Therapy: The Poison of the Phrase “Usually the Man”

When Charles Dickens wrote Oliver Twist, he never bothered to make mention of the race or religion of any of the characters, except one. Throughout most of the novel, Fagin is referred to as “The Jew” with occasional variations on the theme. You may think his choice of words was simply standard at the time, but he was challenged on this choice. When criticized, he seemed surprised, and said, “It unfortunately was true, of the time to which the story refers, that the class of criminal almost invariably was a Jew”. He said he wasn’t biased against the Jews but was merely reflecting a simple truth about the nature of certain criminals. He even exclaimed, “I have no feeling towards the Jews but a friendly one. I always speak well of them, whether in public or private, and bear my testimony (as I ought to do) to their perfect good faith in such transactions as I have ever had with them…”

He really couldn’t see that any of this was his fault, but he eventually did change his ways. 11163694886_802d9911b7_zHe did have actual Jewish friends, and as hard as it was for him to see the problem, he didn’t want to offend them. He explained, “There is nothing but good will left between me and a People for whom I have a real regard and to whom I would not willfully have given an offence.” In the last chapters of the book and in subsequent readings, he deleted the offending appellation in the way you might finally discard a favored but hopelessly stained garment.

Dickens wasn’t unique by any means. We all have biases that we feel certain are nothing but statements of fact, supported by our frequent observations. In my interactions with therapists, I often hear the phrase “usually the man” sprinkling their descriptions of couples with marriage difficulties. Something like this: “When one partner has difficult expressing emotion (usually the man) . . .).” Or, “When one partner struggles with monogamy (usually the man . . .). Or, “When one person is addicted to porn (usually the man . . .). I’ve asked a few therapists about this construction, and the response is always some variation of, “What am I supposed to say when I’ve observed this time after time in my office?”

The fact is, of course, when we believe something is true, we tend only to take note of that occurrence in our observations. Even when we are aware of our own confirmation bias, it is exceedingly difficult to diagnose our own blind spots.

Some examples:

  • Dr. Gerald Stein, listing several kinds of unhealthy sexual activities, describes “selfish sex” as “a cousin to Obligatory Sex. However, in this example, it is usually the man who satisfies himself quickly, not out of duty, but simply because his needs are all that matter to him.” Note that it is usually the woman who has sex out of a sense of obligation, or so Dr. Stein believes.
  • In a paper by Barry McCarthy on marital sex, he says, “A realistic expectation is forty to fifty percent of sexual experiences will be satisfying for both people, twenty to twenty-five percent are very good for one partner (usually the man) and good for the other.” He begins the paragraph by saying the data is empirical, but only cites a study on sexual dysfunction that occurs before the statistics about satisfaction, which is not cited. I’m sure his experience confirms his claims to his satisfaction.
  • An article on domestic violence in Psychology Today by Neil S. Jacobson and John M. Gottman says, “In many unhappy marriages, when one partner (usually the woman) requests change, the other one (usually the man) resists change, and eventually the woman’s requests become demands, and the man’s avoidance becomes withdrawal.”  Again, if asked, I am sure these therapists/researchers would insist that their statements are supported by many hours of clinical observation, and they probably are; however, it is likely that men who are victims of domestic violence are much less inclined to seek therapy because they know they will not be taken seriously as victims or because they also refuse to see themselves as victims.

I could go on and on with examples, but you can do it yourself. If you want to see how pervasive this phrase is, just Google “psychotherapy” and “usually the man” or “marriage counseling” and “usually the man.” I promise, you will have plenty of examples.

What I would like to point out is that these “empirical” claims about what men do in relationships always conform to negative stereotypes about men. Men are selfish lovers. Men are abusive partners. Men are kinky. Men are more easily satisfied sexually than women. This thinking eliminates the opportunity for men to be abused, neglected, unloved, and unfulfilled. It denies women the opportunity to be the partner who is more sexual, more liberated, or more powerful. I once sat through a panel discussion by three male therapists, and one of them admitted that his sympathy just naturally went to the women when he saw heterosexual couples.

A couple of things to consider:

First, it may be correct that in some cases men are more likely to exhibit certain behaviors or attributes than women, but assuming they do makes it extremely difficult for you to see the men who are atypical. Second, it may be that men and women are not as you perceive them to be at all. Rather than interpreting data as it appears, you may be constructing data from your own biases.

A final note:

If you wonder whether your statements may reflect a bias or stereotype, try the Dickens test: Substitute “usually the Jew” or other racial term for “usually the man,” and see how it sounds. If you aren’t comfortable with the racial term, consider revising both your words and your expectations of your clients.

