MenAreGood

Indigenous Rituals and What They Tell Us About Men

Excerpt - Swallowed by a Snake Chapter Nine

August 26, 2024

Cross-Cultural Grief

This is chapter nine of Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing. In the late 1980’s I was confused about men’s ways of healing and bumped into the anthropological research on cross cultural grief. It was this research that clearly showed the tendency of indigenous people to give men activities following a loss. The more I studied the more I saw that men relied on action as a mode of healing. It was easy to admire the grief rituals these folks offered to both men and women. See what you think.

Chapter Nine - Cross Cultural Grief

Indigenous people around the world have highly developed rituals and mechanisms in place in their cultures to aid the resolution of grief. These rituals are an important part of life for these people. Their cultures are fertile ground for grief to be nourished. In many ways we are the primitives, because we have very few mechanisms in our culture that function in a similar way. By studying the way indigenous people grieve we can begin to get some idea about the state of grief in our own culture and our inadequate rituals. Using the analogy of a business or a sports team that is not doing well compared to the competition, we can examine a successful party and learn from their achievement. We will probably not adopt a specific grief ritual from another culture, but we will be able to see how these cultures have incorporated grief into their daily lives and how they have developed different rituals for men and women.

These cultures have implemented action-oriented rituals that allow both men and women tasks that connect them with their grief. In our own culture we have no such thing. We are left to our own devices to heal our grief, many times without the support of a caring community. Given this void of ritual, men and women are put into a precarious state. Often, women are able to overcome this void by using their skills of relating and their natural tendency towards verbally sharing their grief with others, but men, usually with strengths of a different nature, are at more of a disadvantage. Without culturally-endorsed rituals men are left with nothing to do following a death. It has been my clinical observation that men in our culture grieve through task, that is, they find activities that allow them to access and heal their grief. Through studying the cross-cultural literature we can begin to get a glimpse of the possible root of a man’s tendency in our own culture to connect his grief with action.

The least we can expect is to stimulate our own thinking about different ways to express grief. Our own weakness in dealing with grief can be strengthened by observing the strength of the tribal culture’s ritual that is so effective in helping their communities come to terms with their loss. With that said, let’s look at what can be learned from grief around the world.

Community

One of the first things we notice is the difference between the social structure of indigenous people and our own way of life. Tribal cultures live in communities of intimately interconnected people who are closely affected in some way by the death of any member. They live in close proximity, rely on each other for the necessities of life, and usually have a common history and world view. There is a bond between them that is amplified by the feeling of “us” and “we” that develops when a group of people share such interdependence. The people of these cultures have ritual structures in place that are designed to support those in grief. There is usually a strong expectation and a sense of responsibility that the community will lend its support to those in pain. There is a sense that each death is a loss of the community, not a loss that is isolated.

We can contrast this with our own situation, where there is a certain invisibility in our interdependence. We live together in neighborhoods but not necessarily communities. Many times the neighbors who live three doors down the street have little attachment to or connection with our family. We shop in different places and work in different settings. When a member of a tribe dies, it is a person who was connected in many ways to the community. When a member of a neighborhood in North America dies, too often it is merely someone who lived down the street.

The interdependence of the tribal cultures can be better compared in some ways to the family unit in the United States. Families are interdependent in a similar kind of way, with each member having prescribed roles and duties and interacting on a daily basis. In many ways our families have become our communities. But without the embrace of a larger community we are left with fewer places to receive support for our grief. Our primary means of support frequently is limited to the members of our family. A table with many legs is not affected by one leg being sawed off, but a table with three or four legs is crippled by a similar loss. This is one of the reasons for the emergence of grief counseling in our culture.

World View

Another difference we notice is that the world view of the indigenous people in some way brings meaning to grief. Many times grief is seen as food for the soul of the dead person. The Minianka tribe in Africa see the tears of grief as being nourishment to the newborn soul of the person being grieved. Without the tears the soul could not move beyond the land of the living. In this way the mourners see their grief as a benefit to the person who has died. The variations of this theme are many, but they all incorporate the idea that grief is a necessary process and without it there is some sort of trouble. It is easy to see the contrast to our own culture where people tend to feel that their grief has no purpose or meaning, or worse yet, that it is a selfish act.

Marking the Griever

There are many common themes in the grief rituals among indigenous people. One of these is the tendency to mark the griever. All sorts of mechanisms are used, but one that is found in many cultures is hair. For many tribal people hair is a symbol of life. It marks the passage of time and is therefore connected with life and death. Many times the grievers either cut off their hair or allow their hair and (in the case of the men) beard to grow in response to a death. This is done as a symbolic act and as a part of a ritual process prescribed by the community, but it also functions as a way to mark the mourners. All the people of the community are aware that a certain haircut means a person is grieving. There are many variations on this theme, including special cuts where only a part of the hair is cut or all hair is sheared. The hair can be cut with all sorts of instruments, such as sharpened seashells, or it may be burned off. Sometimes the cut hair is saved as a memorial, to become part of a necklace or be used in a ritual. The important message of the special hair cut is that this is a person in pain, a person who is grieving, and the treatment he receives is altered due to his status as a griever.

Other ways of marking the griever include covering oneself with ashes or oil or certain colors of paint. In one African tribe there is a complex system of designating the colors of grief paint to alert the community to the type of loss that has been suffered. For instance, a man whose father died would wear a certain color of paint in a certain place on the body. If it had been his mother who died, the paint would have been a different color and painted in a different design. This simple system not only alerts the community to the fact that this man is grieving, it also clearly marks the type of loss that has occurred.

