Sebastian Junger's essay "The Anthropology of Manhood" still resonates with me, particularly this part:
"a woman on a backhoe can move just as much earth as a man on a backhoe ... As these gender-specific jobs disappear, it becomes harder for men to know whether they have anything essential to offer society.
Both the triumph and the tragedy of modern society is that we have eliminated almost every hardship and danger from daily life. For the most part that is a great blessing, but it comes at a cost. The very efficiency of mass society makes people feel unnecessary, and therein lies a profound threat to our dignity."
Recently we had to put to sleep one of our family's dogs. He was about 13 years old, which means that he had been a part of our family longer than any of our children.
We decided on a home burial. Part of the decision was because we didn't like the idea of shoving his dead body into a giant oven to be incinerated with other dead animals. But the other reason was that it was really important for me to dig his hole in our backyard. And the fact that it was going to be a difficult and physically-demanding chore was part of the appeal, a notion I couldn't explain until I thought of the Junger essay.
It wasn't until some time after my son was born that I began to face the existential questions: What does it mean to be a man? A father?
After reading Junger's essay I've been reframing those questions as: What does it take to feel necessary?
I was the only member of our family who was physically capable of digging a four-foot deep hole with my spaded shovel. I was the only one physically capable of carrying my dog's body from the back of my car and lowering him into his final resting spot. Anyone could've handed him off to the vet tech, who could slide him into the incinerator and push a button. But for this task, I was necessary.
But it wasn't just about being needed by my family, it was about honoring my dog. And I wanted to feel the pain from digging his grave. I wanted my back to be sore the next day. I wanted those red blisters that formed on my calloused hands. I wanted to give our dog a respectful ceremony but I wanted to feel like it took something from me, a sacrifice in some way.
A decorated Christmas tree in your living room that was bought from the parking lot of a Home Depot looks the same as one you cut down with a hand saw from a tree farm out in the country. But something about the labor involved in procuring the latter tree makes it feel more valuable.
I now realize that that is how I chose to grieve; not through tears but through physical pain in a way that felt meaningful and necessary to the situation.
That dog gave me over a decade's worth of joy. Even after his death he gave me another gift: he made me feel necessary.
