’s shin with an axe blade.

Months later I flew to be with my oldest son while he was having his tonsils removed. It would be a quick trip, with little time for me to spend with all three of the boys, and further complicated by the guidelines their mother had laid down. This didn’t matter much to me, though. I was just grateful for the chance to calm my ten-year-old son’s fears before surgery and then to read to him in the recovery room afterward. But as always, the time together was hardly enough, a sample of sweetness that only reminded me of what I was missing.

That evening, I was given one more bittersweet taste of this when their mother agreed to let me visit with the boys before my flight early the next morning. When I walked through the door, my two youngest sons yelled, “Daddyyyy!” as they jumped on me. Their older brother was resting on the couch amid empty Jell-O cups and crumpled juice boxes. While he dozed, my middle son, who’s seven, took me on a proud tour of his house—the playroom, his bedroom, the guest quarters. “This is where you can stay tonight, Daddy,” he said, pointing to the bed. Of all the boys, he had been the most ecstatic over my presence, and there was hope in his voice, as though a long-requested prayer was about to be answered while he stood there holding my hand.

My stomach went sick. In a short while, the happiness in his face would be erased by the crushing reality that I would be leaving him again. Ignoring this, I smiled back, trying to remain focused on the bliss of the present rather than on the imminent future—a moment I think my son knew was coming despite the optimism in his heart.

A few hours later, the instant I got on my knees and gripped his shoulders, tears spilled down his cheeks. “Son…” I could barely cough out the words; the lump I was choking on wouldn’t let me.

“Dad, I miss you more than you know!” he sobbed, throwing his arms around me.

Having to say goodbye to my sons time and again, never sure of when our next chance to hug will come, is devastating. These gut-wrenching emotions play over and over in a hellish loop every time I have to walk away.

We held each other tightly. A tear streaked from my eye as I whispered that I missed him too. “Everyday,” I said, squeezing him, “everyday.” I made all the promises I could, wanting to make more, but knowing I held no sway over the innumerable circumstances working against my power to ever keep them.

After fifteen minutes and many hugs later—the final one shared next to the driver’s-side door of my rental—I backed out of the driveway. I could see the red rimming my son’s eyes as I waved to him, and he reciprocated the gesture with a withering feebleness.

As I drove away, desperation overcame me at the notion that our separation would be permanent, and I cursed myself for creating such a mess. This act of self-pity reminded me of what my father had said earlier—about not being able to deal with what I had to, that I was tougher than him. I replayed the axe cutting into Dad’s leg—the metal against the bone—and I recalled his strength to keep going despite the pain.

This image stopped me from focusing on my self-imposed state of helplessness and sparked a forgotten determination from a fundamental thought. Emotional pain might outweigh the physical, but we still have to ignore those feelings as we draw from that same internal strength that helps us cope with either one. Sometimes we may need to delve deeper to find that strength; and sometimes we don’t find enough, leaving us with no option but to endure and continue limping forward.  

******

Ron Mattocks is the author of Sugar Milk: What One Dad Drinks When He Can’t Afford Vodka, his memoir about being a divorced father of three boys who remarries, inherits two step-daughters, loses his job, and becomes a stay-at-home dad. Mattocks covers fatherhood issues on his blog, Clark Kent’s Lunchbox. 

[Photo by viZZZual.com]

By ROGER L. DURHAM

Here’s how it happened to me. My wife and I were living in a 4,000-square-foot home on two lovely acres, with a pool, a pool house and a one-and-a-half-story playhouse in the back. It was a fabulous piece of property for our family. It was also across the street from the house where I had grown up and three blocks down the road from the house where my dad had grown up. Anchorage, Kentucky, had been home to my family for generations.

It is one of those classic American communities that Norman Rockwell would have captured on canvas, or Flannery O’Conner in one of her short stories. It is quaint, quirky and in many ways, an island unto itself. It boasts a one-school school district that is one of the best in the state. That’s right, a single school for kindergarten through eighth grade comprises the entire school district. In my dad’s day the school went all the way through high school. Young families move to Anchorage for the school and are willing to pay the elevated real estate prices and higher taxes so that their children can receive a private-school-caliber education from a public school in an idyllic setting.

