At the age of 13, create a male rite of passage and invite all boys to go through it. For thousands of years, men have taught boys how to become healthy men. We have lost these rites of passage and now we have generations of men who are still boys, stunted, shutdown and numbing out with porn, videogames, drugs and addictions of every sort.

I staffed a Boys to Men Weekend recently where we took 16 boys from the ages of 13 to 17 years old and lead

New Bromance ~ Derek Dujardin and Craig Gagliardi

them into the world of men. Not the world of men of who they have been role modeling for the first decade of their lives, but the world of healthy, strong, trustworthy men. The REAL world of men.

The biographies of the boys were heart-wrenching. Half of them lived in foster homes. The other half lived with mom and had no father figures in their life. When they weren’t absent, their real dads were alcoholic and abusive. A lot struggled with ADHD, and more than 1/3 said have tried to kill themselves and most had suicidal thoughts. A few were normal boys, with normal boys trouble. But only a few. Couple came with their fathers.

I was hard NOT to write them off the majority. And a few times I caught myself doing exactly that. These guys had really GOOD reasons to quit on their lives. And a few of us would have blame them if they did. They had the ultimate trump card and an excuse that could justify any actions and behaviors for the rest of their lives. They were victims. And now, they were each becoming perpetrators, some faster than others. In year or two, jail was were they were headed. They were all running out of second chances.

So, what did we do? I can’t tell you EXACTLY what we did that weekend because it’s secret, as rites of passage for men should be. But I can tell you about the Hero’s Journey. We took them through multiple processes that spoke about the healthy male energies and archetypes, including the Lover, Warrior, Magician and King. We told them about their shadows. The Lover’s shadow is the Addict. The Warrior’s shadow is the Bully, the Magicians shadow is the Trickster/Manipulator, and the King’s shadow is the Tyrant. We talked about the masks we all wear to hide the scarred little boy inside.

But most importantly, we dealt with what it means to be a man. Men keep their commitments, especially to themselves and their communities. Men don’t hurt themselves or others. Men speak their truth from their integrity.  We modeled this for all the boys, to show them they can trust men. And trust themselves. Make good choices. For many, it was the first time in their lives they have met men like this. We cried in front of them and showed them there is no shame in our emotions. Open vulnerable and raw, we showed up.

The climax of the weekend is an ordeal. However, from this ordeal, each of the boys get to become a king, the Decider of their lives. We take them through their wounds and help them find the gift that is next to it. We help them to be empowered and change their interpretations of their victim story and confront the obstacles and beliefs that are holding them back from moving forward. In short, we showed them their gold, and showed them the the shadow that is covering it.

They got it. Every single one of these, rough, hurt, angry, medicated, abused, apathetic boys walked out of that weekend a new person. And we did in less than 48 hours. I have no idea how we did it. I think this is in our DNA. Men are born to do this. Boys are born to received it.

Will it stick? We have a group of eight boys who joined us, called Journey Men. The J-Men on our weekend had biographies that were just as horrific as these boys who walked in on Friday night. But, they showed up, as men. They showed up in ways that taught me that I still have work to do. These Boys, were also Those boys, only a few months earlier or a year before. These J-Men, all had Victim stories that would give them an excuse that to live in their Shadow selves. But they showed up as Warriors, Lovers, and Kings. So, yes, for some, it will stick.

I love the MENding. I love the work that I do, but this work, this Boys to Men’s work, would make a world of difference if our world were to embrace it.

Another man left that weekend equally transformed. I got a refresher course in my B.S. and my shadow parts and I, too, have made a commitment to be a better man, more passionate, more loving, more grateful.

I can’t wait to do this work again.

Last Tuesday night, we did a performance at ASU that was both disappointing and enlightening for me. There were a group of fraternity men who were forced to attend our performance—and to our credit and theirs—they stayed engaged throughout. Afterwards, one of the moderators felt that something we had said in a monologue wasn’t accurate and she felt the need to clear it up. As an educator, it was her responsibility to do exactly that. She didn’t want these men walking out with any misinformation or something that could be misconstrued.

Unfortunately, what could have been two-minute factual fix to set the record straight, collapsed into an 15 minute attack on these men, as they were singled out. I saw them shutdown and squirm, and finally walk out.