Bark

Bark is used in some cultures both as a way to mark the griever and as a symbol of grief. The Karanga people of Africa wear bark to mark themselves as grieving. Women wear a bark necklace, and men wear a woven bark chain around the head. The bark serves also as a symbol of loss, indicating that an individual has been stripped away from the community as bark has been stripped from the tree.

The story of Jaque, also related in a previous chapter, is another example of bark used as a symbol of loss. When his brother died suddenly, Jaque was torn by sadness and anger. Following ancient custom, he went into the forest, selected a tree and, after uttering a prayer, stripped away a piece of the bark. Now the tree, like Jaque, had lost something whose loss caused deep pain. Many times over the following months he returned to visit the tree. As the seasons passed, the wound in the tree healed. So did the wound in Jaque’s heart. With the tree as a visible reflection of his loss, Jaque was reminded that he, too, was healing. Jaque is a Native American, a Cree.

In this example, the bark of the tree was used as a symbol of the pain that the man was experiencing. As the bark is a covering of the tree, it is almost as if the man had his own covering sliced away in a similar manner. A part of him was taken—not his core, which still exists—but something that was a part of him all the same. The tree stood as a symbol for his loss; it was wounded in a similar way. Each time he visited that site the tree could remind him of his own wound and, as he watched the tree heal, of his own healing.

These are some of the ways native people have used to mark the griever. Marking gives the griever a public role to play and, in essence, permission to publicly and privately grieve. We can contrast this with the invisibility of grief in our culture. One of the last markings to be discarded in our culture was the black arm band. We now have no overt way to differentiate the people in our community who are grieving from those who are not. The men and women who are grieving can feel this invisibility and the accompanying lack of permission to grieve. Indigenous cultures prescribe specific behaviors and roles for the bereaved, the grief “norm” as it were. This can be contrasted with our own situation where there is confusion over where and when to express grief, or how much grief and of what duration is normal. This lack of “norm” leaves everyone guessing. The people I have worked with have all had the same question, “Is what I’m going through normal?” We are left untethered with a great deal of pain but no box to put it in.

When Does Grief End?

In some tribal communities, it is the responsibility of the community to clearly state when the time of official grief has ended. An example might be that a grieving man was marked by being forbidden to eat a certain type of food. When the community members feel it is the right time, they will offer the particular food to the grieving man as a symbol that he is now ready to re-enter the community as a non- grieving person. There are examples other than food—a certain way of dressing or different behavior—but the essence is the same: the community clearly marks the boundaries of grief for the griever. This contrasts with our own culture where there is great confusion about when and how much grief is appropriate. We live in a near vacuum of social indicators about the time needed to grieve. The most prevalent guideline we have is that many people don’t think you should be grieving at all.

Separating Men and Women in Grief

Another form of marking the griever is the separation of men and women in the grief rituals. By separating the grievers these cultures are honoring the differences in grieving between men and women and setting up different containers for healing. An example is the Bara people of southern Madagascar who designate two huts when a death occurs. One hut is the Tranadahy, which means “male house;” the other is the Trano Be Ranomaso, which means the “house of many tears.” During the period of time after the death these huts are used for congregating and receiving condolences. The men’s hut is the center of activity regarding the death. The men plan and initiate the rituals, receive condolences from the male guests, and take responsibility for the body. The women’s hut is more the center of emotional expression, with the women keening, wailing, and crying as they receive condolences from the female guests. These people literally have different places for men and women to be following a death. In this way, men and women are among their own sex and are in a position to be healed by their same-sex community members. It also honors the difference in grieving styles between men and women by allowing the opportunity for each to be near those who grieve as they do.

Tribal people have found a box in which to put grief. That box is ritual. The ritual that is used is both a container for the effects of grief and a norm that shows people the way to grieve. It can be any number of activities. For women the ritual many times is related to sharing their pain with each other, crying or keening. Men, on the other hand, usually have a ritual that includes some sort of action—singing sacred songs, drumming, dancing, tree wounding, etc. When Rosenblatt examined grief in 87 different cultures, he did not find a single culture in which men expressed tears more than women. In nine of the cultures studied the men didn’t cry at all, and in most of the cases studied the men cried less than the women.24 This points to a significant difference among men and women: men don’t use tears as much as women when dealing with their grief. This finding is not limited to western cultures, as many of the cultures Rosenblatt studied were tribal people who still maintained their grief rituals from their cultural heritage. From this we can see that even in cultures where there is an adequate container for grief the men tend to use tears less often than women. This finding seems to verify the research, regarding a man’s decreased levels of prolactin and the increased difficulty for men to access their tears.

What we find when we examine the cross-cultural literature is that men many times have active rituals that help them move into their grief. There is a tribe in Africa where the men literally face the women who are crying and keening in order to get into the mood of grief. They use this activity of watching the women to bring forth their own sense of loss. Even these tribal men with the luxury of intricate and beautiful grief rituals acknowledge that it is not an easy task for them to move into their feeling state. By their actions of facing the women they do something that puts them closer to their own grief.

Drumming

Another active ritual used around the world is that of drumming. The men of the Yoruba in Africa use drumming as an active means to deal with their grief.25 They have a variety of rhythms for different parts of the funeral service; a rhythm for washing the body, a rhythm for lowering the body into the grave, etc. After the death of a chief the men start playing a specific monotonous grief rhythm over and over. This rhythm is played continuously for three days. The men of the tribe are responsible for keeping the rhythm going and do not allow it to stop. They drum day and night, sleeping in shifts and then drumming for long periods. It is through this ritual, and many others, that the men have something to do after the death, and this activity helps them engage feelings of grief. The rhythm signals to the tribe that a state of mourning exists and is a constant reminder of the loss to the community.

