The Good Men Project

"Good Men is a revelation, a frank, exhilarating glimpse into the lives of men who are on the quest toward self-awareness."

Neil Chethik

author of FatherLoss and VoiceMale

May 15, 2010

Physical Contact

Filed under: Uncategorized — tmatlack @ 6:00 am


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I still remember the first time I fed my son Seamus a bottle. He was six months old. I lived alone in a bachelor pad on the corner of Massachusetts and Commonwealth Avenues in Boston. It was a moment that saved me. The smell of him. The feeling of his little body going limp with sleep. The sound of him suckling in my darkened bedroom. I held him long after he went to sleep. Finally, I placed him gently into the pack-n-play that I had set up nearby. Still I watched him sleeping, not wanting the moment to pass.

Seamus is as big as I am now; a strapping teenager. He has an older sister who just went to her prom. I got remarried after six years as a divorced dad and had another boy, Cole, who is now five. So I still get to read bedtime stories and lay in his cowboy bunk bed well after he is asleep, just feeling him close and allowing the sensation of fatherhood to sweep over me like a cool breeze in a hot desert.

Maybe it is my difficulty with words, or my tendency to spin off into a male Eyore grouchiness, or my struggle throughout my life to feel like I belong; but to me, the touchstone of faith, and unplugging, and serenity has always been physical contact with my kids, when they were small and even now when I, bad back and all, play an all-out game of one-on-one basketball with Seamus.

I know that I am not alone in this feeling of connection. Moms obviously have deep instinctual drives that take over the moment their babies are born. But the reaction in men’s bodies to physical contact is no less powerful. I have experienced similar relaxation by getting down on the ground and rubbing my yellow lab puppy Penny’s belly. So, if you are a mom, dad, dog owner, or just an aunt or uncle, listen up. Here are some easy ways to forget your troubles and bliss out.

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Rocking chairs are great. The standing sway of the hips works too. Sing some songs that come from the deep recesses of your childhood brain. Use your senses. Feel the child. She will find that little nook between your shoulder and neck to rest her head.

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The guy is actually my guru to life. I have read the books over and over again to my three kids and each time I find something reassuring in the message, especially as Cole, my five year old, snuggles into my shoulder.

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It sounds crazy but I often linger in my kids’ beds after I have gotten them to drop off, just to watch them breathe and to stay in the bubble of their sweet smell before getting up to go back into the big bad world to face reality.

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With kids 2 to 16, playful contact is important for them and for you. We tear up the house, to my wife’s chagrin. The kids love to be chased and tickled and I love to see the joy that it brings them.

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My little one runs to me when I get home with a crazy hug and kiss that are worth the price of admission in life. The big guys still hug me whenever they leave the house.

There’s nothing that isn’t common sense here, but there is something that is magical. As adults, we get stressed out, confused, and depressed. Kids (and dogs) have something to teach us about the simple goodness of life. Just listen to them and you will be A-OK!

 

May 12, 2010

Calling young men bloggers

Filed under: Good Men, Uncategorized — Tags: , — tmatlack @ 7:21 pm

Photo by Beverly & Pack, Flickr

The Good Men Project is looking for some young male writers/columnists who want to write about being, you know, under 25 and stuff. You would need a bit more of a focus than that, but if you’re under 25, can write well, and have a topic or theme or idea that you want to write about once or twice a month for us, email the idea and some samples of your writing to goodmenblogs@gmail.com. Some sample ideas for columns (but please don’t be limited by these): Being gay in HS. Being a young father. Being an athlete. Being a soldier at war.

 

April 22, 2010

Setting a Good Example

Algie Ray Smith

The following essay earned second-place honors in a regional contest organized by Monica Edwards, the public and youth services supervisor at the Logan Public Library in Russellville, Kentucky, and Ricardo Federico, a contributing author for The Good Men Project anthology. The theme of the contest was “What it means to be a good man in the 21st century.”

By ALGIE RAY SMITH

The poet William Wordsworth said, “The child is father of the man.” What that quote implies is that what many adults become, many things that adults do, have direct links to their childhood experiences. Because Wordsworth seems to have hit upon a universal truth, what it means to be a man in the present century has already been influenced by his upbringing; therefore, the importance of what a man is, is primary to behavior patterns of future generations.

My work ethic can serve as an example of what a child learns from being a man from a man, either his own father or other suitable role model. My grandfather taught my father to earn his own way and to explore all possibilities of work opportunities. My father practiced this when he became an adult. He worked at various jobs and was somewhat of a financial success at almost everything he did. As a child, I not only noticed how hard he worked, but I began to feel that I, too, must explore work opportunities in order to accomplish my life’s goals.