In college, when I had attended lectures about sexual and gender violence, I could feel my arms fold and my walls go up. Inside, I said, “This is not my problem. Because I’m not the problem. Other guys do that shit, not me.” The statement that “all (frat) men are potential rapists” will polarize a room faster than anything.

There’s Got To Be A Better Way.

So, this whole thing got me thinking on how to reach these men. Because the way it’s being done now is pretty much a failure. It can’t come from monologuing, statistics, finger-pointing, shaming or blaming. In the MENding Monologues, we have had lot of conversation around gender violence and I believe our formula works and I offer it here for anyone who wants to give it a try. We come to this conversation not trying to change men, but as an honest inquiry. There’s no agenda here and no judgement. However, the process of inquiry itself will create an opening for a conversation so that statistics, facts and codes of conduct can land when offered.

STEP 1: MAKE VIOLENCE RELEVANT, WITHOUT GETTING PERSONAL.

Ask young men to write down three names of women who have been harmed by men. From date rape, incest, verbal abuse, harassment, beatings, domestic violence, etc. The fact that one in three women have suffered some kind trauma, odds are very good EVERY man knows somebody who has suffered abuse and they know her story. Mother, sister, friend, daughter, girlfriend, wife, etc.

STEP 2: ASK THEM HOW IT MADE THEM FEEL.

Get young men to pick a women’s name off his list and relate how it made him feel when that woman in his life was hurt or abused. Also, get them to speculate and brainstorm about how this trauma might or has affected these woman for the rest of their lives.

STEP 3: ASK WHAT’S THE COST VIOLENCE TO THEM?

This may seem strange, but most young people,  men and woman, are pretty self-absorbed. Asking what this past violence cost them is a relevant question, even thought they weren’t directly affected by the violence itself. In my case, I was in relationship with a woman who was molested by her father. Whenever her father would call, I was the one who had to watch her shutdown and was helpless to help her through it. Her drug and alcohol addiction, which she used to cope with the pain of incest, eventually became my problem and ultimately destroyed our relationship. I have been with other women who have sexually shutdown on me few month into the relationship because of the abuse in their life. Once, I raised my voice to a woman I was dating. It was a simple spat in the car over which route to take to a party. But what I said to her were the exact same words and tone another boyfriend used before she was beaten. That trigger ruined our evening and our relationship.

Why do this? This gets men to see that this problem of violence towards women is THEIR problem, too. Because they have women in their lives, and these hurts often surface in their relationships. This gets them to see that there is a problem. And that there is a ripple effect to violence.

STEP 4: HOW DOES THE MASCULINE CULTURE IN GENERAL PERPETUATE THIS PROBLEM?

Here’s where we broaden the conversation. Now, men know there is a problem, and they are also present to the cost of this problem in their lives and to the women in their lives. Next, get men to brainstorm the causes. From unhealthy role models to alcohol to sexual objectification to unclear signals, etc. we layout the contributing causes of this problem.

STEP 5: WHAT HAVE I DONE TO STOP IT?

We ask men to start thinking for themselves of ways to stop this trend. Again, the ideas have to come from the guys. If we as facilitators start jamming it down their throats, they will only regurgitate what we tell them and there will be no transformation in consciousness.

STEP 6: WHAT HAVEN’T I DONE IN THE PAST TO STOP IT?

This is tricky. But at this point we ask men to own up to where they have added to the problem (in their own judgement). In my case, I didn’t confront a friend who had date raped another friend of mine in college. The rape occurred one year before I knew either of them. When I found out, I simply stopped being the guy’s friend. Yet, because I didn’t confront him, who’s to say he didn’t do it again. I added to the problem. Questions could be, “Have any of you ever plied a woman with alcohol so she would have sex with you?”, “Have you ever let a friend have sex with woman who was passed out?” These questions could be put onto piece of paper and put into a hat and then counted, so each man can remain anonymous, but also honest in their answers.

Would this work?

Why do it this way? I believe the number one problem with having a conversation with frat men around sexual violence is shame. Shaming and judging men is not going to get them to take an honest look at themselves or their behaviors. If you noticed, nothing in here was about telling men what to do or not to do. It was simply a conversation. I believe that the vast majority of men want to do the right thing, but they haven’t EVER had an honest conversation about it.

