Just two days before the tragic shooting at Pulse in Orlando, my partner, Lisa, found herself in a heated argument with her son’s father. It all kicked off when he sent her a photo of their son, Max, proudly displaying an oversized monster truck T-shirt with the caption, “This is how little boys should dress.” For the next hour, he blamed Max’s mischief on “typical boy energy” and accused Lisa of ruining Max’s childhood by allowing him to wear pink and express his sensitive side instead of being strict.
In our home, discussions about masculinity are commonplace because both Lisa and I are committed to letting our kids explore their interests and identities freely. Max loves Shopkins and unicorns, and his favorite colors are purple and pink (though he says purple is the favorite, he doesn’t want pink to feel sad). He also has a passion for dinosaurs and bow ties, enjoys having his nails painted, and even built his own Shopkin gumball machine because he didn’t have one.
At 6 years old, I’ve known Max for just over a year. During this time, I’ve witnessed him diagnosed with ADHD and struggling with anger. I’ve seen him lash out at anyone he thinks is upsetting his mother, break down over a lost Shopkin, and navigate life with and without ADHD medication. I’ve attended kindergarten celebrations and parent-teacher nights. Though I’m not Max’s father, I feel I understand him better than his biological dad ever will.
From the moment Lisa and I started dating, she revealed that Max’s father completely rejects him for who he is, attempting instead to “make him a man.” This horrified me as both a parent and a feminist. How could someone push a child to hide aspects of themselves? I was also weary of the idea that masculinity must conform to a narrow definition. I wanted to help, but honestly, I felt unequipped.
My biggest fear wasn’t about being a father; it was about raising a son. I’ve never been the epitome of masculinity and had no clue how to raise a boy. My parents separated when I was just two, and my mother had sole custody. My father was battling his own issues and was absent until I was five. My mother didn’t remarry until I was nine, so I grew up mainly guided by her.
Once my father got his life in order, he became an important figure in my life. I’m grateful for our relationship because I was navigating a world where my mother’s new partners made me feel uncomfortable. My father, like me, is not traditionally masculine. He’s a Texan who can fish and clean a deer, but those traits stem from his strong work ethic rather than a need to assert manhood. He rebuilt truck engines and dealt with septic tanks because he had to, but his true passion lies in cooking. I’ve never seen someone enjoy preparing meals as much as he does.
What truly set my father apart from traditional masculinity was his empathy, a quality I absorbed long before I understood its significance. By the time my mother remarried, I’d learned that it was perfectly okay for men to express emotions and say “I love you” to one another.
This was crucial because my stepfather embodies traditional masculinity to an extreme. He’s emotionally distant, often expressing only anger and indifference, while also being openly homophobic. I didn’t grasp why he yelled at me or why he pushed me to work with my hands until college, where patient friends helped me realize he was attempting to mold me into a conventional man.
When I learned I was going to be a parent, I fervently wished for a daughter. I felt it would be easier, given that I’m an outspoken feminist and connect more easily with girls than boys. Fortunately, I ended up with identical twin girls, and I soon forgot my fears about raising a son until I met Lisa and Max. Suddenly, I was back to worrying about how to communicate with him or what to buy for him.
Initially, I thought Max’s male anatomy meant understanding him was impossible. But I learned that my concerns were unfounded. Max may not fit the mold of traditional masculinity, but ultimately, he’s just a kid. Connecting with children is what I do best, and it turns out that parenting sons isn’t vastly different from parenting daughters if the goal is to raise compassionate human beings rather than stereotypes of gender.
The real complication emerged from Max’s father. His hypermasculine ideals threaten the validation Max needs to embrace who he is. If his father insists that boys shouldn’t be sensitive or that expressing anger is acceptable, he’s teaching Max that it’s okay to dominate others and disregard empathy.
The tragedy at Pulse highlights the dangers of conditioning boys to equate masculinity with power and aggression. It’s alarming how easily we dismiss a child’s outburst as “just being a boy,” perpetuating the idea that violent behavior is an inherent trait of masculinity. When boys bully girls, parents often excuse it by saying, “He likes you,” teaching boys that aggression is a form of affection and girls that such treatment is acceptable.
Max’s father’s message—that sensitivity is unacceptable—creates a dangerous environment where Max learns that his interests and emotions are shameful. By the time he turns 13, Max might feel he has three bleak options: reject his father and feel like a disappointment, internalize his shame, or conform to his father’s toxic masculinity. None of these are healthy paths.
As a longtime advocate for feminism, I feel ill-equipped to counter the notion that men should dominate and oppress the vulnerable. I’m fortunate to have a supportive circle of friends who help me navigate gender expression, and I’m in a relationship with someone who shares my belief in allowing our children to express themselves freely, as long as it doesn’t harm others. We actively resist reinforcing traditional gender roles in our home.
Yet, even with just a few years in school, Max and his sister are already acutely aware of societal expectations surrounding masculinity and femininity. It’s disheartening because I dedicate my life to creating inclusive spaces, yet society continues to pressure kids to conform to restrictive gender norms.
We must redefine masculinity and communicate the many ways boys can express themselves without asserting dominance over others. We need to clearly convey that masculinity is not synonymous with power and can coexist with empathy. Fathers must show vulnerability so sons can learn by example. We must acknowledge that the majority of mass shooters are men, and America’s brand of masculinity endangers our children daily. When we teach boys to suppress their true selves, we only set the stage for future devastation.
In conclusion, it’s essential to create a culture where boys can explore their identities freely, devoid of the burdens of outdated masculinity. For more information on how to navigate these waters, resources like Healthline can provide excellent guidance, while sites like Make a Mom offer tools for home insemination.