City hall and the fire house and police station are nestled at the heart of the village. John Schnatter, founder of Papa John’s Pizza and a resident of Anchorage, owns the rest of the village center. Schnatter already has built a three-mile walking and bike trail through 100 acres of undeveloped land, and now he is renovating a few small, historic commercial buildings, with the intent of rejuvenating what once was the village’s center of activity. Soon kids will again have a place to stop for ice cream on their way home from school, and adults will have a pub and a fine restaurant—watering holes for the end of the day. Already a post office, a florist, an art gallery, a dance studio, a local bank and a spa are situated along the central spine of the village. Add to those the country club, the horse trail system that weaves through the village, the annual Fourth of July parade culminating with awards at the gazebo near city hall, the annual Octoberfest at the fire house, and the lighting of the Yule log at Christmas time, and you’ve got a pretty magical place to live.

And it was magical for a number of years. But when my wife and I delivered our youngest to college and returned home, we found ourselves feeling lost in all of the spaciousness of our 100-year-old home. We were living in about one fourth of the space while taking care of the rest of it. We wondered if maybe it was time to move on, to start writing the next chapter of our lives in a new setting. We knew two things: We were ready to simplify our lives and if we moved, we would have to find a place that at least approached the charm of Anchorage. And so the search began.

Sparing the details, we did find a hidden gem of a street, closer to the edge of Louisville, Kentucky, that looked a lot like a street from Anchorage, only more compact. It was loaded with charm; each house was distinct and interesting; the people were fascinating; the neighborhood was close-knit; it had everything we were looking for. The location was closer to things that matter to us, things we have time to enjoy now that our kids are moving on: good restaurants, theater, concerts, eclectic shops and businesses. And the house we found was significantly smaller than our home in Anchorage, and on a lot that would require little maintenance. We wanted it. We got it.

Then it happened. I was knocked to my knees by something that absolutely blindsided me: my ego. It had not occurred to me that my ego would be threatened by the move. It had never crossed my mind that I had so much of my identity tied to that home in Anchorage. I thought it would be easy to let go of my seat on the city council and to become one of the “outsiders” who belong to the country club without living in Anchorage. I far overestimated the security of my masculinity.

The first morning I woke up in our new home and drove to work—now a 15-minute drive instead of five—I felt an overwhelming sense of belittlement. The sensation was utterly foreign to me, and it hit like a sledgehammer across my forehead. I had lost my place. I had lost my identity. I had made my world smaller, purposefully, but smaller nonetheless, and it made me feel like a smaller man, a diminished man. Because of a move? Come on, Roger! You’re better than that! You’re bigger than that!

It was crushing. I could intellectualize that I was no different that morning than I was the morning before, but I couldn’t get past the emotion of it. And that shocked me. I consider myself a pretty secure guy. I am very intentional about keeping my ego in check. Part of my daily spiritual ritual is keeping a right-sized sense of self. So to feel so much less a man simply because I changed my geography and the square footage of my home was hugely disappointing.

Alas, once more I was reminded that I am what I am. I am man, and part of being man is dealing with ego. I’m sure women deal with ego, too, in their way. But I know first-hand only the battles of the male ego, and that day I lost a skirmish in the ongoing war of ego balance. It is a war that will persist, I am sure, until enlightenment—or heaven or nirvana or whatever it is that describes the completion and fulfillment of the human spirit. I know it’s an ongoing battle, but I hate losing, and I hate being blindsided, and I hate that both happened with something as simple as a move.