When I needed funds, my father would say, “Let’s see what there is that you can earn the money you need.”

He helped me to explore childhood jobs: selling hulled walnuts, mowing yards, delivering newspapers, shoveling snow, and more.

When I became a man, I already knew what avenues of opportunity were open to me; and, to come right to the point, I usually had a few dollars in my pocket to spend on things I needed or wanted.

A man, then, must have probity, promise, and persistence. He must not feel entitled.

My father showed me how to talk through my problems, how to explore avenues to solve them. He showed me how to avoid violence and how to not strike back when someone angered me. He was not proud of me when I came home from school with a black eye. He did not ask, “What does the other fellow look like?” Instead, he asked me how I could have avoided the fight in the first place by having me relate how the altercation came up in the first place. It was not that he wanted me to be a coward; he did not want me to be a fool.

A man, then, must have a peaceful nature, seeking nonviolent situations.

My father showed me that a worker does not have too much time for “watching” the lives of others. I must not spend abnormal amounts of time fawning over sports figures, movie stars, and the like. To take part in a youthful sport, to watch an occasional movie, or to admire a celebrity was okay; but I was not to obsess over them to the point where they disrupted my open exploration of future personal endeavors.

For today’s man to heed my father’s advice in this matter is more important than ever because so many of the so-called “celebrities” are not proper role models. Some appear to be dishonest, immoral, and subject to bad habits like drug abuse, gambling, and pornography.

Today’s man must balance the things that fill his life, not leaning too heavily on those that will never be of any use to him. He can watch sports, movies, and the like; he can have hobbies. He must not become addicted to them.

A man, then, must have proper perspective for all his activities, not letting his life be dictated by any of them.

My father was a promise keeper. I told him when I finished a project, whether it was suckering a tobacco patch or slopping the hogs, that I could do something that I wanted to do. He told me that if I really needed a ride to school or town in bad weather, he would stop what he was doing and take me. If he promised me to pay for a bicycle if I got a paper route, he bought the first bike. And he promised me that if I would work for him one summer, I would get my first car. And I did.

A man, then, must be a promise keeper. He must be careful with promises and never renege on one made in good faith.

My father taught me to take pride in my body and wellbeing. He often told me that the work, or the walk, would do me good, that exercise was healthful. He took me to the great outdoors where he hunted and fished and often hiked away the afternoon with the excuse that the covey of quails was just over the next hill.

He had tattoos, but he did not have them covering his entire body. He did not have body piercings. He did not spike or dye his hair in wild colors. He did not alter the shape of his teeth. In short, he kept his weight within limits of his height. He practiced good hygiene. He believed in bathing.

A man, then, must return to the type of respect for his body that ancient cultures had. He should not be a walking one-man sideshow, defiling his life’s temple.

My father once told me, “All honest work is good. Do your best in whatever you do.”

A man must approach his daily grind as the UPS delivery person does. He must display a purpose by his actions and attitudes. Each day he must have an attainable goal in mind.

A man knows that work is necessary even though it might seem to be a slow way of getting all the rewards he desires. He must not be taken in by what seem to be “easy money” schemes. If he starts with nothing, then every small gain is a victory,

A man understands that he is not owed anything because of something that happened in the past of his ancestors. He lives in the present while making opportunities for his children’s future.

A man must be professional, making careful career choices.

A man who marries must take on his share of the responsibilities of the union. He must not look upon his spouse as being unequal, whether or not the spouse is adding to the finances. He must respect all members of the family, showing them that each has a place, a role, in the larger unit.

William Joseph “Billy” Batson, the crippled newsboy in the comic books of my childhood, had only to shout “Shazam!” to get the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules, the stamina of Atlas, the power of Zeus, the courage of Achilles, the speed of Mercury, as well as the flashy red suit. Today’s man has no such magical incantation to make him invincible; but he does have one thing he can call upon. He has only to say, “I am a man.” And if he says this with sincerity, he can become even more powerful than Batson’s Captain Marvel.

In review, what does it take to be a good man in the 21st century? Repeat them with me: perspective, promise, persistence, peace, principles, possibilities, and pride in appearance.

