Ode to One of the Good Ones: White Men, Masculinity, and Staying Human in a Broken System

​​Ode to One of the Good Ones: White Men, Masculinity, and Staying Human in a Broken System

It’s a pretty tough time to be a white, cis, straight guy in our country.

Whether they’re terrified of immigrants drugging and raping their women

(wait, that’s the president they voted for…)

Or trans people sexually assaulting their daughters in bathrooms

(wait, sorry, that’s the president again.)

Or the damn liberals taking their hard-earned dollars and using them to promote their own agenda

like war crimes and mass deportations.

(I’m sensing a pattern here…)

It’s tough out there for a lot of them.

And of course, I have no sympathy for those guys.

That just feels like good old-fashioned karma to me.

But You Know Who Else Is Having a Hard Time?

The white, cis, straight men who are deeply sensitive.

Compassionate.

Empathetic.

Actually paying attention to the state of the world and humanity.

The good guys.

The gentlemen gems, as my friend group lovingly calls our husbands.

It’s hard carrying the identity of the oppressor when you don’t align with those values.

When you don’t identify with the violence, the entitlement, the cruelty.

I’ve heard many of these men speak vulnerably about how painful it is to be lumped into a group they feel morally opposed to.

It reminds me of how I imagine some Germans feel.

Like wanting to shout into the void:

“I promise I’m one of the good ones.

Not all of us think genocide is an acceptable solution to financial problems.”

So What Are the Good Ones Supposed to Do?

For one thing:

keep going.

Seriously.

When you’re constantly projected onto as evil, as the reason everything is wrong, it can be

pretty fucking hard not to absorb it.

Maybe I am bad.

Or worse:

If you already think I’m terrible, maybe I should just live up to it.

Because it is easier to be bad than good.

It’s easier not to care.

Easier not to sacrifice privilege for someone you’ll never meet.

Being good takes stamina.

Bandwidth.

Energy.

And let’s be honest, most of us are running on fumes.

So keep going.

And Keep Learning

Just like well-intentioned white liberals mess up and say racist things sometimes,

cis and straight people unknowingly create microaggressions against queer folks all the time.

Ignorance isn’t the crime.

Refusing to learn is.

The most loving men I know have still said misogynistic or patronizing things not because they’re monsters, but because it’s baked into the culture.

That women are:

• Too emotional to be wise

• Less rational

• Periodically insane and therefore untrustworthy

  
  

(Meanwhile, there are a lot of men throwing world-ending tantrums right now.

Interesting how those emotional outbursts keep leading to bloodshed.)

I digress.

We can’t shame people for not knowing.

But we can expect accountability.

And growth.

And we can do it with love.

Talking to the Men We Love

We can talk to our husbands.

Brothers.

Fathers.

Sons.

With love.

Share what we know.

Share what we’ve lived.

(A brief note on internalized misogyny: many women carry it without realizing it. I did for years. When it pops up now, I catch it gently, “Whoa, honey. That again.” And I come back to my own wisdom. My own backbone.)

To the Good Guys

Go to therapy.

Talk with your friends.

Listen to your female partners.

Really listen.

Even when you disagree.

Especially then.

Get curious.

See what happens.

Why I Know This Is Possible

I married one of the good ones.

One of the gentlemen gems.

We’ve never voted differently though once, my husband didn’t understand why Kamala Harris ran ads reminding women they could vote differently than their husbands.

“Obviously they can,” he said.

And I said, Oh love. That isn’t true for so many women.

We talked.

Lovingly.

Honestly.

He listened.

And now he knows.

That’s what makes him one of the good ones.

That and his grounded presence.

His devotion to our daughters.

His compassion.

His ridiculous sense of humor that keeps trying until I finally laugh.

Today is his birthday.

Fourteen years ago, in our ragged little LA apartment, I made him Beef Wellington for the first time.

He took one bite and announced I’d be making it every year for the rest of his life.

I haven’t missed one.

This year, I’m making it for eleven people.

And somehow, it keeps getting better.

I love you, David.

Thank you for being one of the good ones.

Happy Birthday.