ALLAN G. JOHNSON'S BLOG
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I first wrote this post a few weeks after the mass murder of children and teachers in Newtown, Connecticut. Then, as now, in the aftermath of Orlando, I watch news outlets as they rush to gather significant ‘facts’ about the shooter to help us understand what he did—his age, religion, affiliations, place of birth, marital and parental status, occupation. Anything but the one thing he shares with almost every other mass murderer—the fact of being male.
Four years ago, in the aftermath of the mass murder in Aurora, Colorado, I watched the PBS Newshour display photographs of the four most recent shooters as the moderator posed to a team of experts the question of what the perpetrators all had in common. They looked at the photos and shook their heads. “Nothing,” they said, going on to explain that there were no significant overlaps in the men’s psychological profiles. All men, with nothing in common.
I watched again after the massacre in Newtown as a PBS moderator expressed her exasperation at the steady stream of killings that seem to defy explanation, adding to her earnest question, Why is this happening? what seemed almost like an afterthought—that all of the shooters are young men and might this hold a clue. The expert replied as if he hadn’t heard, and she did not bring it up again.
I pick on PBS only because they are so enlightened and serious compared with all the rest, and if they can’t see what’s right in front of them, then I don’t know who among the media can.
But, of course, the thing is, they do. I used to think they actually didn’t on account of ignorance—fish not noticing the water because it’s everywhere. I don’t believe that anymore. They have eyes that see and they’re not stupid. We know this because if you point out to them that all the shooters are male, they don’t say, “They are?” They know what they’re looking at and, even more, some of them feel moved to ask about it. So why, then, do they—and just about everyone else of consequence, it seems—act as if they don’t, as if the question isn’t worth the asking, much less a serious reply?
Many are in a state of denial or the wilful ignorance that Martin Luther King saw as the greatest threat. But denial and wilful ignorance are used for self-protection, which raises the question of what these educated, sensitive shapers of public policy and opinion are so afraid of.
The most immediate reason not to ask about the connection between men and violence is, quite simply, that men won’t like it if you do. We are a nation tiptoeing around men’s anger, men’s ridicule, men’s potential to withhold resources (such as funding for battered women’s shelters and sexual assault programs), men’s potential for retaliation, violent and otherwise, men’s defensiveness, and the possibility that men might feel upset or attacked or called out or put upon or made to feel vulnerable or even just sad. In other words, anything that might make them feel uncomfortable as men.
I have seen this again and again over the years that I’ve worked on the issue of men’s violence. Whether testifying before a governor’s commission or serving on the board of a statewide coalition against domestic violence or consulting with a commissioner of public health, when I point out that since men are the perpetrators of most violence, they must be included in naming the problem—as in men’s violence against women—the response has been the same: We can’t do that. Men will get upset. They’ll think you’re talking about them.
Even when children are gunned down at school—shot multiple times at close range so as to be rendered unrecognizable to their own parents—people in positions of influence and power show themselves all too willing to look into the camera and act as though they cannot see and do not know.
As a result, when men engage in mass murder, the national focus is on the murder but not men, beginning with a nationwide outpouring of broken hearts and horror and disbelief that this is happening yet again. All of this is undoubtedly heartfelt and sincere, but it gives way all too quickly to this country’s endless debate about controlling guns. Yes, we must talk about guns because they do kill people in spite of what their defenders say. Killing someone (including yourself) with a gun is far easier and quicker (harder to change your mind) and more certain and therefore more likely than is killing someone with a baseball bat or a knife. The rest of the industrialized world shows clearly how limiting access to guns lowers rates of murder and suicide. So, yes, we must talk about guns. And we must also talk about violence in the culture, from movies to video games. Even the National Rifle Association wants to talk about that.
But those debates are endless precisely because they are such effective distractions from what just about everyone is working so hard to ignore, which is the obvious connection between men and guns and violence. It is much easier to argue about immigration or the best way to fight terrorism or the fine points of the First and Second Amendments than to take seriously the question of what is going on in all of this with men. Such distractions enable us to avoid talking about the underlying reality that is driving it all, which, strangely enough, isn’t strictly about guns or politics or even violence. Or even, in a way, just about men.
Guns and violence are not ends in themselves. People are not attached to guns because of guns. Nor is violence glorified for itself. Guns and violence are used for something, a means to an end, and it is from this that they acquire their meaning and value in the culture. It is that end that we must understand.
