(HOST) Storyteller, contractor and commentator Willem Lange recently read a book that got him thinking about what it’s like to have a male identity crisis – and wondering whether or not to have one.
(LANGE) I love my little truck. With its black cap and roof rack, it looks like a clenched fist, ready to putt down to the post office or punch its four-wheel-drive way up the mountain to hunting camp. It feels good to be in it, especially with the window open and my arm hanging out winter and summer. I wave at other truck drivers, and always at log trucks. They wave back, and I feel a kinship with those kings of the road. When a big semi blows past me, I always blink my lights as his trailer clears my bow. Then I wriggle with joy when he flashes his marker lights. Brothers!
But recently I happened to pick up a copy of Susan Faludi’s book "Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man", and discovered that we men are in tough shape: downsizing, post-trauma stress, loss of family leadership roles, loss of a sense of control over personal destiny.
"Holy Toledo!" I thought, hanging my arm out conspicuously into the cold rain, "I’ve been out of touch! Here’s all this stuff happening all around me, and I haven’t even been aware of it." I’d heard of the Promise Keepers, and Christians who believe that male chromosomes make you the boss of your family; but I’d always figured that, except for the guys who derive their identity from the groups they belong to, most of us just mog along being who we are, and don’t worry about it much.
I was cradled by the last of the Victorians, raised by Depressionites, and started married life as an Eisenhowerian, like Dick and Jane on Pleasant Street. My wife’s experience had been the same. Our roles had been defined by our parents. Neither of us knew it, but those definitions would have been stultifying if they hadn’t evaporated during the five decades since then. The departure of our kids freed us; economic necessity motivates us; and the stress of our lives has discovered us. Gender takes a back seat to individualism – even if I can’t get her to use the chain saw.
Lots of guys, according to Faludi, feel powerless, more acted upon than acting, retreating into "ornamental" roles. You’ve seen the pickup trucks with Copenhagen stickers in the back windows beneath the gun rack. "This truck insured by Smith & Wesson," they declare. The overt message is, "Don’t mess with me; I’m tough." But the inferred message is, "Don’t push me; I don’t have much to lose." I avoid Alaska because John Wayne is still alive and well up there.
With Ms. Faludi’s words ringing in my ears, and wondering if I was missing the boat by failing to agonize over my identity, I pulled into the lumber yard, parked so my masterpiece of a roof rack would be visible, and walked in.
"Well, look who’s here!" someone cried. "Must be lunchtime. Nice you could drop by." Everyone made a big show of looking at his watch.
Yes! I thought. This is the way the world is supposed to be! No confusion here. Truck driver was home!
This is Willem Lange in East Montpelier, and I gotta get back to work.