Let’s start one…

I want to express thanks and call out a few people for special praise for their contribution and creativity. First of all, behind every good man is a woman. In this case, two women: Kym Pappas and Carla Nell, who are also the directors and producers of V-Day in San Diego. They have done a tremendous job, in adding The MENding to V-Day and advertising the two shows together, positioning it as the ying and yang of solving the problem of violence. Thank you, you two strong, beautiful and wonderful women for giving men a voice in this very important work.

Next, I need to thank Brendan Cavalier and Christopher Burger. Christopher stepped forward to direct this project last year (thank you, Chris, it’s hard to be the first lemming off the cliff, I know) and Brendan took it on this year. Both of them are amazing men with big hearts and lots of creative juice.

I want to call out special thanks to Rod Rodriguez, who is a gifted writer. He has written a ton of pieces for this show, many of which I’m hoping, with his permission, to add to our general MENding script to make it available for other groups of men to do this work in college and communities around the country. Moreover, I plan to feature his work on this blog in the weeks to come.

But of all that he has written, by far my favorite is: “To Whom It May Concern:” is about an attempted rape and abduction of his sister 15 years ago that was thwarted by her and a sticky door handle on the rapist’s van. This piece wraps up the show and is one of my favorite for its depth and vulnerability. Rod is also the writer of “Breast”, “I am a man.”, “I am not a hero.” , “Curly” and co-author of several other work in the show. My other favorite piece (of many favorites!) is “Forgive Yourself” by Christopher Burger, which is expertly and movingly delivered by the talented Patrick Mayuyu. “Forgive Yourself” deserves a whole blog later, but it recounts how a 14-year old boy is sexually harassed and nearly molested by a priest. It is a subtle, first person account that shows that sexual misconduct doesn’t have to result in gentile touching or penetration for someone to be damaged.

I also want to honor David Wittenburg for his stunning delivery of Dr. Vaginski (see blog). Even though I wrote this piece and thought that I couldn’t laugh at my own jokes any longer, David delivered such a devastatingly funny performance that he had me rolling with gut laughs—and I’ve only heard this piece about 500 times.

I also want to thank Scott Amiotte for his performance of “Tantra” (see this blog), and for writing the piece “Babe”, which is another work I plan to feature here with his permission.

I also want to thank Paul Savage, Steven Schmitz, George Soete, Reed Willard, Marc Amial Caro, Josh Hyatt, Ryan Martinez, Tony Bejarno, Tony Hamm, Gilbert Quintana, Patrick Kelly, and Zach Goode for their hard work and participation in writing and performing in this show. You guys ARE heros.

Finally, one of the most rewarding moment for me happened after the show. I was approached by Brendan Cavalier’s mother, the director of this year’s show, who said the following to me: “Thank you so much for doing this work. Because of Brendan’s involvement with this show, I have seen a side of my son that I have never seen before, and I have to tell you, I like this side of him very much.”

So do I.

In fact, you could say I like this side of all these men—very, very much.

I love you guys and really look forward to working with, performing with, and collaborating with you on your special San Diego-flavored version of the MENding Monologues in the months and years to come.

A Quiet Voice

Written and lived by Tom Puetz

I remember when I was a little boy back on the farm in Indiana I just wanted to know what made the corn grow. You might say I had a loving reverence for life. Somewhere along the way I lost sight of that. I must have because I dropped out of my second year of collage and volunteered for Vietnam.

Yet, as a war veteran I’m not special. So many have suffered a different kind of war.  So many have suffered the private degradation of domestic violence or lost a loved one to violent crime. So many have subtracted themselves from society because of violence?  So many are afraid to show their eyes, or feel unable to touch life without tainting it? There will be no welcome home parade for them, no medals for the bravery they show by simply living through another day. I wish I had a healing prayer, or ceremony that would bring them back into the fold, to be alive again.

Perhaps there will never be understanding from those who have not felt emotional or physical violence. The task of making sense of it all, of giving some meaning to the road we have traveled is left entirely up to us, the survivors of trauma.  The responsibility of breaking the chain of violence by showing compassion in return for hatred is ours, the walking wounded.

