The Masculinity Gap

The premise of Jordan Ritter Conn’s American Men, to examine the “gap” between “our inherited masculine ideal and the men we actually are,” suggests a study of victimhood. Men feel trapped by impossible cultural expectations (physical dominance, stoicism, sexual attractiveness) and therefore lash out in fits of rage or withdraw into isolated cocoons. But, as Conn’s book illustrates, that’s only half the story. Men aren’t only victims; they are the perpetrators, too.

As Conn traces the lives of four men, we see them repeatedly bullied, beaten, betrayed, abused, and neglected, always by dudes who should be on their teams. Why do men expend endless energy ostracizing those who are different while celebrating the most barbaric among us, then decry our country’s “crisis of masculinity”? Cultural commentators gnash their teeth over rape culture on college campuses, and academics host conferences to debate the problems of incels and internet trolls and agoraphobic gamers. American Men posits a simple answer: Men, look in the mirror.

Conn, a Nashville-based reporter who was written extensively on issues facing men, spent years interviewing his four subjects. He changes many of the names of the principals and their intimates so that he may expose their darkest secrets. Gideon seems to be the paragon of virility. Baseball pitcher and West Point graduate, he marries a tall, beautiful woman, but his castle crumbles when she has an affair with his commanding officer. Nate, “always a boy” though “once a girl,” makes the arduous transition into the male gender only to confront the question, Now what? Growing up on a Mohawk reservation in upstate New York, Ryan is called homophobic slurs from early childhood. Though he accepts his homosexuality as an adult, he is prone to outbursts of anger stemming from decades of humiliation.

The most troubling of the stories involves Jonathan, a law student married to an affectionate wife. On his 30th birthday, he suddenly recalls a memory, one that he’s repressed since childhood, of being sexually abused by a teenage acquaintance. Conn shares the disturbing details of the assault and its ramifications. Once the memory re-enters Jonathan’s mind, he can’t shake it. Every time he touches another person, his assailant’s disembodied penis floats into his mind, cancelling all other thought. He suffers in silence as his career, marriage, and sanity are threatened.

As disparate as these men’s stories are, Conn identifies several motifs that tie them together. Each experiences trouble with alcohol, which presents itself as a balm but invariably exacerbates problems. Under the influence of alcohol, Ryan’s temper, “crackling and malevolent,” becomes utterly unmanageable. Gideon’s substance abuse is disguised while he’s in the army, where blackout drinking is normal. In the private sector, Gideon begins drinking at a suicidal pace. When Jonathan finally agrees to see a therapist, he torpedoes the process by getting loaded before his sessions.

Violence recurs, both as trauma to be endured and, in adulthood, as an instinct these men struggle to suppress. Conn’s men discover that, though we’ve evolved as a species, deep down we’re little better than club-wielding Neanderthals. Ryan in particular derives intense satisfaction from punching men in the face, to the point where he “wanted someone to call him a slur,” so he can take “imaginary revenge” on the bullies of his childhood. Before law school, Jonathan serves tours in America’s desert wars, where fear of attack requires constant vigilance, a euphemism for preparing to kill. At five-foot-one, Nate doesn’t intimidate other men; indeed, when his “thick” girlfriend Mya begins hitting him at a party, he consciously resists striking back, even though she is “six inches taller and forty pounds heavier.”

Throughout American Men, Conn reports on complications arising from sex and sexuality, from Gideon’s insecurity about penis size to the penis-image that Jonathan can’t expunge from his mind. Traditional male identity continues to be associated with sexual performance. Even when partners are well matched, men wonder if the sex is good enough, often enough, or boring. Gideon finds his identity undermined by his wife’s infidelity. “Gideon was not the kind of man who would ever be cheated on,” Conn writes.

Conn’s prose attempts to capture the diction and rhythm of his subjects’ thoughts, giving much of the book a colloquial tone. “Okay, sure, occasionally he would make plans to meet someone for a drink,” Conn comments on Gideon’s post-divorce dating. This ventriloquism, based on Conn’s countless hours of interviews, works for the most part, though at times the staccato bursts of short sentences begin to sound contrived.

American Men doesn’t lead to happily-ever-afters, but Conn inspires us to root for each of the guys to find peace. Contentment, they discover, isn’t a destination but a process, requiring us to get out of bed every day and reinvent ourselves all over again.