Emotional eloquence for boys
Robert Webb's recent publication How Not To Be a Boy has usefully drawn attention to the truth that, for a boy, admitting to feelings is a road leading ultimately to disaster, ridicule and rejection. In Chapter 1 he says, 'Pain, guilt, grief, fear, anxiety: these are not appropriate emotions for a boy because they will be unacceptable emotions for a man.' I would go further and say that while the repression of these feelings is what is often referred to for boys as 'character forming', it actually is a way of avoiding realizing -making real - the person they have it in them to become: avoiding the growth of individuality. Webb's assertion is that, for boys, almost the single acceptable feeling is anger; anger unbridled brings with it its accompaniments of outrage, revenge, resentment and violence.
That this unconscious imposition on boys of a very restricted palette of emotional articulation is a commonplace of boys' education and parental preconceptions was born out by a recent TV programme (BBC2) No More Boys and Girls. In the programme, Dr Javid Abdelmoneim exposed gender discrimination as a subtle and mostly unacknowledged feature of education, and it backed up Webb's assertion that anger, almost alone among the emotions, was the feeling that boys had a vocabulary to describe, while girls were able to find words for a much wider range of human emotional experience. It's not that boys don't feel pain, guilt and so on, but that the lack of a familiar vocabulary makes it almost impossible for them to name those other, more "feminine" sensitivities.
The psychotherapist Professor Joy Scheverian has named 'boarding school syndrome' the way that boarding schools in particular seem to find it difficult to meet and contain boys' feelings of loss, pain, sadness, home-sickness, and value instead the 'stiff upper lip' response of stoicism that limits and even denigrates the exploration and expression of human susceptibilities. She has written about the way that this repressive approach may, in later life, lead men to 'breakdown' in the face of an emotional or marital crisis. That it tends to be regarded as break-down rather than a breakthrough is a part of the whole societal tendency to identify strength with lack of feeling.
Another BBC programme - Radio 4 this time - had an item (Sunday 10th Sept) Tough Love: Boys, Books and Romance in which Steven Camden deplored the lack of love stories for teenage boys, and contrasted this with the plethora of romantic novels aimed at teenage girls. Was he, I wondered as I listened, succumbing to another unconscious assumption that 'love stories' were all and only about heterosexual love? Had he looked at all at the enormous number of gay love stories dealing with the teenage boy and young adult struggles involved in 'coming out' to himself, never mind to his family and circle of school friends?
So at last I come to the point!
Marcus Herzig's Cupid Painted Blind struck me, for all its faults and overlooked typos, to be a first-rate example of an author finding for a teenager a language for the expression of the complexities of love. Not only love itself - difficult enough - but also the puzzling range of emotions that love is associated with, and the bewildering tendency for those feelings to change, almost by the moment. The book deals with the obvious instant lust for the stunningly beautiful boy: ' . . . his touch sends electric shock waves through my body that short-circuit my brain. I'm tensing up, causing my shoulders to rise. It's as if my body is trying to nestle itself into his big, strong hand that feels heavy and warm through my T-shirt . . . and I'm longing for some sort of response, maybe a little squeeze, a tender stroke of his thumb, or anything that would reveal something about him that I will forever be too scared, too embarrassed to ask.'
This obvious attraction may be criticized for the rather cliched image of the electric shock, but then the attraction to this boy is in itself rather a cliche. However, this book does more: more interesting and more complex are Matt's feelings for Philip. His initial revulsion for the boy's cleft lip and reconstructed nose is clear, as is his guilt at his own revulsion, and at his failure to stand up for Philip when he sees him being bullied: 'Somebody should stand up for Philip, and I know it should be me even if it's for no other reason than that it would be the right and decent thing to do. But I can't seem to bring myself to do it, and it's making me feel awful.'
I like the way that this feeling of sympathy changes into something quite different that Matt can't himself understand at first. It is paralleled by the change that takes place in his initial intoxication with Chris, and indeed his fear of the homophobic bully Jack undergoes a similar transformation, all in the entirely strong masculine context of competitive sports. It is important that, at the end of the book, Matt's socially acceptable sporting achievement is less important to him than his emotional range of love, fear, anxiety, guilt, panic, all of which he is able then to articulate. Nothing, apparently, is what it seems to be at first sight, and the guide to this conversion is the range of feelings Matt has to encounter and work through to gain a better understanding of himself and of his world.
This is not a perfect book, but it does - or so it seems to me - contribute valuably to correcting the lack of insight into, and lack of vocabulary to express, feelings that are all too commonly overlooked by boys, under the influence of the deadening support of the society in which we all share.