If a man is a believer, he would also do well to take heed of Colossians 3:17: “And whatever you do in word or deed, do it in the name of the Lord”

[Photo by Cheree Federico]

 

April 3, 2010

Man-to-Man with Comedian ERIK RIVERA

1.) Who taught you about manhood?
My mother, actually. she raised me and taught me to be a good man and to respect my family.

2.) Has romantic love shaped you as a man?
Yes, I am still one of those suckers who believe in true love and looking for it.

3.) What two words describe your dad?
Not Available

4.) How are you most unlike him?
I am not like him in a lot of ways: I’m chasing my dream; I have open-line of communications; I will be there for my kids

5.) From which of your mistakes did you learn the most?
I am still learning from each mistaking but embracing them as they come along

6.) What word would the women in your life use to describe you, and is it accurate?
They would describe me as ambitious and that would be point on.

7.) Who is the best dad you know, and how does he earn that distinction?
The best dad I know is Dr. Huxtable on the The Cosby Show. I always wished he were my dad; he was funny and a doctor.

8.) Have you been more successful in public or private life?
I have been pretty lucky that they have both gone hand in hand.

9.) When was the last time you cried?
I cried when I was a kid. I do get teary eyed from time to time.

10.) What advice would you give teenage boys trying to figure out what it means to be a good man?
Whatever you do, try to think of your parents and whether it would it make them proud.  If you feel ashamed by doing it, then it is wrong.

For Bonus Points: What is the your most cherished ritual as a guy?
My most cherished ritual is when I am driving to work and being alone to clear my mind.

*****

Erik Rivera is a regular at such New York City comedy clubs as the Comedy Cellar, Caroline’s on Broadway, Broadway Comedy Club and Comic Strip Live. Rivera starred in Screenvision’s Stand Up 360 and hosted its Latino film series, Stand Up 360…Muy Caliente! Rivera wrote and directed the short film The Cyclist, which won the best comedy award at the 15 Minutes of Fame Film Festival and is featured on the Funny or Die website. In addition to his New York shows, Rivera performs at colleges and clubs nationwide. He lives in a suburb of New York with his mom and dad, the source and inspiration for his comedy.

 

March 25, 2010

A Good Man in the Making

The author's son, Max, at age 6

By LAURA NOVAK

I should start at what will always be, for me at least, the beginning.

Nearly 15 years ago, I gave birth to my only child, Max. In some ways, his early life was a litany rather than a tale. If I don’t cheat by scanning the voluminous essays I wrote about Max’s start, this is what I can recall: The first four months of pregnancy were blissful until a scary ultrasound dampened my husband’s and my spirits. A second scan shattered us with the devastating diagnosis of multiple congenital anomalies that were going to require radical surgery in Max’s first year. Next came four months of bed rest, endless trips to Labor and Delivery to stop labor and delivery, drugs, more drugs, home nurses and fetal tests. Once we limped past the 29-week mark, I received betamethazone shots in my butt for the next five weeks, to boost Max’s lungs. We met with the pediatric surgeon, perinatologists, neonatologists and a cardiologist, who delivered the doubly devastating diagnosis of a potentially fatal heart condition. When two additional ultrasounds finally confirmed that our baby’s lungs were ready, four people broke my water in the operating room and Max was delivered by cesarean section—while a catheter in my shoulder delivered the Keith Richards cocktail blended to blur my mind.

He had finally arrived, our magnificent baby, lifted out of me by a determined obstetrician and photographed by the anesthesiologist with only the operating room light for glorious effect. Max was alive and well and righteously pissed off. It was all good where he had been, he argued. And he had heard rumors about where he was going. However, I insisted I couldn’t hear my baby crying. The entire surgical team kept telling me to listen, that Max was just over there in the corner with his own team. Just listen, they repeated, while pushing my organs back into place. One kiss was all I got before they whisked him down the hall. In the recovery room, I squeezed Max’s foot once through a hole in the incubator before another team of five transported him to Children’s Hospital.

So there you have it, I might say, brushing my hands against one another in a cleansing effect. Only the journey had just begun. Max lived for three long months in intensive care at Children’s, where he underwent several surgeries, the longest of which lasted seven hours. When that surgery was over, one of Max’s nurses wrapped her arm around me and walked me to the warming table in intensive care, where two nurses and two doctors were working. I felt so bad for them, awful really, because I was certain they had messed up and put the wrong baby on the table. In front of me was something horribly swollen and ventilated, three times the size of the baby I handed them that morning. I might have laughed and told them they had it all wrong, except our exhausted pediatric surgeon was directing traffic. And hovering nearby was our favorite neonatologist—the same doctor who used to put caffeine into the deep line in Max’s scalp just to perk up his brains and remind him to breath.

