It’s been summer, which means my publishing schedule has been a bit slow lately. Thanks for sticking with me.
In the evening hours, the boys file into the bedroom. Sometimes singularly, sometimes together, sometimes in groups of two. It’s been this way since they toddled, each coming to the side of the bed, each giving their momma a long hug in the lamplight. Some nights the hugs are silent, sometimes full of laughter. There have been nights when the hugs soaked the shoulder of Amber’s tee shirt with tears.
We are not perfect parents. I have a litany of grievances against us.
Grievance the first: We moved from house to house too many times, disrupting the sense of place that allows a boy to find his footing.
Grievance the second: I’ve overworked and underplayed, and in this, I’ve found myself no different than the typical American father.
Grievance the third: We’ve not been as careful with the slow creep of technological distraction into our lives, though we’ve successfully kept the boys off Twitter and TikTok and most apps that dumb down the youth.
Grievance the fourth: We unwittingly enrolled our children in a cult school, and though this is a long story, that fact alone is its own indictment against our parenting.
There are other grievances, and so many days, I wear them as shame. But still, at the end of every evening, our boys lay all grievances aside, come to the bedside, and love us well.
Last night I documented the moment because our eldest, Isaac, is moving out and his nights at our bedside are numbered. He’s moving out into the big wide world, setting out on his own adventure. In that adventure, I hope he finds love and work and art and scratches the gray film off the Big Lottery Ticket of life. I hope he’s a winner. But more than that, I hope he raises his own pack of feral children. I hope he nurses grievances, too, because grievances keep us honest.
Yesterday, I watched a comedian railing on the rise of Alpha Male Influencers. He shared clips of muscled men shouting like drill sergeants at boys who’ve not grown into their feet. These Alphas with big muscles and little peckers promised these boys that if they hit the gym, bro, use force, man-spread everywhere they go, they’ll make Two-Hundered-K within the next year. Those big promises came from small men whose only appreciable skills were creating content and plunging steroids through a hypodermic needle.
Small men run the world these days. They take stages, platforms, daises, and board-room seats. They speak with an authority they do not own. They colonize the crowds, forgetting that every form of colonization, every sort of exploitation, all their pretty peacocking is nothing short of an exposition of insecurity. I wonder whether these small men were ever hugged.
Last night, I wrote a text to my friend
: “We should write a book called Alphas are Assholes and Other Wisdom for Sons.” Maybe I was kidding. Maybe I wasn’t. His response: “Yeah, complete with pictures.” So, last night I took some photos to memorialize what it looks like to raise boys who own more than any Alphas ever could.These boys may not be Alphas in the colloquial sense of the word. They may not leave my house muscled up and oiled. They may not make the cast for the remake of The 300. They won’t have YouTube channels scamming Gen Z incels out of millions by training boys how to act as peacocks. But here’s what I know: They’ll know art when they see it. They’ll understand what it means to love a woman well. They’ll take work—hard work—as it comes and they’ll feel lucky for it. They’ll know how to pray, how to bow in humility before receiving the Sacrament of Life. They’ll know the prayers to the Father who art in heaven. They’ll know the prayer to the Blessed Virgin, too. They’ll understand that men are capable of creating great cuisine and that a strong woman can hoe a row. They’ll know what it means to partner, to build, and to create a generational line that’s thick with meaning.
I’m releasing four boys into a world that’s sick with Alphas. But I’ve shared these fun facts with them, too: Alphas bleed; they have nightmares; they are ignorant of art; they do not recognize the worth of woman; they are just as awkward in bed as the rest of us; their promises cost too much and they’re worth too little.
Oh, and also this: Every peacock finds himself in the stewpot before the day is done.
Almost two years ago, I wrote a poem in protest against the Alphas. Today, I’m resharing it here.
To the young men
Find something true and become an expert. Expertise is the only property that cannot be stolen by popular opinion.
Do not listen to the world that says meaning is found in a grind, a churn, the mindless thrumming of the widget factory, the machine, the technique of a body politic. This churn has saved no men. You are no different.
Call nature home, and learn to speak with her as a friend. She will nurture the quieter parts of you, parts that go on forever.
Resist cults: religious, personality, political, whichever. Their love is a grift. The grift is for power. The power is exclusive. The exclusivity calls you pawn.
Know that a man is not measured by the size of his truck, boat, or gun. These extensions of ego and argument are temporary.
Think like the greats, or at least appropriate their wisdom: Aurelius, Augustine, your grandfather who knew the age before your attention was a commodity. Their voices echo into today.
Seek God. Love people. Especially those who are different. God lives best in difference, especially in the difference of a woman.
Remember the quiet humility of the fog on the water. It will remind you of the beginning and end of all things.
The Observationalist
In the spring of 2023, I began exploring the concept of visual language by creating a book of photos, poems, and short essays entitled The Observationalist. All proceeds are reinvested in the equipment I need to pursue more ideas like this. You can preview The Observationalist by following this link or clicking on the image below.
Thanks for reading!
You had me at the grievance list hemmed in by the hug. Thank God for these wonderful sons.
Ohhh. This.
Currently launching 2 boys and 1 girl, all with artist hearts. I have failed them far more often than I thought I would and yet their love remains. Thanks for a better perspective than I’ve been able to muster.