In an effort to not over-intellectualize the first two chapters, I’ve scrapped maybe two or three versions of what I’m about to write here. I think my childhood, in terms of my relationship with masculinity and patriarchy, is not totally in line with the way it is described in the first two chapters. Growing up, my parents tried their best to not impart any hardliner ideas about what it meant to be boys or girls. I am the oldest of three, with two younger sisters.

On my father’s side, my grandfather was always very kind and always one to engage in a strong and warm embrace, and my grandmother clearly ran the house and was also very funny, sassy, and sweet to us kids. Reflecting on that house, and that side of the family, it really strikes me as a matriarch run house. Many kids on that side of the family, many of the oldest being women who were a lot like my grandmother. Also on that side of the family is an uncle, married into the family, who is the kind of man who also demanded strong hugs, and, maybe to out do my grandfather, a fat kiss on the cheek. He will hold your head in his hands, look into your eyes and tell you how much he loves you, just for walking into his house. It doesn’t matter how old you are, I could go see him tomorrow, and he would greet me the same way.

On my mother’s side, my Grandfather has always been very encouraging and kind, he never once took issue with who I was as a boy or a man. My Grandmother, however, was a different story. She had apparent ideas about what girls and boys should be up to, how they should look, and act. Those ideas aligned strongly with patriarchal ideals. She also ran the house, funny enough. She, I think, is the reason why I stopped getting my hair cut from middle school to the end of high school. She hated my long hair, and let me know, regularly. My Mom, however, loved my long hair and encouraged me to keep it. When I decided to cut it off, after almost a decade of growing it, she didn’t even question why, all that mattered was that it was my choice to make. Also on that side of the family is an Uncle, who I think suffered from the kind of opinions my grandmother had. I loved to draw growing up, and once found an old sketchbook that belonged to my Uncle. For a short time we bonded over drawing, it was really cool. He is such a creative and talented person, but I don’t think he was ever allowed to really be that person. I once went to my grandparents on this side, and asked them to cosign on a loan to art school. My grandmother declined. Years later, I found out, when my sister expressed her desire to go to art school, that they believed you wouldn’t make any money doing art. This wasn’t expressed by my grandmother, but instead, my Uncle… which was a real betrayal to not just my sister, but also to me.

All this to say, I feel like I had a real mixed bag of experiences. My father cares a lot about us kids, but with me, he would, at times, especially while I was younger, use physical intimidation to get his points across. That slowed as we got older, and I have good memories of him coming to my defense against being persecuted. I experienced bullying like others have expressed here, mostly at the hands of other boys, but also at times from girls too. My friends were all the weirdos in school, none of us fit the mold, and some of them eventually figured out it was because they are queer.

So while the descriptions of Hooks’ relationship with her father didn’t resonate fully with me, there are a whole host of characters here for you to embody: Women in the form of critique of their relations with men, Fathers in relation to their children, both boys and girls, Kids (mostly daughters) and their relations with their fathers, Men and their relations with Women and themselves. For me, it is the conversations about Fathers (as I am one), Spouses, and Brothers that really resonated with me. I think that is the real power of how this text is written. You will find yourself, in one way or another, in these stories. I never want to be the kind of father my daughter doesn’t want to talk to, who doesn’t know my loving embrace, who wishes me dead so she can be free. I want to be like that Uncle of mine who kisses everyone who comes to the house, and gives them warm hugs. Likewise, I wish to have other outlets than anger for my emotions, and I really understand that sentiment of “No one wants to hear how I feel”.

I think this critique of women and early feminism is interesting, intellectually, but in some ways it almost reads as “not for me”. When talking about women not wanting to see their man as weak, I can’t speak to that. Maybe as the book progresses, those critiques will feel for me after all, but that’s just my first impression.

Tonight, while doing the nightly bedtime routine with my daughter, I could feel myself getting annoyed with her being distracted and not moving along. I had been formulating this post in my head for most of the day, and it was still swimming around up there. I decided, instead of being frustrated, I’d just tell her how I was feeling. This is something she does with us all the time. “I’m just angry!”, “I’m just sad…”. “Baby, I’m just tired, and it’s making me grumpy.” and without hesitation she told me, “Well I can do something to make you feel better!” so I asked her what, “Draw you pictures at daycare!”, I do enjoy all the art she makes, “How about a hug?” and she gave me a big hug. Suddenly, I wasn’t grumpy anymore.