Hello, friends!

I thought I would be writing here regularly, and I still strive to do just that. But until I develop the habit I’ll be coming back here when I have something I need to write about. And boy, do I have something to write about today.

This is going to be a sad story, so stop reading now and save it for later if you’re not in the mood. If you’re easily upset by the subjects of child abuse or gun violence, I suggest you skip it altogether.

Jackie and I flew down to Florida for the long July 4 weekend, to visit my 91-year-old grandfather. All in all it was a trip; our flights were on time, the ocean was beautiful, and it was nice to spend some precious time with the patriarch of my family. But something happened on Sunday evening which marred the whole thing.

We were enjoying a lovely dinner at Aqua Bistro, the restaurant downstairs from my grandpa’s apartment, when a man arrived with his partner and son. The boy couldn’t have been more than 6 years old, and was clearly distressed and stimming repeatedly. Jackie immediately recognized the behaviors associated with the autism spectrum. I agreed, and saw a bit of myself in the boy; although I’m not autistic, I’ve been in situations when I was younger where I become overstimulated and overwhelmed, and lost access to my language tools.

We passively observed as the father became more and more agitated, and tried in vain to calm his son down. The son only became more distressed, as the father alternated between trying to distract him and issuing threatening gestures. It became clear that he was not equipped to handle this. We both silently feared a certain outcome, and hoped it would not come to that. But then it did.

While dragging his son away from the table by the arm, the father suddenly and viciously struck him on the backside, not feet from our table. He took the boy away and continued hitting and shaking him. We were shocked. I immediately lost my appetite. My heart was racing; I felt sick to my stomach. We ordered two more glasses of wine to try and settle down. I hoped that was the end of it; the father would realize his mistake and try something else.

It wasn’t. As soon as they were seated again, the boy began stimming. He was confused and afraid. The father reached across the table and tried to make him stop by smacking him on the legs, over and over again.

Jackie turned to say something and I was quick on her heels. “Please stop hitting your child,” she said calmly. I was emotional; I raised my voice. I wanted to communicate in language he would understand. A part of me wanted to get under his skin. “You ruined our dinner,” I said angrily. Of course it wasn’t about the dinner; it was about the poor boy. But my heart was racing and the blood was rushing to my head. It was fight-or-flight.

“Don’t tell me how to fucking raise my kid,” he screamed back at us. It went downhill from here. It soon became clear we were not going to be able to reason with him. He wanted to fight; but I wasn’t about to take that bait. He stormed off angrily and returned moments later, bellowing “say one more thing and I’ll shove a gun down your fucking throat.”

If I had been calm and cool, I would have handled the situation differently. Maybe I could have reasoned with the man if I had not raised my voice. Or kept silent, let Jackie take the lead in a manner I wasn’t capable of. I don’t know that anything we could have done would have changed the situation. Some injustices are bigger than any one person or couple; some situations can’t be helped. But I’m glad that we stood up for what we knew to be right, even if it didn’t lead anywhere.

It only occurred to me later that a threat of gun violence in the state of Florida must be read credibly. We do not live in a world of civil disagreement anymore. Any criticism can be grounds for a violent murder. Mind your own business, or eat a bullet.

I know that this man was full of hot air and empty threats. But had he been another man, a slightly more irate man with a concealed firearm at his hip, Jackie and I could well be dead now. Shot poolside by a Florida Man with a shattered ego.

Returning to the apartment, we put on our best fake smiles to spend some time watching 60 Minutes with my beloved grandfather, the reason we’d come down in the first place. Jackie excused herself to the bathroom, and then I did after she returned. On the toilet, I hyperventilated and choked back sobs. I knew the man would take out his rage on those around him, and hoped that the boy would be safe. I practiced the breathing techniques I’d learned over the course of my 30 years to keep my anxiety in check. With my heart rate returning to normal, I returned to 60 Minutes.

That night Jackie and I held one another close. The experience was harrowing for us both. I am extremely grateful for her, for my partner Liadh and my mother and father, and my chosen family of kind and compassionate people back here in New York. I am beyond happy to be safely back in the comfort of my home. But I know that men like him exist everywhere in America beyond the edges of my carefully-constructed bubble. In every restaurant, on every sidewalk, even (and especially) in the halls of power.

I think we’ve all begun to realize that masculinity is broken. I myself have a complicated relationship with the masculine, but have learned to identify with some of its features. I fancy myself a protector and a provider; it gives me satisfaction to play out these archetypal roles. Still more of its features I struggle to overcome: the emotional stagnancy, the limited range of expression, and the ego, oh the ego.

The way I see it, we’re still holding on to masculine tropes that have been outdated for decades. In times long ago, a man could feel he had real purpose in defending his homeland from invaders, leading a war party, hunting to provide food for his neighbors. Men were taught to use violence in some meaningful way, in service of community or country.

These days a man has no real community to protect; the nuclear family has eroded the sense of belonging while forcing parents ill-equipped to raise a child into doing just that. In this domestic sphere, violence is unnecessary. But if a man is taught that violence is the only tool in his belt, of course he will apply that same tool to parenting. And so the vicious cycle continues.

Today’s masculinity is unstable. For a man with no purpose, suffering under an oligarchy that takes away his security, a gun is a last line of defense for the ego. With an AR-15 at home, any man can at least go out in a blaze of violent glory when his pride is finally shattered. It is no coincidence that just about every mass-shooting is perpetrated by a man at the end of his rope.

The problem is not with men; it is with masculinity. And that means that if we wish to move forward, we need to redefine masculinity to incorporate compassion, kindness and respect, and reject violence as a last resort. We need to teach our young boys that they are more than a fist or a gun. And we need to do away with the assumption that it is always one man’s job to support a family.

I don’t know where to start. But I hope that if you’ve read this, you will make an effort to talk to the men in your life. Let them know that it is okay to be soft, to yield, to not have things under control all of the time. And if you have ideas to share as a result of my rambling, I hope you’ll share them with me.

That’s all for now, folks. Thanks for sticking with me.

With much love,

Noah