I write this article to create the trilogy of Opinion articles (read the first and second) that focus on men and their masculine urges. To be honest, this isn’t a sex-ed article, but rather a reflection on a recent bachelor party trip for the upcoming wedding of my best friend named Dan. I wouldn’t want to mislead you.
Dan is the consummate “Florida Man.” He drives massive diesel Ford trucks, works long hours in a blue-collar job and fixes/flips (and even races) ATVs in his free time. His hands are a testament to his industriousness and hard work. They are invariably cut, scabbed and stained black with grease or oil; he lost part of his right index finger while fixing an ATV over three years ago. Dan is already a homeowner and has an unbreakable conviction to provide and protect his fiancée and his future children. He is only 21 years old.
On the flip side, his best friend and best man drives a quaint, charcoal gray Toyota Rav4. He is a full-time student, spending most of his days reading, writing and loitering by the Hesburgh Library’s first floor computers. He enjoys reading prose and poetry written in Latin and writes argumentative essays on political economy that nobody cares about or reads. He has spent the majority of his adulthood living in cramped dorms or apartments. He is also 21 years old.
Two weeks ago, we packed into a 2014 Volkswagen Jetta station wagon on a road trip to Blue Ridge, Ga. where we and his three other groomsmen would celebrate the waning days of Dan’s unmarried life. The other groomsmen are similarly “Florida Men”: they drive trucks, work blue-collar jobs, and have working-man hands. We spent the duration of the car ride singing along to country songs, lodging accusations over our brazen flatulence and gawking at trucks, trailers and machine equipment. During the trip, we went tubing on the Toccoa River, toured a moonshine distillery, went to the local rodeo, ate steak and eggs and smoked cigars at the firepit in front of the cabin.
I worried that I would not be able to connect with the others in the wedding party. I thought I was entirely out of touch with their reality, and to a large extent, this is true. We have different upbringings, priorities and sets of knowledge. I have no clue how to resod a lawn or apply emergency first-aid to a person mangled by a car crash. But they have no idea how to perform a discounted cash flow or scan a dactylic hexameter meter in Latin poetry. But then again, does fancy math or literature really matter in the grand scheme of things? Am I more equipped to confront the challenges of the real-world than these people are? Do I contribute more to society sitting around in DeBartolo Hall than these people do in their blue-collar jobs? Clearly not.
It was a reality check in several ways. For one, I popped my own bubble. A university education is great and all, but to think that you are nobly serving the world and saving humanity by completing a 4-year degree and then working a white-collar 9-to-5 job is simply crazed. It is perspective: I contribute in a different, perhaps smaller, way to the world through my education and future corporate career. Secondly, the way in which we found genuine connection was due in great part to shenanigans. Yes, it is healthy and perfectly acceptable for men to do stupid things and say stupid things. “Let boys be boys” is not and should not ever be a green light or endorsement of sexual violence or other criminal, despicable behavior. But could it be that there is a masculine urge for men to pursue and enjoy the simple things in life, like steaks and whiskey, or to do immature things, like good-humor bickering, or play-fighting or buying 200-proof moonshine? Is there not any room at all for a genuine, authentic version of the “let boys be boys” mantra? Thirdly, men are not categorically bad or evil. If anything, they are simple creatures: They find meaning in making or creating things and desire to protect those whom they love.
I realize that my advocacy for authentic masculinity may be inconsistent with the modern paragon for masculinity: Pedro Pascal. Some may find my writing so objectionable that I, the author, should immediately be publicly executed in South Quad as if we were in ninth-century medieval Europe. In that case, as the noose is being slipped around my neck and I watch the furious, raucous crowd shaking their right fist with Labubus in them and gripping their left fist around an iced matcha latte, I will know that this world is not for me.
Jonah Tran is a senior at Notre Dame studying finance and classics. He prides himself on sarcasm and never surrendering. You can file complaints to Jonah by email at jtran5@nd.edu.
