The term “toxic masculinity” has been around for years, but it's gained a lot traction recently with the #MeToo movement and the evolution of gender identities. It’s used to describe traditional male gender roles that restrict emotional expression and behaviors, with the expectation that boys and men should be dominant. Austin Davis, an activist and burgeoning young poet at Arizona State University, explores this concept in his poem Blowing on my Nails. In this week’s Poetry Friday, Austin reflects on the formative experiences of "toxic masculinity" and how they can affect mental health.
AD: Like a lot of boys, I think I was exposed to a certain amount of toxic masculinity in school and in the wider world. As I’ve lived longer and longer, I’ve begun to become more and more interested in masculinity and its relationship with mental health and how we can cultivate a culture of positive masculinity.
I’ve dealt with OCD and anxiety for a good majority of my life. It hasn’t always been easy, but being creative has really helped me the most during the most challenging times in my life. Writing has really helped me process my anxiety and work through pain and grow from the hard parts of life, really.
For me at least, sometimes it can be really hard to get out of my head, and expressing myself really pulls me out of that spiral and points me upwards into a place of positivity and a place of growth, I think. And poetry especially has really helped me understand more and more what kind of man I want to be and how I want to change the world with my passion. And for that, I feel really grateful.
This poem I’m going to read today is called Blowing On My Nails. It deals with my experiences navigating masculinity and mental health during adolescence.
Blowing on my Nails
Somewhere in my stomach
there’s a basement
of old men attending
their 50-year junior high
reunion dance,
arguing with each other
about whether the squirrels
in the walls are having sex
or plotting their revenge.
All the uncles who used to call me
a cupcake for not wanting to hunt
when I was a kid
are slow dancing with their dead deer,
pouring them a drink,
dabbing at their deer’s
wine stained fur
with their ties as the last song ends.
My gym coach from seventh grade
who taught sex ed
is sweeping up the bullet shells
scattered around the dance floor.
On the day before summer break,
Mr. Manekee sat on the pointy end
of his football and told my class
that if we do it right,
love will feel like catching an interception
and running in a touchdown
as hard and fast as we can.
I had never felt the warmth of another’s skin
Mixing their freckles with mine,
but I still felt like stabbing
both of my ears
with sharpened pencils
until chunks of brain
came out on my tongue
after all 23 of the future men
sitting around me
began to roar with laughter,
whistle and cheer for more.
In my chest there is a little boy
blowing on his nails,
waiting for the pink to dry,
about to bust a vein
and lather himself in blood
so that his friends won’t find out
how pretty he feels.
Poetry Friday is produced by KNAU's Gillian Ferris. If you have an idea for a segment, drop her an email at Gillian.Ferris@nau.edu.
