Tuesday, March 16, 2010

More Nostalgia for MEN

All of us are men, from the smallest girl to the tallest man. We were created men, hatched or wherever we came from, and men we'll ever be. World without end, Amen.

So naturally I have a nostalgia for the terminology of manhood, since it's been missing in recent years, for expressing the brotherhood of all men. Language has become a namby pamby exercise in obscuring our nature. People, folks, exalting the divisions at the expense of the whole.

I myself am a man among men, whether they're women, children, or other men. When I get up in the morning, I shave, but I know all men don't, especially children. Of course women are among the men who shave, but in their case it's their legs and armpits. My mom was one of the men who liked to have smooth legs, since a bunch of hair under panty hose is a bad look.

Our country was founded by great men, and the world system depends on all men to keep it going in a forward looking way. Each of us has a part in the system, like cogs, whether we're at the top grinding downward or at the bottom grinding upward. I see myself personally in the middle grinding both up and down, depending on how the mood strikes me. I might grind sideways. Whichever way you or I grind in this important effort, each of us is a man among men.

I can hear the garbage man outside right now -- what a funny thing that I'm just now writing about him. His truck was made by men, tested and honed to be the garbage crunching behemoth it is. Then it needs other men, like this particular man, to put the tub in its mouth, to push the button, and to stand back. That's done in a flash, and another man looks in the mirror and sees it's all clear and drives the truck up the hill. They're grinding uphill.

I met a really big man the other day. He was seven feet tall and had to duck to get through the door. He had on a huge suit, just like a normal suit but twice as big. You'd think that much fabric would come apart at the seams. The back of his suit, just to mention one enormous section, is such a large field of fabric, with no support from a seam or gathering for miles, that I'd be afraid it'd fall apart. I asked him where he got his shoes and suit -- whether at a normal store or a big and tall men's store -- and he said at a big and tall men's store. But he seemed disinterested in the subject, so I dropped it immediately.

So let's get back to where we used to be, to talking about men -- all races, sizes, genders, ages, whether mothers, fathers, aunts, rich or poor effeminate or macho, Mr. Felix or Charles Atlas. There's no distinction. And in talking about men, if we just let the chips fall where they may, one day we'll look back on it all and know we didn't go too far wrong.

God loves all men.

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