Externalization of Pain

Another aspect of active ritual is the externalization of pain. This is accomplished in a great variety of ways, from lacerating the body, scratching oneself until the blood flows, knocking out a tooth, or even cutting off a finger. Anthropologists tell us the reasons for these mutilations are related to a number of factors encompassed in their world view, including rendering the ghost of the deceased harmless, convincing the soul of the dead of the sincerity of the grief, establishing a corporal union between the living and the dead, strengthening the departed, as an offering, or purification. A few anthropologists have seen the core of these actions: they are outward acts that express inner states. By wounding the body in some way, the inner pain has an outer parallel. This is similar to Jaque who wounded a tree as a symbol; it is just that these people are wounding themselves. As their wounds heal, they will have an outer symbol for the healing of their inner wounds. They will also have physical scars to remind them for some time of the loss that occurred. One Australian tribe has a name for grief that literally translated means “bad guts.” That is probably the best description of grief I have ever heard. The mutilations cut away at the “bad guts” and let them flow. There is a ritual among the Aborigines where the blood that is dripping from the mutilated griever is allowed to drip onto the corpse, apparently in an effort to merge the living and the dead and to strengthen the dead person. I am certainly not suggesting that we adopt these rituals as a means to facilitate our own grief. However, they are honest and effective means that these people have found to externalize their pain and “bad guts.”

Let’s turn now to looking in more detail at the way a particular tribal culture deals with grief. We can examine closely the grief rituals and the mechanisms that the men use in dealing with their grief.

The Yolngu

Our first example is an Aborigine people of Australia, the Yolngu.26 The men of this tribe begin to work with their grief before a death occurs. As a person becomes seriously ill, the men respond by singing sacred songs. Groups of men gather around the bedside of the ailing person and sing the sacred songs of the tribe. This is not a “let’s sing a song and go” routine. The men will sing continuously as the person lies ill. The purpose of the songs is to comfort the dying person, to keep him alert, to insure that the person will die in the right “Manikay” (sacred song cycle), to alert the ancestors that this person is coming to them, and to insure that his soul will be oriented towards its “home” after death. As the men do this, the women of the tribe are responsible for the care of the sick person and feeding the men who are singing. If there is consensus that the person is dying, the women will also cry or keen along with the songs. This crying or keening by the women is called “ngathi.” Both the crying and keening and the songs by the men are accompanied by traditional Aborigine instruments, the clapsticks and the didgeridoo. Sometimes the ailing person recovers, and if this happens the singers disperse and life goes on. If death occurs, quiet covers the camp, uncharacteristic of the usual hustle and bustle.

At the ritual announcement of the death, which is made by a man, the women of the tribe keen and wail and throw themselves to the ground. At times they will strike themselves with sharp objects. It is expected that the men of the community will restrain the women from seriously injuring themselves. The men step forward and pull the weapons from the women’s hands and throw them out of reach. The women usually respond to this by ceasing their attempts at self-injury. This action of protecting the women is seen as a sign of protection for the grievers, and a show of community support for those who are most affected by the death. It is an action that men can take that is both protecting their loved ones and an indication of their own grief.

The men of the tribe will also keen at times, particularly if the dead person was a close relative, but the more common emotional expression of the men is venting anger by dancing. It is said that the men will dance in an “energetic and violent” manner that signifies hostility. According to Rosenblatt, this expression of hostility directed outward is a common masculine activity following a death. Many times a man’s anger will open the door into his other feelings of grief.27

Tribal Ritual in the 20th Century

The Yolngu people are in many ways between two worlds. Although they have maintained many of their rituals, they also live in the midst of twentieth century technology. If a member of their tribe has died in the nearby hospital, the body is retrieved in ritual fashion. The community goes to the hospital and obtains the body, then forms a “slow, emotional, and ritualized” procession back to their camp. The body, moved with accompanying dancing and singing, is taken to a shelter where it will lie until burial. It is said that even the cars take part in the ritual, slowing, stopping, starting, and reversing as they mimic the movements of the dancers.

The coffin of the dead person is painted with sacred symbols by the initiated men of the Yolngu. These symbols are secret and are not allowed to be viewed by women and children. The purpose of the sacred symbols is to mediate between the soul of the dead person and the ancestors who will help this newly born soul along his way. Prior to the use of coffins, the Yolngu men would paint the body of the deceased with red ochre and then paint on the sacred symbols.

Singing the Grief

Throughout the days of the ceremonies grief is openly expressed, many times through song. These songs communicate many things: a wish for the return of the dead person, memories of the events in the life of the one who died, and the hope of a safe passageway for the soul to the ancestors. The men often will be singing day and night, and will sleep in shifts as the songs continue. The singing of songs by the men is an important part of the funeral service. They are accompanied by the dancing of the women who enact the stories that the songs are depicting.

The grief that is felt and expressed at the funeral ceremonies can continue for some time. It is said that late at night after the day is done and the tasks of the community are completed, you can sometimes hear the keening of a solitary mourner. The sound is heard throughout the quiet of the community and is accepted as a reminder of the pain and grief that the mourner still feels.

The men are responsible for the ritual activities of their community, and in many ways become like stage managers or directors, making the ritual preparations, rehearsing the songs, and making sure the process runs smoothly. The Yolngu men are active in working with their grief, with very specific activities assigned to them. These activities of singing, dancing, and directing the rituals give the men a framework in which their feelings can emerge and be honored and acknowledged. The women are also busy in keening, crying, dancing, caring for the children, and feeding the men. The men and women of this tribe have very specific roles to play, and both support each other through the difficult period of grief.