Guns and violence are instruments of control, whether used by states or individuals. They otherwise have no intrinsic value of their own. Their value comes from the simple fact that violence works as a means to intimidate, dominate, and control. It works for governments and hunters and police and terrorists and batterers and parents and schoolyard bullies and corporations and, by extension, anyone who wants to feel larger and more powerful and in control than they otherwise would. The gun has long been valued in this culture as the ultimate tool in the enforcement of control and domination, trumping all else in the assertion of personal control over others. Can anyone forget the scene in Indiana Jones when ‘our hero’ is confronted with the huge man wielding an equally enormous sword, and the white man unholsters his gun and the crowd roars its approval as he calmly shoots the other man down? The gun is the great equalizer with the potential to elevate even the most weak, shy, or timid above anyone who lacks equivalent firepower. What this makes clear is that violence in this country is not an aberration or a simple product of mental illness. It is an integral part of the American way of life.
The key to understanding gun violence and the fact that all these shooters are men is this: an obsession with control forms the core of our cultural definition of what it means to be a real man. A real man is one who can demonstrate convincingly an ability always to be in control. Because violence is the ultimate and most extreme instrument of control, then the capacity for violence—whether or not individual men may actually make use of it—is also central to the cultural definition of manhood.
Every man and boy faces the challenge of signaling either their own capacity for violence or their support if not admiration for that potential in other males, if for no other reason than to solidify their standing as real men (or boys), if not to deter acts of violence and ridicule directed at them. It is a dynamic that begins early—in locker rooms and schoolyards—and extends in one form or another throughout men’s entire lives. However men and boys choose to deal with it as individuals, deal with it they must.
No one, no matter how powerful, is immune to this imperative of manhood as defined in this culture. Every Presidential candidate must first and foremost demonstrate their qualifications to be the nation’s Commander-in-Chief, which is to say, their willingness and readiness to make use of and direct the U.S. military’s massive capacity for violence in the overriding interest of controlling what happens in other countries. The record is clear, for example, that Lyndon Johnson kept us in the Vietnam War long after he knew it was unwinnable, for the pathetically simple reason that he was afraid of being seen as a President who could not control the outcome of that war. The horrific cost of protecting his manhood and the nation’s identification with it was not enough to keep him from it. The choices he made have been repeated by every President since, with the electorate’s enthusiastic support, right down to the present day where drone strikes routinely take the lives of innocent women, children, and men who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, including weddings, family gatherings, and schools.
Men’s acceptance of the cultural association of manhood with control makes them complicit in its consequences, including the use of violence. Acceptance need not be conscious or intentional. Individual men need not be violent themselves. Mere silence—the voice of complicity—is enough to accomplish the effect, and to connect them to the violence that other men do. When a young man who is feeling wronged or is insecure in his manhood straps on body armor and takes up a gun, he is pursuing by extreme means a manhood ideal of control and domination that has wide and deep support in this society, including among men who would never dream of doing such a thing themselves. That our culture is saturated with images of violence—from television and video games to the football field—is not the work of a lunatic fringe of violent men. Nor is the epidemic of actual violence. All of it flows from an obsession with control that shapes every man’s standing as a real man in this society.
It would be a mistake to end the analysis here, as if the problem of violence was simply a matter of men and manhood. The Newtown murderer, after all, used weapons belonging to his mother, which she had taught him how to use. She would not be the first woman attracted to guns because they made her feel powerful and in control. It might seem that this would nullify the argument about manhood, control, and violence. But, in fact, the involvement of women merely extends the argument to a larger level. The argument, after all, is not that men’s violence is caused by something inherently wrong with men, but that such behavior is shaped and promoted by a social environment that includes women.
A patriarchal society—which is what we’ve got—is, among other things, male-identified, which means that men and manhood are culturally identified as the standard for human beings in general. Consider, for example, the routine use of ‘guys’ to refer to both men and women even though the word clearly and unambiguously points to men (if you doubt this, ask people to raise their hand if they’re a guy and see how many women you get). Or that for years, medical research on heart disease focused only on men, based on the (false) assumption that the male body could serve as the universal standard for the human being.
In a male-identified world, what works for men, what is valued by men, is generally assumed to work for and be valued by human beings in general. So if the obsession with control associated with true manhood includes defining power and safety in terms of domination and control and, therefore, the capacity for violence that comes with owning a gun, then this is seen as not merely manly, but as universally human. Cultural ideas that would preclude women being both feminine and interested in guns have been a device for excluding and marginalizing women and keeping them dependent on men for protection (from other men). As such limitations have been broken down by the women’s movement, it is inevitable that some women will adopt male-identified ideals about power and control as their own.
