I’VE never liked men. I like guys.
Guys are often in between things like jobs and houses, which means they’re more likely to stay up with you all night, drinking wine and playing gin rummy. They’ll rub your belly. They’ll lick chocolate off it. They’ll like your cute little dog. A guy is never going to shoot Old Yeller in the woods.
Then again, guys don’t remember to tell you the doctor’s office called. They don’t check your tires before your big trip. They don’t say, “Call me when you get there.” They say, “Love you, have fun,” because they can’t imagine anything bad happening to you. Which is good, and somehow bad. Guys don’t tell you what to do. This also is both good and, oddly, bad.
John Wayne was a man. The young Marlon Brando was a guy — didn’t you see the hurt and indecision in his eyes in “On the Waterfront”? Rock Hudson was a man. James Dean was a guy.
I never wanted to marry a man. I married a guy.
When my guy and I were falling in love and so happy about it that we broke three of my lamps, a friend said, “Someday you’re going to want more than someone who listens to you.” But I really wanted someone who did that.
Another friend said, “I also meant everything I said at 22.” But my guy’s still with me 17 years later. Of course, there remains a fissure between what he says he’ll do and what he actually does. Still, he’s true to me despite my own difficult nature.
A few years ago, when he and I drove past a man mowing his lawn — red face, crew cut, calves all muscle — I sighed and said without thinking: “Men. Sometimes I hate to see them.” This surprised my husband, who laughed but shook his head. That’s about as much as he criticizes me.
On the other hand, I want the E.M.T.’s who show up when I’ve collapsed to be men, not guys. I don’t want someone responsible for saving my life to be torn up about the death of his dog or how some chick hurt his feelings.
Guys can wallow in confusion. They can decide to leave their brides on one side of the country as they head to the other. Guys like “On the Road.” Go, man, go. They like the lyrics of Bob Dylan’s 1964 anthem to Guyhood, “It Ain’t Me, Babe.” No, no, no.
But, as I can attest, guys also can sweetly stick. Yes, they’ll walk past whole bags of garbage without seeing them, they’ll play their guitar while the dog snags an entire meatloaf from the counter and eats it, but they’ll say, “Hi, sweetie,” when you walk in the door, laden with groceries. And they’ll go into therapy to better understand their crazy selves.
Guys wear the kind of clothes they wore as boys even when their hair silvers: cool jeans and baseball jackets coupled with stupid T-shirts boasting faded logos from exotic locales. Men like innocuous dress shirts or pastel polos with colors as nauseating as chewable Tums.
My father was a man, not a guy. But he favored bright red shirts. With black ties. And black sunglasses. I figured him for a gangster when I was small. I can’t imagine him as a boy, but someone in the family must still have that ancient portrait of him as a baby all frilled up like a tiny queen. I never once saw him cry.
Guys are boys who didn’t grow up to be men.
After I was molested in a deserted schoolyard, my father explained to me the difference between boys and men. “If it’s a man,” he told me, “you don’t scream. With a boy, you scream.” The logic being, I suppose, that a man would do whatever it took to make you stop screaming whereas boys still have fear in them; a boy would run away.
My molester and his accomplice were 17 and 15. I was 10. I remember thinking, “How do you know if he’s a boy or a man?”
My father was angry that I hadn’t screamed, but I didn’t know I was supposed to scream. I was just trying to survive. And keep my little dog alive. Because the boy with the knife — the accomplice — told me that he’d kill Junior if I screamed. So I saw my silence as bravery when my molester shoved his hand down my pants and then, horribly, kissed me.
My father found out who the boys were and got in trouble with the cops for going after them with his car. Trying to scare them, he knocked over several mailboxes and plowed through someone’s flowers.
That’s what a man does. He takes revenge.
My father didn’t speak to me again about that day. That’s also what a man does.
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Source:NYT
I like this article a lot. It's very interesting. I particularly like her stark distinction between "man" and "guy". To me she was really saying "Guys are fun. Men are boring." And in some instances, she may be right.
Yes i think in some instances she may be absolutely right..
I disagree with her logic