The Dagura People

We now turn to another example of indigenous grief rituals, that of the Dagura people of Africa.28 When a death occurs the women of the village begin to grieve. Their grief is somewhat muted, however, until the men have ritually announced the death. This announcement cannot occur until the men have created a “sacred space” for the grief of the village to emerge, and no man is allowed to show signs of grief until after this ritual space has been created. This is done by invoking the aid of the spirits through a private ritual performed only by the men. The invoking of the spirits is partly designed to elicit enough grief from the mourners to allow the dead person to move into the world of the ancestors. The Dagura believe that the soul’s journey into the next world is dependent in some ways upon the grief expressed by the mourners. Without adequate grief, the soul is thought to be stuck on this plane of existence and unable to leave the world. They have thus connected their grief with a purpose, that being the birth of the soul of the newly dead. The creation of ritual space, a safe container for the expression of grief, is seen as essential to the birthing of the spirit of the person who died. A part of this creation of sacred space involves throwing ashes around the house of the deceased and the ritual preparation of an actual physical space for the grief ritual. The announcement states that there has been a death, the ritual space is ready, and it is now time to grieve.

The Dagura Grief Ritual

The grief ritual itself is complex and beautiful. The grieving space is divided into different sections. The body of the dead person is dressed ceremonially and seated on a stool in the section called the “shrine.” Two women elders are seated next to the body and are charged with the duty to collect the grief that is being expressed and to “load it on” to the dead person to help him or her in the journey toward the ancestors. The shrine is colorfully decorated and contains some of the important possessions of the dead person. There is a boundary around the shrine which symbolically marks the separation between the living and the dead, and outside of the two women tending to the body, no one is allowed to enter the shrine, for to do so would mean entering the realm of the dead.

Between the shrine and the mourners is an empty space that represents chaos. Within this space people are allowed to express any form of grief they want, as long as it is related to their feelings about the death. Crying, dancing, or any expression of emotion is accepted and expected to take place within this space. There are people who are designated as “containers.” These people are often relatives who have come from afar. Their job is to insure the safety of the space for the grievers, making sure that no harm comes to those who are actively grieving. The Dagura believe in releasing grief with all its intensity, but they have also developed a system in which the intensity does not exceed the capacity of the mourners. It is like a system of checks and balances. The containers follow the grievers as they mourn and if they stray out of the ritual space, will gently tap them on the shoulder to remind them to come back into the contained space.

On one side of the shrine are the men of the village and on the other side are the women. Each group consists of mourners and containers. The mourners are further divided by the “kotuosob,” a small piece of rope tied around the wrist of the griever. The rope designates a person who was particularly close to the deceased, perhaps a family member. This marking alerts all the participants that someone who is wearing the “kotuosob” is what they call a “center of the heat” person, that is, a person who is more likely to be in danger of “grieving himself to death.” The Dagura see grief as food for the psyche, necessary to maintain a healthy psychological balance. But they also see its danger—too much grief and a person will “lose their center” and, they believe, can grieve to death. Thus the Dagura designate specific containers to follow closely behind the tagged person and do exactly as they do, including dancing, jumping to the beat of the drum, or pounding the ground. Sometimes when a tagged griever is experiencing a great deal of grief, a group of containers and mourners will form a line behind him or her with each person in the line doing the same action as the primary griever. It is understood that this transmits the feeling of the primary griever into all of those down the line. This type of process is viewed as a form of silent and physical support to the person who is grieving. It is important to point out that among the Dagura the healing of grief is gender specific. That is, no woman will approach a man in trying to help him with his grief, and no man would do the same for a woman. They believe that it takes a man to help release and heal the grief of another man, and a woman to reflect the grief of a woman.

Music

Music plays an integral part of the ritual. The ceremony is accompanied by xylophones and drums and two singers. The xylophones are divided into male and female. The male xylophone follows the mood of the singers and the female xylophone accompanies the male xylophone with a redundant set of notes. The singers are charged with the responsibility of singing (chanting) the life of the dead person. They sing the joy and sorrow of the family history and the events which led up to the death. This spontaneous singing is done in order to emphasize and direct the grief of the community.

Everyone in the community is expected to take part in this ritual. It is held as a solemn responsibility. Anyone who happens to be near the village during the ritual is expected to participate. It is as if death stops life for a while, all other activities coming to a halt. In the words of one singer, “We are trapped in a world in which we are not in control because of the mighty power of death.”

In the Yolngu and Dagura cultures, and in others around the world, grief is vented at the funeral in a very intensive fashion. The rituals of both last about three full days. During that time grief is given all the attention of the community, and it flows and flows. It should also be noted that in both cultures the support for a person’s grief does not stop after the funeral. Most indigenous people have post- funeral rituals that provide further opportunity to express grief. Rituals are practiced throughout the year, often marking important dates such as the one-year anniversary of the death. The community expects the grief to continue for some time, and in both the Yolngu and Dagura cultures grief can be released after the funeral and at the next funeral, if need be. This can be compared with our own culture where there is usually very little expression of grief during the funeral services, and few, if any, culturally-endorsed occasions for expressing grief thereafter.

Both the Yolngu and Dagura examples begin to give us an idea of how our culture lacks sufficient contained space to process the emotions that follow a death. Both have woven grief into the fabric of their lives and into their world view. Both cultures have linked a person’s grief with the purpose of aiding the soul in its journey. These cultures are very explicit in providing markers of who are the grievers and actions and roles to be played. We have very little of this. Both give men specific things to do following a death, activities that help them in connecting to their grief. Among the Yolngu, men have the responsibility of singing, and with the Dagura, men are responsible for the ritual and the healing of other men.