But the analysis of violence rooted in an obsession with control must go farther still, beyond issues of gender, because the obsession shapes every social institution, from economics and politics to education, religion, and healthcare. Our entire history has been inseparable from a continuing story of control and domination directed at the earth and nonhuman species, at Native Americans, at enslaved Africans and other people of color, at those who resist the building of the American empire and its exercise of global power, at workers, at immigrants. As Richard Slotkin argues in his brilliant history of the making of the American mythology, violence has played a central role in that history. Although the heroes of that mythology have always been men, the larger idea of America shaped by it—of American exceptionalism and superiority, and freedom as the right to dominate and act without restraint—is about more than manhood. It has become the heart of who we think we are as a society and a people.
Which may be why there is so much ambivalence about guns and violence, and such a narrow focus on the crazy individual and not what this is really about, which is ourselves and an entire worldview that informs our lives, with cultural ideals about manhood at the center. The national silence about manhood and violence is about much more than either. It is about protecting a way of life even if it means failing to protect our children.
Any society organized in this way is a frightening place to be—people afraid to go to the movies unless they’re packing heat, parents afraid to send their kids to school. And the solution offered by that same society is, of course, still more control. If someone has a gun, get your own. Arm the teachers. Arm yourself. Arm your kids.
But every crisis is also an opportunity. Here we are once again. The prohibition against talking about violence and manhood in the same breath puts us in a state of paralysis which is where we find ourselves today. And that’s where we’ll be when this happens again, as it’s all but certain to do if it hasn’t already.
Unless we do something to break the silence. History is full of examples of the power of ordinary citizens speaking out—on slavery and race; on the rights of working people, gays, immigrants, Native Americans, people with disabilities, and women; on the exploitation and abuse of children; on the degradation, exploitation, and destruction of the earth and its species; on capitalism and the power of wealth. We have done it before and we can do it again.
For an explanation of patriarchy and how it works, see Allan’s book,The Gender Knot: Unraveling Our Patriarchal Legacy.
In the aftermath of yesterday’s mass murder in Oregon, President Obama, speaking for countless others, expressed his frustration that such violence has become routine in the United States.
We will continue to be frustrated until we come to terms with the underlying cause of the epidemic of men’s violence here and around the world, which is the subject of one of my first posts on this blog, written in response to the murder of children and teachers in Newtown, Connecticut.
My dictionary defines an idiot as someone who is “utterly foolish or senseless” or is of the “lowest level of mental retardation.” A moron turns out to be pretty much the same thing, so I’m not sure what kind of choice he thought he was offering me. Perhaps he just wanted to drive the point home.
There is a lot of such name-calling in public life these days. It has become routine when people want to attack those who disagree with them whether the issue is guns, abortion, affirmative action, immigration, or the proper role of government. It’s as if the only way to understand what someone is about when they stake out an opposing point of view is to assume they are stupid or mentally deranged or—and I’ve been accused of this as well—doing the devil’s work.
What I hear in the words he used to attack me was not simple disagreement with my analysis or a disputation of fact. No—and this is important—his reaction was far more global, as if he didn’t care about the particular facts or logic of what I was saying. It was the whole thing that got him so upset, making it impossible to imagine how any sane, intelligent, decent person could see reality as I appeared to him to do. And, I must confess, when I read his words, I found it difficult to imagine how he could fail to get what I was trying to say. Unless, of course, there was something wrong with him.
So, here we are, both suffering from a failure of imagination, which makes me wonder, what do I use to imagine him and he to imagine me?
What I can imagine depends on what I already know or think I know, a huge collection of beliefs, values, and assumptions that make up a worldview. Like everyone else, my worldview shapes how I see everything, from the cosmos and what happens when we die to why people do what they do. It is the stuff out of which I construct a taken-for-granted reality that I don’t have to question. It shapes not only what I perceive as real, but how I make sense of it, how I explain what happens and what is and is not, and how I justify what I do in any given situation.
My worldview, for example, includes the belief that gravity is real. It has been established by science (also in my worldview) and I therefore do not question its existence. I think I know how it works and how to live in relation to it, so much so that I don’t think about it most of the time, and when I hear about someone falling off a roof, I have no trouble understanding why they fall and why they get hurt or don’t survive, which is why I avoid high places.
When worldviews get disrupted, all hell can break loose because it isn’t just some idea or matter of fact that’s being called into question, but our sense of reality itself. If this isn’t true, then how can I be sure of anything? Imagine that all of a sudden people and everything not tied down start floating up into the air, or baseballs hit out of the park just keep on going. Or that the route you drive every day suddenly is no longer the same—streets not where they were, two-way streets now one-way, the signs and names all changed around. Or one friend after another reveals they never really liked you after all. You go along day after day thinking you know what’s what, how things work, what to expect, and then something comes along and turns it all upside-down.
