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Jump to navigation. He was great to discuss religion and politics with over scotch in a dark bar at 2 a. We both collected comics which in retrospect was a transparent metaphor for arrested development. Women were his oxygen. In many ways, he was a great guy, but he would have made a lousy massage therapist: dangerous to clients, the profession, and himself. Good thing he was in sales. I wonder if there is a subtext left over from some New Age thinking that men, beaming in from Mars as we do each day, are somehow broken and incapable of nurturing.
Men are not generally seen as nurturers, perhaps because displays of our soft sides are suspicious. That may not be easy, but it is necessary. When women began shifting out of traditional roles, they had an iconic image to herald the change that was coming. Rosie the Riveter signaled a shift in consciousness for a generation of women who saw a world of possibilities open up to them as the men-folk went off to war. Women were suddenly building munitions, ships, and tanks, and the long journey to more choice began.
They were no longer limited to a few occupations: mother, teacher, nurse, or nun. That generational shift in consciousness encountered resistance and growth was slow, but progress has been made. Men have yet to have a role model to ease the shift to a nurturing persona.
Little boys dream up Rambo rescue scenaria, not Albert Schweitzer rescue scenaria. Every grown man I know really wants to be James Bond. Pop culture boils us down to stereotypes instead. Why do they get together with these boneheads in the first place? The same prime-time propaganda is often broadcasting that to be a sensitive man is to be emasculated.
Heroes take a flesh wound with stoicism. A couple of progressive, smart women I know suddenly looked at me askance when I confessed that watching the end of the Hawaiian Ironman always makes me cry. They lost a little respect for me because I have this inexplicable weakness for insane athletes who crawl across the finish line just before midnight.