Throughout Max’s babyhood, especially during hospitalizations, I counted numbers. I monitored my son’s Ins and Outs, documented every cubic centimeter spent and the volume of emesis emitted. It was an obsession really, all those facts and figures: By the time he turned 2, Max had spent a total of 24 hours under general anesthesia. He recently had his 15th surgical procedure and is soon to turn 15. All those numbers throughout the years, they kept me thinking, which prevented me from feeling, because there was that fear, that awful nagging fear. It was never back in the corner where another team was taking care of it. The fear hovered over and haunted me, even when my funny and frighteningly smart baby began to hit his milestones and move above that 10th percentile.

So there you have it, I might say again, except for the myriad emergencies that pummeled us for four more years. On the darkest days, it seemed like we might never wipe our hands with insouciance and move on.

And then one day, from the chaos and pain, there emerged an amazing child, then a brilliant boy, and now a good young man.

I look at Max and marvel at his accepting nature. If anyone has a reason to raise his fists to the world, it is my son. Yet he painted and played and studied dinosaurs and when he got old enough, he pushed his own IV pole into the operating room while I followed behind, joking about the pizza I was having delivered.

“You would never know to look at him,” people now say, not noticing that I clutch my hands at the mention of those early years. Most of the scars are hidden under Max’s clothes. He can’t close one of his hands completely from the cerebral palsy, yet that position is perfect for playing the tenor sax, which Max does, in a mean way—only he scoffs when I say that. He thinks Parker plays too fast to accompany on CD, but Miles is manageable. I squint and nod and think I understand. Just last fall, Max played at Yoshi’s, the venerable Oakland nightclub. During his first big solo my friend squeezed my hand the entire time, probably to remind me to breathe.

I am better able to exhale now and appreciate that Max’s life has turned out so beautiful. I am in awe of how much he knows and the fact that he loves third-year Latin, 3-D art and Dickens; the fact that Max finds trig intriguing and physics a hoot and his history teacher says he could be taking college-level courses. How do I explain his brilliance? Was it the caffeine in his scalp or the betamethazone in my butt?

Or maybe it was the time we spent cultivating relationships with all of his doctors and nurses. We told Max they were good men and women who helped us. So he was never afraid. Of anyone. Kids flocked around him. His play dates were endless. His dance card is now often full, even though I don’t get to hear the girls’ names. I just hope that whomever he chooses to dance with into his adulthood loves him enough to allow me to stop worrying.

Max is a good and gentle young man. I am reminded of this once a month when we help cook for and serve dinner to 50 men at the Berkeley Men’s Shelter.  They are strangely peaceful, the evenings we spend with these men, who are alternately ailing, defiant, demanding, and manipulative and often without hope. Max’s early trepidation has given way to certitude and eagerness. I’ve watched Max stand before these destitute men and with a strong, clear voice invite them to seconds or make an announcement about gift bags. It is so simple, really, but when I see Max begin to clear the tables and then stop to find a spoon for the man who wants dessert but threw his away by mistake, I want to cry.

I have only three more years left with Max to cover all the basics before he leaves for college. Let’s see, has he fixed his Facebook privacy settings? Taken his medicine? Have I waxed often enough on the importance of dental floss, condoms and Spell Check? Does he know to never walk through a door before a woman or get into the car without first helping her get in?

Because my devil is in the details, I will hover a little longer to make sure we order the right reeds for his sax and arrange for the laptop for exams because Max can’t hold a pencil long enough to say everything he wants to. I know he can recite the Lord’s Prayer and sing the Doxology if he desires. Or pin on a yarmulke should the occasion arise. I know that Max is loving, delightful and charming. And he is gentle and good.

Sometimes my son asks how we survived it all. Well, we did, until we didn’t—so there you have it. But instead of saying that, I read to him from the Tao Te Ching: “We work with being, but non-being is what we use.” This just makes him laugh. “How can you do and not do at the same time?” Max rants. I laugh too, but from love and gratitude, not fear, because now I can look at this good boy on the verge of becoming such a good young man and know that the worst things that happen to us are also the best.

*****

Laura Novak is a former television news journalist who has written extensively for the New York Times on health, business, and the arts. She hopes to publish her first novel, Finding Clarity, which is set in Berkeley, Calif.,and she is at work on a mystery series. You can find Novak’s writing on Scribd.com.

 

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