Performing masculinity and grief: A death of my own

When I was fifteen years old, my 25-year-old uncle died in a fire

While some older adults had feared for his well being for some time, his death was sudden, unexpected, and extremely traumatic for me. In times of grief, we all experience mixed emotions, but I was overwhelmed by feelings of confusion and isolation.

In the days following his death, my time was spent among both close and distant relatives in the home of my grandparents. When people interacted with me at all, it was generally to tell me to give comfort to someone else (“Go hug your grandfather.” “Hold your grandmother’s hand.”). I did my best, and I got through it. I had been to funerals before, but this was the first time I was so close to the deceased and so aware of the judgments of the people attending the funeral and receptions at the home later. Someone, usually a woman, didn’t cry enough or dared to wear pants to a funeral. Someone else, usually a man, fell to pieces and couldn’t keep it together. Certain friends should not have dared to show their faces, and others had no excuse for not coming. Or so it was stated by the chorus of judgment and scorn.

I tried my best to assimilate funeral normativity, but it really didn’t make sense to me. Years later, I cried at my grandfather’s funeral. This seemed a reasonable to me, and I didn’t predict being judged for it. After the funeral, one of my relatives asked me what I did for a living. I told her I was a writer. She said, “I knew you must be some kind of sensitive artist or something.” So much for the freedom to openly grieve for a close relative at his funeral. Do women face this kind of judgment?

But men who do not express emotions openly aren’t free from judgment or consequences, either. Kenneth Doka, an expert of grief counseling, said in an interview, ‘We do a strange thing with grieving styles. I always say we disenfranchise instrumental grievers early in the process. “What’s wrong with this person? Why isn’t he crying?”’ The man who manages his grief by working through it with projects, helping others, and so on is ignored. The man who emotes openly is criticized. Doka points out that more emotive grievers are penalized later (Why isn’t she over it yet?).

My uncle’s funeral may be when I first developed my revulsion at smug hypocrisy and self-righteous pity. I can remember one aunt declaring, loudly, “Well, if his death had anything to do with drugs, I just don’t want to know about it. That is not what is important now.” And this may also be when I first became aware of paradox. If she believed what she said, she would not have said it, and if she said it, she obviously didn’t believe it. (And a lifelong love of philosophy is born.) Anyway, I also developed my own sense of righteous indignation toward people who couldn’t offer condolences without poking people with daggers in the process.

In my first experience with traumatic grief, the people I would normally turn to for emotional support were all overwhelmed emotionally and intellectually. I don’t blame or resent anyone for it, but I was alone with my grief and my first experiences with this kind of loss. Shortly thereafter, an acquaintance was killed in a motorcycle accident, and I just never took the continued existence of anyone for granted again. I also accepted grieving as a solitary activity.

The next traumatic loss I experienced was described in an earlier post. My niece and nephew drowned on Mother’s Day (May 10) in 1992. The single most striking feature of this grief experience for me is the memory of many friends, coworkers, and family members coming to me to express their condolences and sincere concern for the suffering and recovery of my ex-wife. People lamented that it must be extremely hard on my wife, and I was admonished to take good care of her, as her suffering must be immense. I tried to do those things, of course, as I tried to manage my own emotions and continue to care for my children (I was an at-home dad at the time) and maintain a functioning household.

During this time, I had thoughts that terrified me and flooded me with shame. I began daydreaming, almost longing, for the death of someone who would be important to no one but me. A death that would bring me the kind of comfort and concern that had been reserved for my ex-wife during what was certainly the most challenging and traumatic event of my life to that point. I was horrified to think that I could wish anyone dead. Of course, no one in the world is important only to me. Everyone I love is loved by others as well. Further, I wouldn’t trade any of my loved ones for “good grieving.” (I will add that one friend in particular stood by me and cared for me throughout.)

The true fantasy, of course, was that someone would step in to help me through my current grief, not that I wanted anyone to die. Still, these thoughts became pervasive and persistent enough to plague me with guilt and interfere even more with my recovery. What I really wanted was to receive the same support I was expected to give. I don’t really want to be the only person in the world being cared for; I just want a reciprocal arrangement. I don’t know whether every man feels the same way, but I know I’m not the only one.

Why is it that being a man is to be sentenced to a life bereft of emotional support? When women say they want to meet a sensitive man, they generally mean they want to meet a man who attends to their emotional needs, not a man who openly expresses his own emotional needs let alone a man openly expresses his emotional frailty.

I dream of a world where grief is not gendered and where masculinity is not marked by solitary sorrow.