I blame it
on my mother—this longing I have for community. My mom was a full-blooded Greek
who could make friends with a stranger as swiftly as one Mediterranean wave
follows another. I’d like to think I inherited a trace of her calling for
fellowship, and for that I am grateful.
Three years ago I acted on her
example by forming a small men’s group. Originally I thought there must be
other men who felt as I and that they would surely invite me into their fold at
any moment. So I waited by the telephone for the call that never came. Finally
I realized that the making of a men’s club was up to me.
My idea was to cast a small circle
of guys who were bright, articulate, confident, and willing to be open. I found
six men who easily qualified. At first we called ourselves “A Gathering of
Men.” Then, in a moment of shameless hubris, one of the fellas said we should
call ourselves “The Magnificent Seven” or “M7” for short. The name had just
enough derision to stick.
We meet twice a month over dinner
for two to three hours. Our mission is to talk about whatever is important to
us at the time. Sometimes the chatter is lightweight bantering about sports,
movies, and politics. At other times it becomes a more cautious exploration into
the stew of our misgivings: career changes, lost and found loves, the malaise
of mortality.
We are usually served by a young
waitress we call Danny. She is an affable and hard-working twenty-year old with
a winning smile and a delightful sense of humor. We like her style, and I’m
sure she enjoys us. That’s why I was a little surprised by her reaction one
night after dinner.
“So, tell me,” Danny asked, “why do
you boys meet twice a month?”
“Oh, it’s just a time for some male
bonding,” I said smiling, as I always do whenever she calls us “boys.”
Danny laughed out loud. It was not a
titter or a chortle; it was a tsunami guffaw—a sardonic tidal-wave of a whoop.
Grown men bonding? How perfectly strange—as demented as organizing left and
right sock drawers or hosting birthday parties for cats. In Danny’s eyes we
were seven weird human beings. Suddenly our self-branding as “The Magnificent
Seven” peeled off my face and pooled in my shoes.
I tried to explain myself to my
nascent friend, but I’m not sure I got it right. So let me try again.
What is male bonding anyway, and why
would a bunch of guys want to do it?
I
define bonding as intimacy plus commitment.
By intimacy I mean the willingness
to be courageously transparent and considerately empathic. In other words, to
speak the truth and listen for the truth.
By commitment I mean a willingness
to bring a guest into our family—to celebrate his victories and seek to
understand his missteps. There is no scolding or preaching, but there is nurturing
and problem-solving. We are there for each other in times of joy and sorrow. The
Magnificent Seven have shelled peanuts at baseball games, grilled steaks on an
open fire, and lovingly encircled a member at his father’s funeral. We are
present—one for the other—to my mind the perfect example of male bonding.
Each member of M7 might say it
differently, but I can tell you why I seek them out and why I call them
“brothers.”
First, there is something
revitalizing about having a circle of friends who can look beyond my shortcomings.
Recently one of our members said, “Knowing Allen takes an acquired taste.” And
yet my gentle critic still stands by me. Yes, he knows I can be a martinet when
it comes to standards of excellence. He acknowledges that I don’t suffer fools.
And he is well aware that I am repelled by my own inconsistencies—that I’ll
never be the man my dog thinks I am. Despite all that, he still loves me. I can
tell by the way he teases me: not by vicious jabs of one-upmanship, but by a
playful reporting of the obvious—that his friend Allen may admire himself a scintilla
too much.
Second, male bonding is a release. In
the world of business (we are all professionals within the fields of education,
psychology, insurance, medicine, and law), we attach our “game faces” with
Super Glue. We are expected to perform with supreme confidence and competence. We
need to get the right things done the right way and without a lot of coddling,
which is just the way we like it. Still, in the workplace coworkers seldom ask
how we are doing (unless, of course, they are cataloging our weaknesses).
So when M7 gets together, it is a
time to open up the valve cap and let the pressure bleed out. At the end of a
two-hour dinner, it’s not uncommon for a member to say, “Wow, I really needed
that. I feel like I can breathe again.”
Third, the world requires us to be
staid and politically correct. We have to be on our toes at all times, careful
not to offend the boss, the client, and a wide range of institutions. So when
our happy band of brothers is irreverent, profane, and politically provocative,
it is a good thing. Why? Because for 120
minutes we can speak the truth, even when the truth is forbidden by policy,
doctrine, or social mores. We can say, “The emperor is wearing nothing at all”
and not be crucified for our temerity.
So I’m thankful twice over. First, for my mom who taught me that life is
sweeter when shared in community. And,
second, for the Magnificent Seven, who have enriched my life with equal
measures of acceptance, release, and profanity—all wrapped up in a waft of
sweat and bravado. Arrrgh!
And that is why we seven—we mighty, perplexed,
and vulnerable few—choose to reunite twice a month to slap each other on the
back and ask, “So how ya doin’ anyway?”