Imagine just for a moment that the people of the Dagura and the Yolngu suddenly lost their active grief rituals. What would happen to their men and women? What would the men of the Yolngu do without their songs? In some ways this is a parallel of what is happening in our culture. We have much to learn from indigenous people about the resolution of grief. We can use this knowledge to find creative mechanisms that are right for us.

24. Rosenblatt, P.C., R.P. Walsh, and D.A. Jackson. Grief and Mourning in Cross-Cultural Perspective. 1976, H.R.A.F. Press.
25. Diallo, Yaya, and Mitchell Hall. The Healing Drum: African WisdomTeachings. Rochester, Vermont. 1989, Destiny Books.
26. Reed, Janice “A Time to Live a Time to Grieve: Patterns and Processes of Mourning Among the Yolngu of Australia.” Culture, Medicine, and Psychiatry, 3, 1979.
27. Rosenblatt.
28. Some, Malidoma. Ritual: Power, Healing and Community. Portland. 1993, Swan Raven and Company.

If you are interested in this book you can find it here.

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Take responsibility.
Become the kind of man others can depend upon.

What I found was a man who thought highly of masculinity and cared deeply about men who were struggling to find their place in a world that openly criticizes men as being toxic. He challenged them to stop making excuses, take responsibility, and work on themselves as men. I can’t remember hearing a comparable message from feminist writers directed toward women. Their emphasis has generally been on the obstacles women face, the ways society has failed them, and their claims of victimhood. Amerix’s message was very different. He held men accountable and urged them to become stronger, healthier, more disciplined, and more capable.

Why would millions of men and boys be drawn to someone like Amerix?

I don’t think it’s much of a mystery.

His message is remarkably simple: You matter as a man. Now get to work.

He challenges men to improve themselves while offering practical guidance on how to avoid the traps that derail so many lives. Beneath that challenge is another message—one many men have rarely heard—that they have value simply because they are men.

In a culture that casually speaks of toxic masculinity while rarely celebrating the positive possibilities of manhood, that message is powerful. Amerix tells men they have value, but he doesn’t stop there. He also tells them they have a responsibility to live up to that value.

Does Amerix talk about women? Absolutely. He has some strong opinions about women and repeatedly urges men to be cautious in their relationships. He encourages men to value themselves, maintain their own purpose, and not lose themselves in trying to satisfy every desire of a partner. I can understand why many feminists would object to some of his views. He is often blunt and sometimes makes sweeping statements about women. But after reading a number of his posts, I simply can’t say that women are the center of his work. They aren’t. Men are. His central project is encouraging men to become stronger, healthier, more disciplined, and more responsible.

Here’s one of his tweets about women:

Men, You are the driver of your bus. The bus is your life and the route is your purpose. A woman is a passenger in your bus. If you are a careless driver, she will alight. Don’t follow her. Improve your skill & keep going. Another passenger will board.

The paper concludes that Amerix’s message is ultimately dangerous. Here’s how the authors summarize their concern:

Amerix’s ideology thereby not only reproduces the experience of pressure, failure, depression and stress caused by the expectation to fulfil the role of the breadwinner (cf Schmidt 2024), but also fosters a sense of masculine entitlement among Kenyan men (cf Kimmel 2019) that, in case of ongoing lack of success, might produce feelings of rage and aggression. What presents itself as a form of self-scaling (Schmidt and Kibuye ) masculine repair might thus rather be a vicious cycle of destroying oneself, other men, society, and women.

I paused when I read that.

This is not merely a criticism of some of Amerix’s ideas about women or relationships. It is a much broader claim. The authors argue that his overall message of masculine self-improvement ultimately becomes “a vicious cycle” that destroys the man himself, other men, society, and women.

That is an extraordinary conclusion.

Extraordinary conclusions deserve equally strong evidence.

What surprised me was how little attention was given to the positive themes that dominate so much of his work—discipline, health, responsibility, purpose, and accountability. Those themes receive relatively little discussion, while the paper concludes that his overall message leads toward entitlement, aggression, and ultimately the destruction of oneself, other men, society, and women.

Then, a few pages later, the paper makes another striking claim: (emphasis mine)

Amerix’s suggested practices of masculine self-repair thus have three important
characteristics differentiating them from other forms of social repair. They are, firstly, not outward-oriented but practices of caring for one’s masculine self. They are, secondly, prone to paranoia because changing their masculine self will cause a change in how men see the world, namely as interlaced with feminist ideology and micro-practices that need to be uncovered and corrected. Lastly, masculine self-repair is considered self-scaling, that is small acts of (re)masculinizing are believed to cause changes in men’s relations to other people as well as cause the world to run according to its masculine nature again. According to Amerix, masculine self-repair therefore leads to a revelation of the fact that men live in a perverted world that can, however, be tilted back onto its masculine trajectory if enough men decide to repair their masculine selves.

Wait a minute.

The authors argue that Amerix’s message makes men “prone to paranoia” because they begin to see feminist ideology woven throughout modern society.

Really?

But that immediately raised another question in my mind.

If encouraging men to see feminist influence throughout society is said to foster paranoia, shouldn’t we also ask whether encouraging women to see patriarchy throughout society might produce a similar effect?

The point is not that either movement is necessarily paranoid.

The point is that the same psychological standard should be applied consistently.

If one worldview is examined for its tendency to heighten suspicion, then competing worldviews deserve the same scrutiny.

That seems reasonable to me.

This also brngs up a related issue. The authors seem upset that Amerix would make sweeping negative generalizations about women, Okay. But if they are going to take that route shouldn’t they also hold the same judgment against all of the sweeping generalizations about men that are made on a daily basis? Men are toxic, men are privileged, etc. I have never heard a feminist or feminist researcher hold themselves accountable in that manner. Have you?

