I didn’t want to do it.


because I had friends in my troop. I did not enjoy swimming. I learned early in life, however, never to question authority. Therefore, when the presiding authorities over my early life sent me to a Boy Scout swim meet, I went. Reluctantly. Very.


Due to humanity’s inability to do much of anything without categorizing ourselves, those responsible for this particular meet put us into groups according to how well we could swim. At the top, where the jock boys live and thrive, were The Sharks. (West Side Story, anyone?) I was a Minnow. How many 12-to- 13-year-old young men like to be called “Minnows”? Do you know the exact number? I do. Zero.


I didn’t want to grab the paddle, kick my legs to the other side of the fucking pool, and lose. I wanted to go home. I was totally unprepared for this. I stank. Then I sank.


Some dude with a mustache and lots of naturally developed, manly muscle, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans (I will never forget this.), jumped in and pulled me out. I wept. My friends in the troop (none of whom were Minnows) did their boyish best to tell me that it was okay. I had great friends. I had idiotic authority figures.


I didn’t cry because I was scared. Well, that wasn’t the main reason I was crying. I was crying because I felt stupid for being the poor fool who forced a grown man to get himself all wet. That nice man who saved my life never said a word to me.


inadequate in his presence. A boy unworthy of being 4 I felt totally


I enjoyed scouts only ever


one. That was the biggest reason to cry. I never told my friends that part. I never told anyone, in fact, until now.


I tell you now because this was not an isolated incident for me, nor am I the only one who has experienced such a disappointment.


gotten worse. Not for me; for the generations that have followed. Fewer men are teaching boys how to be boys, and it seems that even fewer men are interested in teaching young men how to enter in. I believe that much of this has to do with the boredom that empire naturally produces, but not all of it. The American Empire was built high over ignorance of manhood and the idea that men are disposable. Let me try a little sports analogy: To me, corporate sports are a hell-of-a-lot less interesting than truly manmade sports.


Let’s look at one unique and perhaps embarrassing way in which men are stifled in their relationships with boys. An article at TampaBay.com from 2007 about what ought to have been a simple exchange between trusting strangers reveals a poisonous societal belief that, while humorously discussed, degenerates these crucial relationships in a very serious way.


Roy Peter Clark, the author, had the opportunity to help a small boy with his zipper when they were both in the men’s room. The tale has a happy ending, and Clark makes a funny situation that much funnier with the manner in which he writes about it:


“The stall door swings open, and out comes a boy - It has only


Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13  |  Page 14  |  Page 15  |  Page 16  |  Page 17  |  Page 18  |  Page 19  |  Page 20  |  Page 21  |  Page 22  |  Page 23  |  Page 24  |  Page 25  |  Page 26  |  Page 27  |  Page 28  |  Page 29  |  Page 30  |  Page 31  |  Page 32  |  Page 33  |  Page 34  |  Page 35  |  Page 36  |  Page 37  |  Page 38  |  Page 39  |  Page 40