Worldviews shape not only how we experience what’s right in front of us, but also what we cannot see and what hasn’t happened yet. If I see the world as a dangerous place, for example, I will feel the need to protect myself from things that haven’t happened and possibly never will, while if I see the world as relatively safe, I will not. When women are asked to name the precautions they take every day to ensure their physical safety from assault, for example, they typically produce lists whose length surprises many men, whose own lists are much shorter if not altogether empty, reflecting a striking difference in worldviews.
Because worldviews enable us to feel like we know what’s real from one moment to the next, it’s not hard to see why we’d feel we cannot live without them, which is why opposing worldviews can provoke extreme reactions like calling people idiots or morons or evil. To nullify the threat, we draw upon those same worldviews to understand our opponents in ways that leave our worldviews intact while discrediting theirs.
Which brings me to what is, I’ve long believed, a general pattern among human beings that applies to both sides of any argument. It goes like this—when we lack information that is important to us, we tend to make it up. Our worldview is our primary source of such material. We can’t really know what’s going to happen next, for example, and we can’t really know why people believe and do what they do. We cannot see into their hearts and minds. But that doesn’t keep us from acting as though we can. I don’t actually know what the driver of that other car is going to do in the next ten seconds, for example, but watch me act as if I do.
We make up reality as a way to avoid the anxiety and fear that come from uncertainty and from the need to feel solid ground beneath our feet. Where this can go wrong is when we pretend that what we’ve made up is the actual person or group or thing we’re dealing with. Look at the daily waves of anger, fear, outrage, and disbelief around one issue or another and we can see the result—I’m right, you’re wrong; I’m good, you’re bad; I’m sane, you’re crazy; I’m smart and you’re an idiot or a moron.
And so it will continue unless we step back far enough to see what’s happening and imagine something different. This isn’t an easy thing to do, and there are several things about worldviews that I try to keep in mind when I feel my own being challenged. In what follows, I’m going to focus on the current struggle over guns in America. I could have used any number of issues, but the conflict over this one is intense right now and the massacre of schoolchildren in Connecticut, which is where I live, is still fresh in my mind.
Until now, my worldview made what happened in Newtown literally unthinkable. It never occurred to me that someone might break into an elementary school and slaughter children and their teachers. Like most of the nation, I struggle for answers, and my worldview is what I have to work with.
My assumption that children in school would be safe from mass murder isn’t something I thought up on my own or adopted by conscious choice. Like most of what constitutes a worldview, I came by it through living in a social environment in which that belief has been part of the worldview reflected everywhere I turn. Nor did I ever experience it as a mere opinion or belief, but as the way things are, something to be taken for granted, something that I could assume that everybody knew.
That the authority behind worldviews is based in something larger than and beyond ourselves only increases our tendency not only to experience them as true, but to be unaware that we even have a worldview in the first place. We take the reality it portrays to be not a particular version of reality or point of view on reality, but reality itself. Which then sets us up to see those who hold a different worldview as not living in reality—idiots, morons, lunatics, and fools.
Which is what has happened in the aftermath of the Newtown massacre as worldviews diverged from a shared sense of shock, horror, and grief to a polarizing national debate about whether to control access to the kind of guns used to carry out the murders. Both sides accuse the other of caring not about the safety of children or anyone else but only for a narrow political agenda—to promote the unrestricted right to own weapons on the one hand or to destroy the Second Amendment altogether on the other. How did we go so quickly from the one to the other?
Part of the answer is that the points of conflict have always been there. Worldviews overlap—we’re all horrified by the murder of children—and they don’t—we disagree about what’s to be done about it. From its beginning, this country has been host to a variety of worldviews that get along some of the time but also erupt in conflict when we’re confronted with their differences. We’re like sheepdogs keeping the herd of all our beliefs and assumptions together, making sure they all fit and chasing off any interlopers who show up at the periphery.
Another part of the answer is that worldviews are not only largely unconscious, but they are also complicated and consist of countless interconnecting parts. The disturbance of one part touches many others. The issue of gun control is not simply about guns or control, but is connected to all kinds of other things—what it means to be an American, the cultural definition of manhood, how safe we feel in the world and what we feel entitled to do when we feel threatened; the role of government and authority in the lives of citizens, the belief in the use of violence as the cause of a problem or the solution, the fear of strangers and groups identified as ‘not like us’, and the view of government power as a means to ensure the common good or as a threat to individual liberty, including the use of violence against its citizens; the cultural ideal of the rugged individual, the degree to which we feel accountable to other people, the meaning of civil rights, of freedom, and the Constitution—to name just a few. And our worldviews shape not only what we perceive to be the reality of the world outside ourselves, but also our own identity, who we think we are in relation to all of that.