I finished reading Amerix with a more positive impression than I expected.

I finished reading the paper with a more negative impression than I expected. Not because it criticized Amerix. But because I don’t think it gave an accurate representation of him.

Before we criticize anyone, we have an obligation to understand what they are actually trying to accomplish.

After reading both, I came away believing the paper understood Amerix’s most controversial statements. I’m not convinced it understood Amerix himself.

Men Are Good.

Amerix X account

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tgolden@tgolden

July 27, 2026

Seeing Men Clearly

The Hidden Lens Shaping How We See Boys and Men

A Note Before You Begin

This is the opening chapter of a book I have been writing called Seeing Men Clearly.

The book grew out of a simple question: Why are some forms of male suffering so difficult for us to recognize, even when the evidence is directly in front of us?

From the beginning, I made a conscious decision to avoid writing a book that assigns blame. Rather than searching for villains, I have tried to understand the deeper historical, psychological, and cultural forces that have shaped how we think about boys and men. My hope is that if we can better understand these underlying dynamics, many of today’s conflicts and misunderstandings will begin to make more sense.

In recent years, more people have begun to recognize that boys and men face challenges that have too often gone unnoticed. Yet conversations about these issues can quickly become polarized, causing people to stop listening before the discussion has truly begun. I wanted to write a book that invites readers to look carefully at the evidence, consider a different perspective, and decide for themselves.

I am sharing this chapter now because I believe its central idea is too important to remain confined to a book or a website. If it resonates with you, I hope you’ll consider sharing it with others who may benefit from seeing these patterns more clearly.

As always, I welcome your thoughts and feedback.

Chapter One

Women and Children First

When the Titanic struck the iceberg on April 14, 1912, and the magnitude of the disaster became clear, a command emerged that would echo through history:

“Women and children first.”

The phrase has since become shorthand for moral decency. It evokes images of courage, sacrifice, and order in chaos. It is taught in classrooms, praised in films, and woven into our understanding of what it means to be honorable. The men who stepped aside that night are remembered as noble. The expectation that they should do so is rarely questioned.

And yet, very few people pause to consider what that command reveals.

The Titanic was not an isolated moment. Maritime tradition had long held that in emergencies, women and children were to be prioritized for survival. The principle was considered civilized. It distinguished order from barbarism.

But beneath the nobility lies a moral asymmetry so familiar we rarely examine it. In moments of mortal danger, women’s lives are prioritized while men’s lives are expected to be risked. This expectation is not controversial. It is not debated. It is instinctively accepted.

The question is not whether the instinct is understandable. It clearly is.

The question is why it feels so natural.

Imagine that the command aboard the Titanic had been:

“Men and children first.”

Most people would recoil instinctively. The order would feel grotesque, unjust, and almost unthinkable. We would immediately ask why women’s lives had been placed below men’s and how any civilized society could accept such a rule.

Yet “women and children first” produces almost no comparable discomfort. It feels honorable. Natural. Even morally necessary.

The facts have changed. Our moral intuition has not. The same moral asymmetry appears in modern institutions.

More than a century later, only men in the United States are required to register for Selective Service. Failure to do so can carry legal consequences. Women are exempt. The justification often rests on combat roles, tradition, or biological difference. But beneath those explanations lies a deeper assumption: in times of national danger, the lives of men are treated as more expendable than the lives of women.

Imagine reversing the arrangement. Imagine requiring only women to register for potential military conscription while exempting men. The reaction would be immediate and fierce. It would be called discriminatory, unjust, and oppressive.

Yet the current arrangement provokes little sustained moral outrage.

Why?

The instinct to protect women and children is often described as chivalry. It is framed as virtue. And in many ways, it is. Throughout human history, men have risked and sacrificed their lives to defend families, communities, and nations. War memorials stand in nearly every town, bearing overwhelmingly male names. The expectation of male sacrifice in defense of others has been normalized for generations.

It is not cruel. It is not consciously malicious. It is simply assumed. And assumptions, when shared collectively, become invisible

The pattern extends far beyond disasters and military service. In public emergencies, evacuation protocols routinely prioritize women and children. In humanitarian crises, aid campaigns frequently emphasize the vulnerability of women and girls. In media coverage of tragedy, particular attention is often drawn to female victims, even when male casualties are numerically greater.

The emphasis feels compassionate. It feels humane. But it also reveals a hierarchy of concern. When women suffer, it feels urgent. When men suffer, it feels unfortunate. That difference is rarely articulated.

It is simply felt.

None of this requires resentment to observe. It does not require hostility toward women. It requires only the willingness to notice a pattern.

The pattern is this: our culture instinctively treats female vulnerability as morally primary. Male vulnerability, by contrast, is often conditional. It must be demonstrated, justified, or placed into context before it receives the same degree of concern.

The phrase “women and children first” is not a policy manual. It is a moral symbol. It tells us something about who we instinctively protect and who we expect to endure. The instinct itself may be rooted in evolutionary pressures, reproductive strategy, social stability, or simple empathy toward those perceived as physically smaller or less capable of defense. Explanations vary.

What matters for our purposes is not origin but operation.

Whatever its origins, this instinct became deeply embedded in our moral thinking. Over time it came to feel less like a preference and more like common sense. As we will see later, blind spots often begin as useful adaptations. The question for this book is not how the instinct originated, but how it continues to shape our perceptions today.

When a moral reflex becomes a cultural default, it begins shaping institutions. Education. Research. Public policy. Funding priorities. Media narratives. Legal frameworks. Over time, what began as an adaptive instinct gradually becomes social structure. And once a structure has existed long enough, it no longer appears to be a structure at all.