When I was a soldier in the Vietnam War I was on both ends of the chain of violence. I know what it’s like to live in fear, to be trapped, to fell hopeless and abandoned. I also know what it’s like to give in to fear and hatred and kill a man.

I had a turning point while I was in Nam. It was late afternoon. I was getting my squad together to go out on a typical listening point when the word came down the V. C. were moving into a village near our firebase. So our company was assigned to cordon off that village. By the time we got to the village it was getting dark. My lieutenant was new, he had been in Nam for about a week. I didn’t know where the rest of the company was just my platoon. Sgt. Horn had a third squad on point. I was following his squad. He was in the Nipa palm mangrove along a canal at the far end of the village and then we were ambushed.

We started taking AK-47 and machinegun fire coming from the village. We all hit the dirt. We were in the middle of a rice paddy. The only cover we had was a foot high dike. The new guy beside me was scared shitless. His eyes were as big as saucers. I guess I was scared to but I had learned to cover the fear with anger. I crawled up next to my RTO (radio man) and heard the CO, probably on the other side of the village, calling for gun ships.

The lead squad was in the nipa palm, my Lt. was with the first squad still up by the road. My squad was in the middle of the action so the CO gave me fire direction of the two Cobra gun ships.  It was dark now but I heard the gun ships so I marked my position with a strobe. When the lead cobra called for fire direction I gave him the direction and distance from my position. When he swung around to make his run he saw I had directed the fire right down a row of huts on my side of the village. He called me on the radio and said “Tiger three, Tiger three ARE YOU SURE”? I had only seconds to respond. As I was about to key the mike I heard a quiet voice saying “No, stop, don’t do this”. I keyed the mike and said “Yes. I’m sure. Make the run”.

You can’t imagine what two Cobra gunship can do to a village of grass huts. It did end the firefight but we had to stay in position. I laid out in that rice paddy all night thinking about what I had just done. At dawn we moved in to search the village. I decided to walk point. The first person I saw was a mamasan. She was on her knees sobbing and weeping. She saw me, stood up, looked me in the eyes and said “Why! Why! Why!  I heard the quiet voice again. It said ” Tom, you lost your compassion. You de-humanized them. That’s why you could do this “.

More than eighty villagers were killed that night, men women and children.  That was the turning point for me. After facing what I had done, and what I had become in order to do it, I could no longer kill without hesitation or remorse. Before I left Vietnam I started to feel compassion again.  That is a dangerous thing in a combat zone. Still I looked for an alternative to my usual violent response.

When I got back from Nam, I hung around Oakland and San Francisco for a week. I was afraid to go home to Mom and Dad. I didn’t want them to see how I stared out at the world. I didn’t think they could possibly understand what I had done and endured just to survive.

There are probably women in the audience tonight who are afraid to tell mom and dad “My husband hits me sometimes”. There are probably women here who don’t want anyone to know they were raped. I’m guessing there are men in the audience who have hurt the ones they claim to love. Maybe there are men here who have been physically, sexually or emotionally abused.

As survivors of public and private wars we know how fragile life is.

We know how easily humans can inch towards hatred and death until all is madness, meaningless and pointless. We know wars start at home and on street corners.  We know there is a daily struggle moving towards life or towards death. We, as survivors, are more keenly aware than anyone of that moment-to-moment choice.

We do not have the luxury of waking up in the morning and simply living that day. We must choose to live every day. Some days the choice is not clear, but it is always clear there is a choice.  Since we have eaten from the tree of such terrible knowledge, the paradise of a simple life is denied us.

As survivors, we know every act moves us closer to love and life, or closer to hatred and death. We know that every day we look down the barrel of our weapons and chose to pull the trigger or not. We know the path to the killing ground is all too easy. We know about the small heartless acts which lead us to the point where we abandoned ourselves to the madness and strike out. We must not turn away.  We are stripped of our illusions. We know that everyone, every day, has the choice to act out of love, or turn towards the darkness.

If we open our hearts, we will hear a quiet voice. It will tell us that the pain we have inflicted or endured does not define us. What we have overcome is only the beginning.

Then we will know that we have a duty to break the chain of violence that binds us by making each day an expression of our loving reverence for life.