Which means there is a lot more at stake here than guns.
All of the above makes worldviews highly resistant, if not impervious, to doubt, which is why they’re so hard to change and we dig in our heels when we encounter one that contradicts some part of our own. We defend our worldview not simply because we like a particular set of what we consider to be facts, but because our sense of reality itself—of who we are and the difference between what is real and what is not—depends on it. This makes it impossible to completely separate ourselves from whatever worldview we’ve come to have. In writing this essay, for example, I am acting from a worldview that includes the belief that words and ideas can make a difference, that it is possible to understand our experience and behavior as human beings, that people I do not know can read what I write and draw from it some idea of how I see reality. I cannot tell you how I acquired that belief. I also cannot say just how I know that it’s true. I can make an argument. I can cite evidence. But, in the final analysis, it really comes down to what I believe.
When I go out into the world—to the movies, for example, or shopping for groceries—the worldview I carry does not include the belief that there exists a reasonable chance that a stranger is going to attack me and that I might need a gun to protect myself. I also don’t believe that I have the right to kill someone who is trying to steal my property. Nor do I see our government as a malevolent force out to destroy liberty and oppress its citizens, against which adequate firepower is the only defense. I do not believe in society as a collection of rugged individuals who stand on their own against any attempt to limit their ability to be left alone to live their lives the way they want without anyone telling them what to do. I don’t believe the social world of human beings actually works that way, or that it should. I believe we really are all in this together whether we like it or not, that we’re in the same boat and what happens to some of us happens to us all in one way or another.
Do I actually know for a fact that my perceptions and beliefs about all of this are true? Do I know for certain that a civil war against a tyrannical government is not in our future? Am I absolutely sure there will never come a moment when a pistol might be the only thing to save my life or someone I love? Of course not. And yet I act as though I do because my worldview tells me so, providing me with the only reality I have. And supporters of gun rights do their own version of the same.
Perhaps the greatest power of worldviews lies in their invisibility to us most of the time while at the same time being crucial to our existence. So, when debates turn ugly and both sides accuse the other of being some combination of evil, crazy, and stupid and wanting to destroy something precious to the other side for no other reason than, well, they just do because that’s who they are—we can be sure the conflict is about something much larger and deeper than the issue at hand. Even more important—given the way these things usually go—it’s unlikely that what’s really at stake will ever be named, much less discussed, which is why such debates are rarely resolved and keep coming back again and again.
The only way out of this is to change the conversation, to take it beneath the surface and talk about larger and more fundamental differences that need to be heard and reconciled. Can we be accountable to one another, for example, and still be free? Free to do and be what? What are we afraid of and what do we need in order to feel safe? What assumptions are we making about the reality of social life and one another and what it means to be a human being?
Examining our own worldview is not an easy thing to do. It is hard work that can be confusing and uncomfortable and threatening and, at times, frightening. But it is also the only alternative we have to angry refusals to compromise or even listen to one another. Yesterday a caller to an NPR radio show expressed support for gun control and then blurted out in exasperation, “Why should we have to compromise?” while at a recent gun rights rally in Hartford, a man was heard to say that the two sides are on opposite sides of the moon, with people like him on the light side and their opponents in the dark. It would be easier if this were true, because we’d have no reason to reconcile our differences. But we inhabit the same society. We live down the street from one another. Our children and grandchildren attend the same schools, go to the same movie theaters.
Finding a way out of this doesn’t mean making our worldviews all the same, which is impossible. It does mean opening our own worldviews to the reality that they are just that, that they are not the only ones, and that those who see things differently are not crazy or stupid or malevolent. Then we can talk about evidence and consequences and how to construct a society in which worldviews can coexist without our being at one another’s throats.
This country fought the Civil War—the bloodiest conflict in our history—from a failure to recognize the worldviews that underlay regional hostility, fear, and violence, to step back and critically evaluate what shapes how we perceive and understand the world, or to listen and strive to understand the worldview of others. We can do better than this—we have to—and given how polarized our country has become over so many issues, now is the time to begin.
If you liked this post, you might also want to read “Fatal Distraction: Manhood, Guns, and Violence.”