I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a real man. Maybe it's Memorial Day (and don't misunderstand me, I'm well aware that sacrifice for our country does not discriminate by gender); maybe it's Father's Day approaching; maybe it was a recent honor granted to my Dad reminding me what a truly fine man he is for a host of reasons.
I have immense respect for good men, and for their plight. I do call myself a feminist, but not the type who wants to string men up by their balls just because they have them. Rather, I'm the type who believes I'm equal to those who have balls even though I don't. I tend to lean on the scripture in Galatians 3:28 that "There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus." That said, I think we bear unique burdens as females and unique burdens as males. We also celebrate unique gifts and talents. And as humans, there is vast sea of commonality not to be forgotten.
(And yes, I just quoted scripture and referenced balls three times in the same paragraph. It couldn't be helped!)
I have crossed paths with some phenomenal men. I have been woefully disappointed by the inadequacies of others.
I first heard this poem at the ceremony honoring a former student of mine who was becoming an Eagle Scout. If you've never attended such an induction, it is a momentous occasion. This particular event was held in a gorgeous Presbyterian church in town. The acoustics were those you find in hallowed places like historic churches. As the service concluded, from the balcony behind us bellowed the resonant voice of another former student and friend of the honoree. Without a microphone and in the shadows of the candlelit church, he recited these words, penned by Rudyard Kipling, entitled "If":
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!
That poem has been floating through my mind these days, as it does from time to time. A good man is just as the verse describes, and more. But what I knew as I stood in that pew those many years ago, as my heart swelled, and what I'm struck by now--as a mother of a daughter and a son--is that the poem need not specify a gender. The prescription for being a good human being is beautifully clear.
This concludes today's lesson in nineteenth century poetry. In this century, so much noise around us screams to the lowest standards of conduct and the lowest common denominator of intellect, ethics, kindness. It's good to be reminded that we can choose to listen or we can rise to a higher level of expectation. And be grateful for those who do the same.
"If..."
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