Post by onelasttime on Jul 29, 2024 19:36:37 GMT
This article is by Paul Waldman who use to be with the Washington Post but now out on his own. I mabe to say of the right really thinks trump embodies masculinity they are even more screwed up than I thought. Seriously.
“A Different Kind of Manhood”
What if Trump's version - violent, dominating, irresponsible - isn't the only one?
PAUL WALDMAN
JUL 29
“Republicans are desperate for you to know that they are a party of manly men led by the manliest of men, their masculinity radiating off them like a dazzling aurora of virility. In the last couple of years, many of their number have publicly decried the supposed “crisis of masculinity,” in ways ranging from banal to bizarre; Sen. Josh Hawley wrote a book called “Manhood,” while Tucker Carlson urged men to tan their testicles to boost their life-giving testosterone.
With the Democratic Party about to nominate a woman for president, the GOP interest in promoting their masculinity will likely only intensify, especially since the thought of a woman who is either powerful or seeking power sends so many prominent conservatives into spasms of gender anxiety.
That the right believes manhood is threatened and must be restored is clear, but it raises a question: What kind of manhood are they promoting?
One answer comes in the person of Donald Trump, who for many of them is the very embodiment of masculinity. How is it that a paunchy 78-year-old who wears makeup and is obsessed with his hair could become an avatar of manliness for so many of his followers? While they easily dismiss (or even celebrate) his appearance as the costume he wears in his campy public performance, they find solace in Trump’s need for dominance and his oft-expressed yearning for violence inflicted on those he and his supporters hate. As one Trump rally-goer told Jeff Sharlet, “We all want to punch somebody in the face, and he says it for us.”
The idea that manhood is best demonstrated through violence was on vivid display on the final night of the Republican convention, which featured a parade of men who express their masculinity in just that way. You had Dana White, the man who popularized mixed martial arts, a sport of distilled brutality.¹ (White was once caught on video smacking his wife in a nightclub). You had Hulk Hogan, the longtime professional wrestler, whose persona was constructed around shouting loudly and hitting other men — play violence, but violence nonetheless. You had Kid Rock, who was once so threatened by a transgender influencer drinking a beer he used to enjoy that he had to restore his masculinity by recording a video in which he fires a volley of bullets into cases of that beer.
Their joy at having evidence they could point to of actual and not hypothetical toughness on Trump’s part — that he was grazed by a bullet and stood back up to shout “Fight! Fight! Fight!” — was palpable. But their adoration of Trump’s version of manhood also depends on his long history as a sexual predator, which enacts a fantasy of domination and brutalization of women — and exemption from responsibility. This model of manhood is someone who bursts into locker rooms where teenage girls are changing clothes, and later brags, “I'm allowed to go in because I'm the owner of the pageant and therefore I'm inspecting it…I sort of get away with things like that.” This is the man who says, “When you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ‘em by the pussy. You can do anything.” Trump’s status and the impunity it confers turns him, in their eyes, from a creep into a sexual role model.
The advocates of the “traditional family” put aside whatever reservations they might have about this thrice-married man who cheated on all his wives, because Trump is an enthusiastic defender of the patriarchy and that’s what matters. This is a man who says men who change their children’s diapers are “act[ing] like the wife,” and describes his fatherly duties to the five children he fathered with three women this way: “I won't do anything to take care of them. I'll supply funds and she'll take care of the kids. It's not like I'm gonna be walking the kids down Central Park.” While his running mate implies that women should remain in marriages in which they are being abused, Trump models a husband and father as the possessor of all the power but none of the responsibility, free to indulge his urges and abuse whomever he pleases.
A different kind of manhood
This is all familiar by now, though it is important from time to time to remind ourselves of who Trump really is. Now let us consider a question: If one of Trump’s wives had been shot in the head, survived, and faced a lifetime of difficult rehabilitation, what would he have done?
We all know the answer: He would have tossed her in an institution and then divorced her.
With that in mind, let’s turn to Arizona senator Mark Kelly. He may become Kamala Harris’ running mate, but even if he doesn’t, it’s worth taking note of the kind of manhood he embodies. Kelly is what we used to call “the strong, silent type” — not bombastic or boastful, but confident and assured without drawing undue attention to himself. Here’s the video from his 2020 Senate race in which he introduces himself to the voting public:
covers the parts of his background that are coded as masculine — his combat record, his service as an astronaut — but more time is devoted to the women in his life. He talks about how difficult it was for his mother to become a police officer in the 1970s, without mentioning that his father was also a cop. The bulk of the video is about his wife, Gabby Giffords, and the aftermath of the shooting at a campaign event in 2011 that nearly took her life. “The thing I have to do for my wife is to be able to think clearly and make good decisions,” he says. We see him putting on her bike helmet so they can ride together, and speaks of what he learned from his wife about public service.
This too is a model of manhood: A man is strong, and patient, and persistent, and supportive. He cares for his family not just by providing them with resources and protecting them against external threats, but through his consistent presence and the care he offers.
And by the way, Kelly and Giffords have no children, which according to J.D. Vance means they “don’t really have a direct stake” in our country’s future and are therefore unworthy of being in power.
To some people, including many Republicans (especially Republican men), someone like Kelly isn’t a “real” man. A real man is one who fantasizes about violence, who belittles and mistreats women, who whines constantly about what a victim he is, and whose masculinity is so fragile that even seeing someone who challenges traditional notions of gender sends him into paroxysms of anxiety and rage. That model of manhood is in retreat. But it’s not going to go without a fight.”
