A little more than a year ago (about 3 months into my fellowship year), my father passed away. There were plenty of emotions to deal with. Anger was one of these emotions. It always has been when it comes to my father. His anger and inability to control it made my mom leave Hong Kong when I was just 10 months old. From that point onward, I lived in New York, literally on the other side of the globe. He came and visited once when I was five. I didn’t see him again until I returned to Hong Kong at age 20. During that time, he provided plenty of financial support for my education and comfort, but we rarely, if ever, communicated. Whether I knew it or not at the time, I built up a lot of anger in those 15 years. In the last 7 years, I managed to at least partially come to terms with our relationship, or lack thereof, but part of me will always be angry.
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When Cedric smiles, I am filled with happiness. It’s impossible not to be. However, down in my gut, there’s anger too. Cedric was born in a latrine in a village about 45 minutes outside of Kigali, Rwanda to a mother with mental illness and no capacity to care for him. His father is unknown. Extremely malnourished as an infant, he was rescued by the staff at Gardens for Health International (GHI) and now lives in a loving home being raised by one of our health educators. His extreme malnutrition has put him behind the developmental curve, but every day we at GHI bear witness to his new steps forward. In fact, his first literal steps last October—at over 18 months old—was one of my most joyous days since I’ve been in Rwanda.
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My story is not the same as Cedric’s. He has and will face more challenges that almost make comparisons laughable. I have only juxtaposed the two stories to make a point: that across the world, males are too often a barrier to a better world.
To note, this is not a message coming from a feminist in sheep’s clothing. I embrace nearly every facet of stereotypical American masculinity. My ideal fall afternoon involves hours of watching football and drinking domestic beer with friends. Asking for directions is anathema to me. I love grilling (and more recently killing) meat. I am proud of my Y chromosome, but when, in some contexts, it takes a $110 increase in male income to achieve the same gains in child nutrition and health as a $10 increase in female income, there is something seriously wrong.
It’s time that we men got our act together across the globe. To start with, it’s time to stop hitting our partners, leaving our children without fathers, and drinking away our children’s educations. That’s the minimum though. It’s also time for a conception of masculinity in which toughness means owning up to your mistakes, not just playing through a sprained ankle; in which prestige is earned by everyday acts of responsibility and kindness, not just by how much you earn; and in which strength is the patience to teach your child to read, not just how much weight you can lift.
Whenever I think of my father, I wonder and worry that his mistakes will become mine. I know that his genetic material courses through me and that vigilance and hard work are needed to overcome his worst traits. That’s why my last plea is to both men and women alike: support the men you know as we try to be better, but always demand more than we are today.