But there it is. I am what I am. I am man. My ego sometimes gets the better of me. The unavoidable truth is that our egos make attachments that define us. And when we let them, our egos exercise non-productive control over those attachments and threaten to throw us out of balance. My ego attachment was my home and place in a quaint little village in Kentucky. At least, that was one of them. We often have more than one. For some it is position. For some it is wealth or possessions. For some it is physique or health or intellectual acuity. For most it is a combination of things. You know your own, or maybe you don’t. But they will make themselves known to you. That I can say for sure. And the challenge, always, is to identify those ego attachments, understand them for what they are, and bleed them of the non-productive power they can wield over us so that they can be a productive force in our lives.

Like so much else in life, ego in and of itself is not a problem. It is unbridled ego—ego out of balance—that wreaks havoc. My move reminded me that when ego does take control, I have an opportunity to learn and grow and regain control and, with it, balance. I need to keep ego working for me, not against me.

It took a few days, but I did regain my balance. My ego is back in check. I love my new home. I love the neighborhood. I’m happy where I am. Life is good. And hopefully, I will see the next ego battle before it hits me.

*****

Roger L. Durham is an ordained Presbyterian minister currently working as a client development manager for Summit Energy Services in Louisville, Kentucky. As a student of culture, faith and men’s issues, Roger works with men’s groups in Louisville. He has a BA in psychology from Wake Forest University and a doctor of ministry degree from Union Seminary in Virginia.

[Photo by Daveybot]

Mike and Sandy Waggett

1.) Who taught you about manhood?
My dad and the military. My mom was killed in a car crash when I was 9 years old. Mom had been a stay-at-home housewife, and when she died my dad had to step up to working full-time, learning to cook, cleaning, and babysitting my younger brother and me. I learned you could be a man by stepping up when things were at their worst. The U.S. Air Force completed my transformation into a good man by teaching me that integrity, excellence, and service define you completely.

2.) Has romantic love shaped you as a man?
I love my wife completely, and she has taught me humility, compassion, and empathy. She has smoothed out my rough edges and taught me what true love is all about.

3.) What two words describe your dad?
My hero.

4.) How are you most unlike him?
He is a much better golfer than I am. He also has much more patience than I have.

5.) From which of your mistakes did you learn the most?
I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but I’ve learned that taking personal responsibility for your actions is the key. You fail only when you blame someone else. I once lost a key job opportunity in the military because I blamed the system, not my shortcomings.

6.) What word would the women in your life use to describe you, and is it accurate?
Hopefully “integrity.” Yes, it is accurate.

7.) Who is the best dad you know, and how does he earn that distinction?
My dad is the best I know. He came from a working-class family in Pennsylvania to join the Navy, become the first in his family to get a college degree, raise his two sons the right way, get his advanced degree, and retire as a hugely successful senior engineer at Xerox. He met Arlene, my step-mom, 30 years ago, and they have been happily married ever since.

8.) Have you been more successful in public or private life?
I’ve been very successful in public life, as an officer in the Air Force. I was fortunate to have the skills to rise to the rank of colonel and have such tremendous experiences all over the world. My private life is still a work in progress.

9.) When was the last time you cried?
I last cried when we had to put one of our dogs down.

10.) What advice would you give teenage boys trying to figure out what it means to be a good man?
My advice is to always be yourself. The second you try to act like someone else, you will start down a road that leads to disappointment and unhappiness. Peer pressure is an awesome force, but always keep your integrity intact. If you have your integrity, you can always look in the mirror and like what you see.

For Bonus Points: What is the your most cherished ritual as a guy?
My most cherished ritual is playing with my dad in the national father-son golf tournament in Myrtle Beach every year.

*****

Mike Waggett grew up in upstate New York, earned an undergraduate degree from Syracuse University, and was commissioned in the U.S. Air Force in 1985. He flew the F-111 fighter in Europe and the United States, taught at the US Air Force Academy, worked at the Pentagon, and was the commander of the Air National Guard Training and Education Center before retiring last year. He is now the co-owner (with his wife, Sandy) of MSW Interactive Designs, a website design/hosting company and the Where Brides Go network of bridal sites.