Copyright Tom Puetz 2008

Inspired by Eve’s work, we call ourselves The MENding Monologues. Like The Vagina Monologues, we perform a mixture of stories and comedic satire to audiences around country. It’s a love letter to women and wake up call for men.

When new men enter our group, they usually tell me that they don’t have a story to tell, or they have a story, but they are certain no one would want to hear it. I assure them they do have a story to tell and that people would want to hear it—as long as they can tell with it authenticity and vulnerability.

To get the ball rolling, I tell the new men one of my stories. It’s called “R U my 2:15?” and it’s about me being the focal point of aggressive sexual attention—from a man. From this experience, I developed empathy for what many women suffer through daily.

This happened two and half years ago, six months before I started The MENding Monologues. I had ended a relationship with my girlfriend of nearly six years and felt like I needed to write my way through the anger, depression and loss. So, I started a screenplay about time travelers, who kidnap world leaders when they are impressible teenagers, take them to a post-apocalyptic future and show them the fruits of their follies—essentially, it’s A Christmas Carol crossed with The Terminator, that’s a coming of age story. And for once, I promised myself I would finish something that I wasn’t being paid ahead of time to write. So, I choose a quiet library with nothing to distract me except the milling about of ancient librarians.

Let’s be clear: As a writer, I’m very accomplished at not writing. One of my favorite ways of not writing is the minute I sit down and start, I have a forceful urge to pee. It happens every time. So, to get around my procrastination and fear of failure, I make it a rule to always go to the bathroom before I sit down to do any serious work.

In the library’s restroom, above the urinal, right at eyelevel was written: “Meet me here for a blowjob, August 12, from 1:30 to 2:15 pm.” Then the next day, it would still read “Meet me here for a blow job—”, but the date and time had changed to “Aug. 13, from 11:45 to 2:30.” The next day, the offer would be the same, but the time and date would be different. After several weeks of this, I started to wear a watch.

Two months went by and nothing happened, so I forgot about it. I thought it was just amusing graffiti, kids having fun. Until one day, I walk into the middle of the library; remembered my need for an empty bladder, and headed to the restroom.

Suddenly, this short, stocky guy, about 25 years old, with a face full of acne, springs from the couch and follows me into the hallway. He’s right on my heels, walking quickly. I think: “He must really have to pee.”

When I pull up to the urinal, he takes the one right next to mine, and starts making small talk. That should have been my first clue. Guys do not make small talk with strangers while at the urinal. I reply, “I’m fine. You?” to his salutation. He says: “Oh, I’m great, great yeaaah…” Then I see him peek over the splashguard to get a look at my low hanging fruit. That should been my second clue: Guys do not check out each other’s gear at the urinal, unless, you know, one of you is packing something extremely impressive.

I should have walked out right then, but I was determined not to let this guy get to me. I wanted to finish up and get on with my writing. Unfortunately, he’s talking to me now, constantly. I don’t remember what he said, but he was monologuing about something inane. And that gave my urination stage fright. So, I just stood there, anxiously waiting for the flow to begin. It wasn’t. So, he assumes, since I’m still standing there, not peeing, he had successfully built rapport with me.

This goes on for a very uncomfortable two minutes.

Finally, I give up. I turn to leave and he turns towards me, showing his semi-erect penis, displaying it like it was the best piece of meat in the butcher shop—with this sappy grin on his face.

I look down at the floor, I look away, I walk out. I glance behind me, he is still standing there, with a confused look on his face that said: “Hey? Where you going man? I thought we had something?”

I exit to the hallway, and I have a mix of emotions; I feel pissed and I want to punch him in the face. I also feel a little scared. But mostly, I feel humiliated.

That surprised me. I always thought if something like that happened, I would find it amusing. Trust me, I was not amused. I’m usually a very live-and-let-live kind of person. And, I don’t care that someone is gay. I’ve had gay men hit on me before, and it’s no big deal—I’m no homophobe. But this was creepy.

Later, upon reflection, I get present to what it must be like to be a woman. Having guys grab your ass in a bar. Whistling and yelling at you as you walk by a construction site. Leering at you as you wait for a bus, followed by inappropriate remarks or touching. I got a small taste of it and didn’t like it. I made me think of the times in my youth when I may have done things like that.