It simply feels normal.

If we are to examine modern debates about gender honestly, we must begin here—not with ideology, political movements, or competing grievances—but with the underlying moral gravity that quietly tilts our collective responses.

We admire the men who stepped aside on the Titanic.

We require men to register for war.

We instinctively organize compassion around women and children.

None of these reactions feel unusual. That is precisely the point.

The question is not whether the instinct to protect women is wrong. The question is what happens when an instinct becomes so familiar that we no longer recognize it as an instinct.

Before we can discuss policy, research, or political movements, we must first name the moral pattern that makes those policies and reactions feel so natural.

There is a word for that pattern. In the next chapter, we'll give it a name and begin exploring how it quietly shapes our understanding of boys and men.

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tgolden@tgolden

July 20, 2026

Fathers and Divorce: The Grief No One Sees

Why One Divorce Can Feel Like Twelve Different Losses

Fathers and Divorce: The Grief No One Sees

When women divorce, the public conversation often emphasizes freedom, personal growth, empowerment, and the opportunity to begin again. Books, articles, support groups, and even friends reinforce the idea that she is beginning a new chapter of life. Men, by contrast, are far more likely to have their suffering overlooked or minimized. If they struggle, people may assume they are simply angry, bitter, or paying the consequences for their own mistakes. Their grief often goes unseen.

As a therapist who has spent many years helping people through grief, I’ve often been struck by how poorly we understand what divorce can mean for many men. People often talk about divorce as though it were a single event: “The marriage ended.” But for many men, divorce is not one loss. It is ten or fifteen losses, all arriving within a matter of months. No wonder so many struggle.

Part of the reason we miss this is because we misunderstand grief itself. When people think of grief, they usually think of death. A spouse dies. A parent dies. A child dies. We understand that these losses bring grief because something precious has been taken away.

But grief does not only follow death.

Grief follows loss.

And some experiences involve so many losses occurring at once that they can evoke a grief similar to the one that follows the death of someone we love.

Divorce is one of them.

Yet beneath the legal documents and the practical changes, many men are mourning an extraordinary number of losses all at once. Until we begin to see those losses, we will continue to misunderstand why divorce can be one of the most devastating experiences of a man’s life.

The Loss of a Wife

The most obvious loss is the marriage itself. Even when the relationship has been difficult, the loss of a spouse often means losing the person who at one time shared everyday life. The person who knew your routines. Who heard your stories. Who sat beside you at dinner. Who helped create a home. That daily companionship disappears almost overnight. The loss may have occurred long ago—perhaps even shortly after you were married—but it is only now that the loss becomes complete.

The Loss of Being Left

This may be one of the deepest wounds of all. When a spouse dies, the separation is usually beyond anyone’s control. Neither partner chose it, and it is not something either of them wanted. Divorce can be very different. If your wife decides to leave, the loss carries another painful message. Whether she intends it or not, many men hear: “I no longer choose you.” That is an additional loss and a powerful rejection. Many men begin asking questions that are difficult to answer. “If the person who knew me best decided to leave... what does that say about me?” The grief of divorce can often be intertwined with abandonment, shame, self-doubt, and a significant loss of confidence.

The Loss of Children

Perhaps no loss hurts more. Many fathers go from seeing their children every day to seeing them every other weekend—or even less. People often think fathers miss the birthdays and holidays. They do. But they also miss the ordinary moments: helping with homework, driving to soccer practice, bedtime stories, cooking dinner together, watching a movie on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Those ordinary moments, many thousands of them, are what fatherhood is made of. When they’re gone, the loss can be overwhelming.

The Loss of Home

A house is more than wood and drywall. It holds memories: first steps, Christmas mornings, family dinners, laughter, arguments, birthdays, watching your children grow. Leaving the family home often feels like leaving an entire chapter of your life behind. For many men the house is either sold or no longer your residence. That loss can be both painful and disorienting.

These losses bring something that surprises many people: chaos. Life is not simply different—it becomes disordered. The routines, relationships, roles, and sources of stability that once anchored a man’s life can disappear all at once, making it increasingly difficult to find a path back to solid ground.

This kind of chaos is familiar to anyone who has experienced the death of a loved one. Profound grief often shatters the order of life. It is this chaos that many men find most disorienting. The familiar ways of finding their center are gone, leaving them in a landscape that feels unfamiliar, unstable, and profoundly lonely.

The Loss of Purpose

Many men organize their lives around providing for their families. The long hours, the sacrifices, the stress of earning a living all make sense because someone they love depends on them. Purpose is often woven into responsibility.

After divorce, many continue working just as hard. But they return each evening to an empty apartment. The paycheck still arrives. The responsibilities continue. Yet the daily experience of providing has changed. The work remains, but the purpose feels different. For some men, it is as though the “why” behind years of effort has quietly disappeared.

The Loss of Identity

Many men don’t simply lose a marriage. They lose identities they have carried for years: husband, daily father, protector, problem solver, provider, family man. These are not merely titles. They become part of how a man understands himself and his place in the world.

When those identities are suddenly stripped away, many men quietly ask a question they never imagined having to face: Who am I now? Rebuilding a life after divorce often means rebuilding an identity as well—a process that can take years.

The Loss of Financial Security

Divorce often means selling a home, dividing retirement savings, paying attorneys, supporting two households instead of one, and, in many cases, paying child support or alimony. Years—sometimes decades—of careful planning and hard work can disappear with astonishing speed.

The financial impact reaches beyond bank accounts. Dreams are postponed or abandoned. Retirement may be delayed. Vacations disappear. Hobbies are set aside. A home that once represented stability becomes a memory. Financial security is more than money; it is the confidence that tomorrow will be manageable. When that confidence is shaken, it becomes another profound loss layered on top of all the others.

