When My Son Was Watching "Manosphere" Videos, My Reaction Was Wrong

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2 days ago

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Since my son Macallah was a toddler, I've been on a journey to teach him to recognize and embrace his emotions. When I read to him as a child, I'd point to the characters' faces and ask him, 'What emotion do you think they're feeling?' Then I would ask him to mirror the same emotion on his face.
And as a professor, author and speaker who has researched and written extensively about men's emotional and mental health, I approached raising my son armed with two crucial insights. First, boys are far more capable of empathy, sensitivity and compassion than we (and they) realize. Second, boys thrive when taught to acknowledge the full range of their deeper emotional lives and humanity — a 'wardrobe' of feelings with greater options for developing authentic identities. And I wanted my son to have those opportunities.
As Macallah grew a little older, I upped the ante, realizing I needed to model behaviors I hoped he would learn. (Honestly? I wanted to learn, too.) If I blew up because he put his head in our surly dog's mouth or practiced his 'survival skills' with backyard fires, I would approach him once I calmed down. 'I'm sorry,' I'd say. 'Do you know what I was feeling beneath my anger? Fear. I was scared you were going to hurt yourself — or torch our home.' Hopefully, I reasoned, this would model emotional honesty and accountability
When Macallah was 9, he and I appeared on the PBS NewsHour show, Brief But Spectacular, to discuss my first book, Better Boys, Better Men. This book unpacks the devastating trajectory boys, eventually men, face when they are limited by the old hypermasculine 'script,' and how they thrive and become more resilient when they learn greater self awareness. On the show, Macallah made a case for boys embracing all of their big feelings with cue-card fluency. My son had officially begun his path to a healthy masculinity.
But a funny thing happened on my way to becoming a model father. As it turns out, I'm just one of (too) many 'influencers' in Macallah's life.
A recent conversation about life after high school started off innocently enough: Macallah, 13, told me that he couldn't wait to go to college. Considering that his school grades were improving, he was completing schoolwork on time and he was now considering his future, this was encouraging to hear.
"What are you most excited about?' I asked.
'I can't wait to join a frat and party like it's 1999!' he beamed.
I bit my lip. 'Uh, what else are you looking forward to?' I asked.
'Wealth and a McLaren 720 S coupe,' he responded.
Where was this coming from? If I didn't know better, I'd think our son was weaned on The Man Show reruns. Our odd conversation started to make a little more sense when I saw him watching his beloved YouTube shows, Epic Fails and Best Fails, compilations of stunts gone wrong. These have an algorithm that appeals to young adults, largely male, in their late teens and 20s.
So, beer-sodden frat boys must have popped up in his queue. And if they were sneaking in, well, what was to stop the dreaded "manosphere" from infiltrating his feed as well. That included influencers like Andrew Tate and Jordan Peterson who peddle a dangerous form of masculinity, questionable dating strategies and unapologetic critiques of women. For the first time since becoming a parent, I questioned: Could my campaign to raise a self-aware, empathetic son withstand the barrage of influencers who increasingly have more sway than I do?
Recently, Macallah and I were discussing how he had enjoyed his first season of wrestling while driving to school. 'I don't understand why some of these kids cry,' he said, referring to the boys of all ages, never the girls, who became emotionally dysregulated, especially when they were being pinned. 'It doesn't serve any purpose,' he added.
'Our emotions don't always have to serve a clear purpose,' I said, a little taken aback. 'Besides, you of all people know the importance of boys showing their emotions — you said as much on that TV show.'
'I don't even believe what I said on that stupid TV show!' Macallah shot back. 'I only said it to help you, so you could talk about your book.'
My head reeled: On the one hand, I was touched that he had cared enough to preach healthy-masculinity on my behalf. On the other hand, I was jarred: Just what did he believe healthy masculinity should look like?
I didn't want to hear the answer, because I was now sensing my lack of sway in my son's masculine identity. But there was something I had to ask. 'Have you ever watched influencers like Andrew Tate?'
'I don't think so,' he said. 'Wait,' he said looking down at his phone for a few seconds. 'Is he this guy?'
When we hit a red light, I turned around. A few TikTok videos were pulled up on his phone, and there he was. Public Influencer Enemy No. 1. 'He says a few things that are pretty good,' Macallah said.
