The Journal

Issue date: 3/2/06 Section: Opinion/Editorial

Andy Dierker

Last week, while pulling out of a parking spot on campus after class, I had a friendly commuter point out to me that my tire was flat. I was pissed, but had no choice but to pull off to the side of the parking lot, yank out my spare and the jack and get to work changing the tire.

About 20 minutes later I was driving to the tire-and-auto service shop by my house in Jefferson County to get a replacement tire. I had been going to this shop for the last couple of years, and always thought the guy who owned the place was nice and helpful, so I always came back.

Well, that day, I was in for a surprise.

I walked in the door and caught three guys in the middle of a conversation: the owner, another employee and a fellow customer. They were talking like they knew one another and as I walked in, the conversation had turned to women.

"The problem is, you can't just smack them like you used to," said the owner, the nice and helpful guy, to the customer.

The other employee chimed in.

"I tried, you know where they ended up? Living with their stepdad!" He laughed pretty hard after saying this. They all did.

"It's only a problem with the girls," the customer said. "A boy you can smack around, and he learns. The girls just don't know when to quit, when to wise up."

Now like I said, I've been coming to this place for years. The owner knows my name. At this point in the conversation, he turned to me and said:

"Andy, you got a girlfriend or a sister that could use a good smack?"

My response here is not something I'm proud of. In fact, it was absolutely shameful. I was caught off guard, stuck between two options: looking like an asshole or looking like a pussy. I could call them out, cause a big scene, grab my keys and walk out the door. Or, I could…

"Hah, well… I guess. Heh," I said, fumbling for something
neutral enough that would allow me to sleep that night and wouldn't get my ass kicked.

On my drive home, I got to thinking about what had happened, and what it meant. Was I just a total sell-out? I felt like, by not standing up to them, I had just validated their misogynist worldview. But at the same time, there was unspoken pressure there. A fork in the road: Are you a man or are you a wimp?

This whole experience fleshed out something I've been thinking for a long time, but haven't been able to put into words. What does it really mean to be a man?

In a lot of my classes, we've discussed the way women are portrayed in media, and how this serves as a self-fulfilling prophecy. Women are treated as eye-candy and as younger girls see this, they model the behavior. They think, "This is what it means to be a woman."

It seems men go through something like this, too. As far as I
can tell, there are two main types of men portrayed commonly in modern media: the badass and the Raymond.

Everybody knows the badass. He's in every show from "24" to "Walker Texas Ranger." He kicks ass, takes names and doesn't
take shit from anyone.

Then there's the Raymond, from "Everybody Loves
Raymond." Every week (if the show is even still on, hell if I know), Raymond gets himself into some wacky situation and ends up lying to his wife. At the end of the show she finds out, calls him a dumbass and he grovels for forgiveness. If you haven't seen it, just pretend you're watching "I Love Lucy," except switch the
roles of Ricky and Lucy.

This Raymond model has spawned endless similar
characters. How many times have you heard the punch-line "I'd argue with my wife, but she's always right!" Oh ho ho, that's very clever. You're right, men are complete morons.

What's worst about all of this is that it's one or the other, you can't be both. You're either the badass, take-no-shit, might-beat-his-wife badass, or a moron. A whiny, wussy moron. Take your pick.

Let me just tell you a little bit about me. I'm six foot two, weigh about 95 pounds and drive a Ford Focus. I play video games and, when you look at me, you can probably tell I'm not the poster-boy of "manliness."

But that day, when I walked into the tire shop, I was covered in dirt and had just finished changing a tire. This, for me, was about one step away on the manliness-meter from running naked in the woods hunting for… I don't know, whatever manly-men hunt. Bears or something.

But all of that got taken away the minute I was forced to choose: are you a man, or not? I don't think I passed their test. And if those are my only two options, maybe that's not a bad thing.


Andy Dierker, a senior journalism major, is copy editor for The Journal.

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