The Loss of Friends and Community

Divorce rarely affects only two people. Friendships often change. Couples choose sides. Churches become uncomfortable. Neighborhoods no longer feel like home. Even familiar restaurants or vacation spots may become reminders of a life that no longer exists.

For many couples, it is the wife who has served as the social conductor—maintaining friendships, organizing gatherings, keeping in touch with extended family, and sustaining the couple’s social life. When the marriage ends, many of those relationships disappear almost overnight. Invitations stop coming. Mutual friends drift away. Family connections become strained or vanish altogether.

A man’s world can quietly become much smaller, leaving him not only grieving the loss of his marriage but also the community that once surrounded it.

The Loss of the Future

When people marry, they almost always carry hopes for the future. They imagine building a life together, raising children, growing old side by side, celebrating holidays, welcoming grandchildren, traveling, retiring, and sharing the ordinary moments that make up a lifetime. These dreams become part of the marriage itself. They are not fantasies; they are emotional investments in a future that both partners expect to share.

When a marriage ends, that imagined future dies as well. The life the couple had been building together suddenly disappears. This is one of the least recognized losses of divorce. People grieve not only what has happened. They also grieve what will never happen.

Birthdays that will never be celebrated together. Vacations that will never be taken. Grandchildren who will never know the family as it was imagined. Growing old together becomes a future that no longer exists.

In many ways, this is grief for a life that was never lived but was deeply loved nonetheless.

The Loss of Being a Father

Many divorced fathers describe another painful loss. They still love their children every bit as much. Yet they may have little influence over daily routines, discipline, schools, medical decisions, or even where their children live. Loving deeply while having limited ability to protect, guide, or simply be present for your children is one of the most painful experiences a father can endure.

The loss is not simply one of control. It is the loss of everyday fatherhood. Bedtime conversations disappear. Helping with homework becomes less frequent. Family dinners, weekend routines, spontaneous hugs, rides to school, and quiet moments together may suddenly vanish or become occasional events governed by a custody schedule.

Many fathers also carry a constant awareness that important moments in their children’s lives are unfolding without them. First accomplishments, disappointments, new friendships, school events, illnesses, and ordinary daily experiences continue, but they are no longer there to witness them. They become spectators to a life they once helped shape.

This is a unique kind of grief because the children are still alive. The love remains fully intact. Yet the opportunity to live that love as a father is profoundly diminished.

The Loss of Reputation

Some men leave divorce carrying accusations. Others simply carry assumptions. People quietly wonder what he must have done. Friends become more distant. Coworkers become more cautious. Invitations become less frequent. Even when no one says anything directly, many men feel that they are being viewed through a different lens.

Our culture often reinforces these silent judgments. Divorced women are frequently portrayed as survivors, as women beginning a new chapter, rediscovering themselves, or reclaiming their lives. Divorced men, by contrast, are often viewed with suspicion. If the marriage ended, many assume he must have been controlling, emotionally unavailable, selfish, or somehow at fault. These assumptions are rarely spoken aloud, but they can be felt in conversations, in changed relationships, and in the subtle distance that develops between him and others.

Of course, some men bear responsibility for the end of their marriages, just as some women do. But cultural narratives often encourage us to ask what happened to her while wondering what he must have done. That difference shapes how compassion is distributed after divorce.

For many men, the result is a quiet but painful loss of reputation. They are not only grieving the end of a marriage; they are grieving the loss of how they are seen by the people around them.

The Loss of Hope

After enough losses accumulate, another danger appears. Some men stop believing that happiness is possible. Not because they are weak, but because everything that once gave their lives stability and meaning seems to have disappeared at the same time.

By now they are swimming in chaos. Every familiar landmark is gone. The routines that anchored them, the people who steadied them, the dreams that guided them, and the roles that defined them have all been disrupted. Chaos has a way of whispering a dangerous lie: There is no way out. Things will never be good again.

That lie can become one of the greatest dangers of divorce. The future begins to look like nothing more than an extension of today’s pain. Hope itself becomes another casualty.

Yet one of the most important truths about grief is that chaos is not permanent. It feels permanent while we are living through it, but it is not. As new routines emerge, new relationships form, and a new sense of purpose develops, hope can slowly return. The challenge is helping men survive long enough to discover that the voice of chaos is not telling the truth.

Death by a Thousand Losses

People sometimes ask why divorce affects men so profoundly. Perhaps they’re asking the wrong question. Imagine losing your wife, your children, your home, your daily purpose, your financial security, your identity, your friendships, your community, your future dreams, your reputation, your confidence, your hope, and the knowledge that someone once chose you above everyone else. Very few human experiences involve so many simultaneous losses. That is why divorce can produce such profound grief. Not because one thing was lost. But because an entire life disappeared.

A Final Thought

One of the greatest misunderstandings about grief is the belief that it belongs only to death. It doesn’t. Grief follows love. It follows attachment. It follows dreams. It follows identity. It follows every meaningful loss we experience.

For many divorced fathers, the deepest struggle is not the legal process itself. It is the accumulation of losses that follow it—the loss of daily fatherhood, home, community, identity, reputation, dreams, stability, and hope. Taken together, these losses create a kind of chaos that can make the future seem impossible to imagine.

Perhaps it is time to stop asking why so many divorced men struggle and begin asking what they have actually lost.

If we can learn to see divorce through the lens of grief rather than failure, we may finally begin to understand the silent suffering of millions of fathers. And with that understanding may come something many of them have long needed but seldom received: compassion.

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