Maybe it was the disorienting blow from my son's bombshell confession. Maybe it was the unnerving surprise of seeing a notorious influencer on my son's feed — delivering a message that landed for my child. (Or all of it.) Regardless, I blew past the door my son had opened in our conversation and ranted about the dangers of the manosphere. From Macallah's downcast eyes and slumping shoulders, it was obvious my 'wisdom' had missed its intended mark.
In my fear and hurt, I had broken the first rule of getting boys to talk about difficult things: 'Before talking with our sons, take a deep breath and consider how they will perceive us,' Michele Borba, an educational psychologist and parenting author, reminded me. 'Because boys tune into body language and tone of voice — and both can intimidate them and dissuade them from sharing.'
Given that my son is a sensitive, caring human and that many boys I work with in schools are, as well, I sensed that there was more nuance and complexity to this disturbing manosphere attraction than is being explored in the media.
Contrary to the viral fear and dread, boys and young men aren't initially attracted to such channels — nor bad-actor influencers — because they are blossoming misogynists, let alone violent misogynists. It's crucial for parents to understand: The reason many boys and young men find themselves in these spaces has nothing to do with girls and everything to do with themselves.
Perhaps the biggest fear about the manosphere among parents — as evidenced in the social media and media firestorm around the Netflix series Adolescence — is the perceived threat of violence toward girls and young women by boys and young men.
But Ben Rich, an Australian academic whose research focuses on extremism, insists this is unfounded. '[The boys and young men on the manosphere] are far more likely to hurt themselves than they are women or anyone else,' says Rich, who is a U.S. State Department grant recipient and created public education around such extremism issues.
Rich says that many manosphere sites are the only spaces young males feel that their gendered identities are validated, deemed worthy and not dismissed out of hand as flawed or 'toxic.' This is why, he adds, that when we 'attack these boys, we're shaming their fundamental understanding of the world without a viable alternative. This sends them further down the rabbit hole.' And it pushes boys toward the very influences we want them to avoid.
On the drive to school the following Monday morning, I picked up the thread Macallah and I had started. This time, though, I was prepared with insights gleaned from both Borba and Rich — which informed an approach I coined called the Five Cs: curiosity, catch (close listening), context, compassion and commiseration. These aren't qualities we bring enough to conversations with boys, and we should — because they invite trusting communication and, ultimately, greater connection, which more and more boys need.
'So, what are the things Tate talks about that you like or find helpful?' I asked. 'And don't worry. This is just a fact-finding mission. No judgment.'
Macallah found the TikTok video and read Tate's message aloud. 'Your energy is better spent on improving yourself than on external factors you can't control,' he said. He looked up at me. 'You tell me that.'
'You're right,' I said. 'I'm proud of you for wanting to learn that. It's one I'm still trying to teach myself. Maybe we could remind each other when the other one gets worked up over things he can't control.' Macallah smiled and nodded.
As it turned out, there were more of these messages that echoed lessons I want my son to learn — the need for hard work, accountability and perseverance. Now came the hard part. 'I'm glad you agree these are great messages that more boys need to hear and learn,' I said, looking in the rearview mirror. 'And it's important for you to know the darker side of many of these influencers.' Macallah looked confused.
I gave him the crash course — how many of these men believe men should always be in control of their romantic relationships. And: Women were to blame for any of their struggles and lack of opportunity. 'These are the uglier, more problematic messages many of them teach boys once they hook them with the feel-good messages,' I said.
'These good messages are like gateway drugs,' I said. 'They lure you in, then these influencers peddle their misogynistic beliefs.'
It was a huge leap of faith to assume my child would be able to draw firm boundaries with hucksters who initially promise the gospel I've been preaching for years. Despite my well-meaning speech, this was one of those times I needed reminding about something else I couldn't control: Macallah.
Two weeks later, he got into the car after a tough early-season lacrosse practice. On top of that, he had his first date with a girl the next day and was terrified it wouldn't go well.
I asked how practice had gone, and he broke down into tears. When I asked what was going on for him, Macallah responded, through, gasps, 'Can we not talk right now? I'm feeling a lot of strong emotions.' Of course, I said, reminding him that my 'door was open' when and if he wanted to talk. Thankfully, he did later that evening.
At a time when few of the Five Cs are being proffered to boys, sometimes even by their own parents, it's more important than ever that I both keep an eye on my son and advocate for him. What's even more tricky about this tightrope walk is that I need to balance it with the lesson of letting go that Macallah and I are navigating.
This was when I realized: My fatherhood journey is no longer mine alone. It now has a young, but hopefully very capable, co-author.
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