“A Different Kind of Manhood”
What if Trump's version - violent, dominating, irresponsible - isn't the only one?
PAUL WALDMAN
JUL 29
“Republicans are desperate for you to know that they are a party of manly men led by the manliest of men, their masculinity radiating off them like a dazzling aurora of virility. In the last couple of years, many of their number have publicly decried the supposed “crisis of masculinity,” in ways ranging from banal to bizarre; Sen. Josh Hawley wrote a book called “Manhood,” while Tucker Carlson urged men to tan their testicles to boost their life-giving testosterone.
With the Democratic Party about to nominate a woman for president, the GOP interest in promoting their masculinity will likely only intensify, especially since the thought of a woman who is either powerful or seeking power sends so many prominent conservatives into spasms of gender anxiety.
That the right believes manhood is threatened and must be restored is clear, but it raises a question: What kind of manhood are they promoting?
One answer comes in the person of Donald Trump, who for many of them is the very embodiment of masculinity. How is it that a paunchy 78-year-old who wears makeup and is obsessed with his hair could become an avatar of manliness for so many of his followers? While they easily dismiss (or even celebrate) his appearance as the costume he wears in his campy public performance, they find solace in Trump’s need for dominance and his oft-expressed yearning for violence inflicted on those he and his supporters hate. As one Trump rally-goer told Jeff Sharlet, “We all want to punch somebody in the face, and he says it for us.”
The idea that manhood is best demonstrated through violence was on vivid display on the final night of the Republican convention, which featured a parade of men who express their masculinity in just that way. You had Dana White, the man who popularized mixed martial arts, a sport of distilled brutality.¹ (White was once caught on video smacking his wife in a nightclub). You had Hulk Hogan, the longtime professional wrestler, whose persona was constructed around shouting loudly and hitting other men — play violence, but violence nonetheless. You had Kid Rock, who was once so threatened by a transgender influencer drinking a beer he used to enjoy that he had to restore his masculinity by recording a video in which he fires a volley of bullets into cases of that beer.
Their joy at having evidence they could point to of actual and not hypothetical toughness on Trump’s part — that he was grazed by a bullet and stood back up to shout “Fight! Fight! Fight!” — was palpable. But their adoration of Trump’s version of manhood also depends on his long history as a sexual predator, which enacts a fantasy of domination and brutalization of women — and exemption from responsibility. This model of manhood is someone who bursts into locker rooms where teenage girls are changing clothes, and later brags, “I'm allowed to go in because I'm the owner of the pageant and therefore I'm inspecting it…I sort of get away with things like that.” This is the man who says, “When you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ‘em by the pussy. You can do anything.” Trump’s status and the impunity it confers turns him, in their eyes, from a creep into a sexual role model.
The advocates of the “traditional family” put aside whatever reservations they might have about this thrice-married man who cheated on all his wives, because Trump is an enthusiastic defender of the patriarchy and that’s what matters. This is a man who says men who change their children’s diapers are “act[ing] like the wife,” and describes his fatherly duties to the five children he fathered with three women this way: “I won't do anything to take care of them. I'll supply funds and she'll take care of the kids. It's not like I'm gonna be walking the kids down Central Park.” While his running mate implies that women should remain in marriages in which they are being abused, Trump models a husband and father as the possessor of all the power but none of the responsibility, free to indulge his urges and abuse whomever he pleases.
A different kind of manhood
This is all familiar by now, though it is important from time to time to remind ourselves of who Trump really is. Now let us consider a question: If one of Trump’s wives had been shot in the head, survived, and faced a lifetime of difficult rehabilitation, what would he have done?
We all know the answer: He would have tossed her in an institution and then divorced her.
With that in mind, let’s turn to Arizona senator Mark Kelly. He may become Kamala Harris’ running mate, but even if he doesn’t, it’s worth taking note of the kind of manhood he embodies. Kelly is what we used to call “the strong, silent type” — not bombastic or boastful, but confident and assured without drawing undue attention to himself. Here’s the video from his 2020 Senate race in which he introduces himself to the voting public:
covers the parts of his background that are coded as masculine — his combat record, his service as an astronaut — but more time is devoted to the women in his life. He talks about how difficult it was for his mother to become a police officer in the 1970s, without mentioning that his father was also a cop. The bulk of the video is about his wife, Gabby Giffords, and the aftermath of the shooting at a campaign event in 2011 that nearly took her life. “The thing I have to do for my wife is to be able to think clearly and make good decisions,” he says. We see him putting on her bike helmet so they can ride together, and speaks of what he learned from his wife about public service.
This too is a model of manhood: A man is strong, and patient, and persistent, and supportive. He cares for his family not just by providing them with resources and protecting them against external threats, but through his consistent presence and the care he offers.
And by the way, Kelly and Giffords have no children, which according to J.D. Vance means they “don’t really have a direct stake” in our country’s future and are therefore unworthy of being in power.
To some people, including many Republicans (especially Republican men), someone like Kelly isn’t a “real” man. A real man is one who fantasizes about violence, who belittles and mistreats women, who whines constantly about what a victim he is, and whose masculinity is so fragile that even seeing someone who challenges traditional notions of gender sends him into paroxysms of anxiety and rage. That model of manhood is in retreat. But it’s not going to go without a fight.”
