Dear Men,

I live two lives, perhaps you do too. In one life I am a probably a lot like you, I probably get treated much the same as you, and I probably navigate similar spaces to you.

I get to traverse my spaces with the benefit of my privileges, my maleness, my whiteness, my appearance. We might differ in those factors, but likely we bond on a fair spectrum of gender norms.

In my other life I am a social worker, a therapist, an advocate, an ally, an analysist of the human condition. I must also traverse that space while being aware of my privileges, of my power, and importantly of the gender I visibly represent. I am, for all intents and purposes, always a man — first and foremost. This comes with weight, responsibility and with accountability. We cannot escape this.

It is not enough to be ‘a good man’ in our lives. It is not enough to live our lives according to a code of decency. It is not enough to say “I am not like that”. It is not enough to say ‘not me’ in response to #metoo posts from women.

It is not enough because we all know (and I mean that we all actually know) of people who are responsible for the trespasses behind the #metoo movement. We all know a letch, a misogynist, a ‘maker of jokes’, a man who mistreats women. We all know someone who makes us cringe. It is not enough to simply know of these men, it is our responsibility to change these men. I know that we can’t drag other men into a space of conscience and consciousness, we can’t make men be feminists, but we can challenge them, we can change the landscape.

It may seem daunting to imagine confronting other men, toxic masculinity has applied terms like Alpha and Beta, it creates hierarchies and instils a fear of rejection or retaliation. It has programed men into fearing vulnerability, or appearing soft, of appearing ‘female’. It has made us complicit. It is a wild thing to have a penis, to have testosterone, we have been duped into believing a narrative that tells us we are governed by these things but in reality the impact of having a penis, and of testosterone are socially constructed. We think and behave the way ‘men’ do because we are socially driven to behave that way. Testosterone increases our drive to whatever action is socially normative — and social norms are set by toxic masculinity. We are trapped in a pattern of our own creation and perpetuation.

We don’t have to challenge other men though, we don’t have to throw down a gauntlet or draw pistols (more of that macho-stuff) — we have a much more effective ‘weapon’. We can tell other men that we don’t welcome, want or accept their thought/action/behavior when we experience it. We can, and we should, do this because we reside in positions of power — simply by virtue of our birth. We can be an antidote to toxic masculinity and the culture that comes with it. We can ostracize the content that poisons us by giving it no quarter. We do it with so many other things — why not do it with misogyny?

In my life before being a social worker I knew women who had been assaulted, who had been raped, and women who had been abused as children. I knew women who had been harmed by men, and I knew women who had harmed other women — because they themselves had been harmed by men. Toxic masculinity, misogyny, and patriarchy are endemic to our global culture, and it harms all of us.

I largely became a social worker because I felt responsible, that I was complicit through inaction, but I felt that I couldn’t change this toxicity myself — I wasn’t going to make a difference, but if I could help, if I could not hurt women by trying to help, then it was my duty to do something. To do anything to help.

I came to understand that listening, not trying to fix it, or solve it, or smash it — that listening helped the most of all. Of course, assisting women in finding places of safety helps in a practical sense, but listening serves to empower women. Listening gives women back the power to take control over their narrative, and to state how they want to be defined.
Listening to women, listening to their narrative (without needing to reference it, or reframe it) is an action of sharing the unjustified imbalance of power that men hold.
Listening to a woman tell her truth is an act of honoring that truth.

Women don’t ‘need’ to be rescued, or protected, or kept safe by men. Women ‘need’ to be respected as equals — not lauded as objects, or trophies, or conquests, or worse. I only ‘know’ this because I have listened.

Over the years I have listened to hundreds of women, some children yet to become women — I have learned that my responsibility in listening is to say this:

I am sorry this has happened to you, this space here is safe as long as you need it, I believe you, I am honored that you are telling me this, is there anything I can do to help, is there anything that you need, is there more you want to tell me?

I don’t expect all men to understand how to help women, I don’t really understand how to help women, I’m not the expert, they are — but listening, honoring them, believing them (not trying to take control), standing beside them in support and solidarity is something all men can do.

– and if you can’t then get out of the way, go get help yourself, seek therapy, go to workshops, read, listen and become something to address the imbalance.

· There is a deeper conversation to be had, about how there is space for men (and importantly young men and boys) within the #metoo movement, but it is toxic masculinity that holds us out of those spaces, and we owe it to ourselves to dispel that specter so that we can shine a greater light into that dynamic, so that we can stand and act in solidarity.