My sons grew up with a father who was rarely around. His interest in his father fluctuated depending on what he needed at that moment: to seem like a good father or a cool father. Of course, you can never do both at once. His attention was always tied directly to how visible he wanted his sons to be in his life and how that visibility would benefit him. My sons felt it. They still do that. That’s a common enough story.
So common, in fact, that I can’t help but see it reflected in something else: the rise of the terrifying manosphere. The same one that Louis Theroux recently featured in a hard-to-watch Netflix documentary Inside the manosphere.
I watched every second of that documentary, not once but twice. I didn’t enjoy it for a second, but I wanted to see if there was something I appreciated about these men who take unashamed pride in showing the world how awful they are to women. They too grew up without a reliable father. Of course, I was thinking of my sons, and I was waiting for them to sympathize with me. I wondered if I would subconsciously forgive their actions, as one young man’s mother did with her flippant attitude, because I imagined my own sons in this position.
I can’t imagine my sons being here. They don’t live in this space. When they talk about the manosphere, they are full of contempt for it. The whole concept is hardly worth their eye-rolling. So, no, I don’t see my children in them at all. These angry, nervous, stupid men throw a mass tantrum while the whole world watches.
I feel no kindness, weakness, or warmth in these people.
In this documentary, we see young men, especially two, who idolize them, and this is the part that broke me a little. They just want someone to show them the way. After losing his brother to suicide, struggling with unemployment and living in his car for a year, a man turns to the manosphere for guidance on how to improve his situation. He is doing weight training on the beach. He high-fives his brothers. And he decided that this must be the way.
Fortunately, while their father was away, my sons still had solid male role models, something that boys and men in the manosphere certainly seem to lack.
I remember the teacher my two older sons had when they were little. When they were 7 and 9, hurt by my divorce and their father’s recent lack of interest in them. Both their teachers were men. They were funny, stupid, and smart. When I volunteered in the classroom, I often saw children dancing and clapping to Christmas music at school concerts. I play soccer during my free time. They were unashamedly kind. They weren’t shy about looking stupid.
When one of my sons was crying after losing a basketball game, the teacher put his hand on his back and talked to him for a long time. I still don’t know what he said. It was a private matter between the two of them. I know my son was nodding along to every word. I know he laughed. I know he came back to me clear-eyed and happy. I know he has grown into a man who doesn’t need the manosphere to show him the way.
These teachers have changed our family. When my oldest son was adrift, they set an example for them. They gave themselves tacit permission to be weak and stupid. Don’t be so afraid of looking stupid. They taught all of our children that looking stupid or weak isn’t some scary monster in the closet. That it can actually be a lot of fun. That is freedom.
My two older sons continued to model this for their younger brothers. They set an example for each other. They supported each other when needed and checked each other when needed. They are not afraid to laugh at themselves. It was also because I admired men who were funny, stupid, and smart.
The manosphere seems to me to be a joyless place. Where young boys were dropped off for detention but no one came to pick them up. It is a sad and dangerous trap, a road that continues in circles.
I know my sons didn’t fall into that trap. But I also know that they might have been, even if it weren’t for a few good people who showed them a different path.