So, I go back to the library and I try to write. I can’t write. So, I pack up my laptop and head for the exit. I’m thinking of which kinds of hastily made cocktails I should drink when I get home and I heard something that snaps me out of it. A little boy’s voice says: “Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom.”

Mom doesn’t look up from her magazine. She replies: “Honey, you know where it is, just go.” He looks five years old, maybe six. It hits me: This is a public library in the middle of the afternoon—not an abandoned restroom out on the Interstate at 3 A.M. There are two schools just blocks away. This place is packed with kids. (I’m not implying that all men who cruise for sex in public bathrooms are potential pedophiles, but perhaps he picked this restroom for a reason. When kids are involved, I don’t take chances).

I pipe up: “Sorry ma’am, but you need to take your son to the ladies’ room, there’s some weird guy hanging out in the men’s room. I don’t know if it’s safe.”

She gives me a suspicious look and walks her son to the bathroom. I think about telling one of the librarians. The youngest looks in her mid-seventies. What the hell is she going to do? That’s when I got worried. That’s when got pissed. That’s when I called the police.

And, that’s when I suffered another humiliation.

I meet a large, redneck-looking cop in the parking lot. I tell him about the guy cruising for sex in the bathroom. And he asks me: “What did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t say anything. He just showed me his dick with a knowing look on his face,” I replied.

“Well, how did you know he wanted sex then?”

I stammered, feeling like a very unreliable narrator of my own life’s story. I tell him about the daily blow job offers on the walls, how the guy made small talk, and the semi-erect penis, and the cop just looks at me like he doesn’t believe me. He walks into the bathroom. Lucky me, the walls were scrubbed clean yesterday. There’s no trace of evidence. Just my word against his.

The cop gives me one of those looks of disgust that a junior high vice-principal gave me once when I was 12 years old. I read it as, “You wimp. You should have popped the guy in the nose and instead of calling me.” Later, he gives me another look, which I interpret as: “Well, your pants are pretty tight, your hair is dyed blonde, sure you weren’t asking for it?” Like somehow, I was inviting this behavior and it was my fault.

At that moment, I felt humiliated. And, I know it’s only one-tenth of one percent of the feeling that countless women must endure when they have to speak to authorities, and their story is called into question. I know it is one-tenth of one percent of what a woman must go through on the witness stand. I know it is only one-tenth of one percent of what it must be like to say that a teacher, family member or minister is molesting you. I know it’s only one-tenth of one percent, but I know when it happened to me, it felt like shit.

The police officer grills him for a few minutes, but doesn’t arrest him. Instead he tells him never to come back here again. The man swears he’ll never come back, he walks away without looking my direction. The police officer tells me the guy’s body language, voice and eye contact indicated he was guilty and lying about something. So, in the end, the cop believed me.

There’s an epilogue to this story: I never finished the screenplay. I stopped writing it that very day. I told myself I would go back to the library in a couple of weeks to start again, but I didn’t. That guy in the bathroom gave me the perfect excuse to quit. I wish I could blame the guy for that, but I know it is solely my issue whether or not I write. But I have to admit that I don’t write there anymore because it doesn’t feel comfortable. I was afraid of retribution of some kind, perhaps being hit from behind while walking to my car because I ruined good rendezvous point for dozens of men who like anonymous bathroom sex in libraries. I know it doesn’t make rational sense. I’m also afraid that if it happens again, maybe next I wouldn’t put my fist in my pocket and walk away. Next time, if I was having a bad day, would humiliation turn to rage?

Here’s another distinction that needs to be made: I could choose to walk away. I’m not sure women always have the choice to avoid the subways, construction sites, or bars where sexually aggressive assholes seem to lurk and leer.

When I do this piece as a monologue, I usually end the story by citing a line from the “Short Skirt” piece from The Vagina Monologues. It goes something like this: “Just because I’m wearing a short skirt, isn’t an invitation for you to have sex with me.”

My version of that is: “Just because I’m in the public restroom, at your appointed time of 2:15, August 14, doesn’t mean I’m there for a BJ.”

Derek Dujardin is the director and creator of The MENding Monologues,www.theMENding.org . Feel free to write him with your comments atcopycowboy@mac.com .