Opinion | I grappled with masculinity. My mother showed me the truth.

Upon reaching the hospital, I put the tears away. My father was there waiting, a pillar of strength, courage, faith. If these were to be the final hours of my mother’s life, she would be flanked by two sturdy men — her husband of nearly 50 years and her firstborn.

He held steady; I did not. When nurses wheeled her in on a gurney, fresh from the latest procedure, my composure fell to pieces. My father caught my eyes, gently shook his head and whispered, “Don’t let her see you cry.”

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It wasn’t that he thought it was weak but that our job was to be a picture of optimism, to lift her spirits and give her more fuel to beat the sickness. Where I’m from, to be a good man is to be a good provider — not just materially but emotionally, too. And I was failing at it.

Masculinity and manhood are having a moment in the United States. Debates about their appropriate place in society fill our politics and social interactions. Masculinity is thought by some to be under attack and in need of reassertion; by others to be the root of numerous harms. The politics of masculinity have become a central focus of the right wing, which accuses progressives of waging a war on men. On the left, “toxic masculinity” is blamed for the exaggerated displays of such antisocial masculine attributes as hardness and violence. Scholars are connecting the alarming increase in suicides, drug abuse and organized violence among men to our lack of tailored investment in men and boys. To say nothing of the ongoing arguments over the very notions of sex and gender, which turn even beer advertisements into battlegrounds.

Among the other insecurities that adolescents harbor, I often wondered if I was on the path to being man enough. I was a skinny, awkward kid — not very athletic, not much of a ladies’ man, and I avoided confrontation. In the mind of a male teen, these qualities often translate to weakness. I tried to counter this anxiety by peacocking masculinity, something sociologists have called the “cool pose.” This performance was superficial, but it gave me a veneer of manhood that deterred or responded to thin tests. As I became an adult, I sought out deeper tests, manufacturing a personal rite of passage into manhood. I joined the military, one of the most masculine institutions in the country, and even pledged a fraternity known for the playful theater of its machismo.

As with most things in the United States, conceptions of manhood are infected by race. Consider the recently revealed comments from former Fox News host Tucker Carlson, who, after watching video of a bunch of White men beating someone up, tempered his rooting for the mob by remarking: “Jumping a guy like that is dishonorable obviously. It’s not how white men fight.” The implication, of course, is that Black men lack the honor or courage to fight man-to-man. Some very old stereotypes were packed into that phrase: Black men are ruthless, dangerous, irresponsible. Demonizing Black masculinity was the engine of the infamously racist 1915 movie “Birth of a Nation.” Lynchings were often justified as necessary violence to protect White women, and thus the White race, from the animalistic excesses of hypersexual Black men.

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As I grappled with becoming a man and attempted to reconcile who I was with the man society expected me to be, my mother was a rock. She quietly instilled the truth that the mark of a good man is his character — not his ability to conform to caricatures.

Two aspects of Black masculinity made a very public appearance at last year’s Oscars, when actor Will Smith slapped comedian Chris Rock. Smith, with an efficient stride and cool demeanor, stepped onto the stage for a little violence to defend the honor of his wife after Rock made a joke at her expense. And Rock maintained his composure after being hit, later stating that he was honoring his parents’ proverb of Black solidarity: “Don’t fight in front of White people.” Which version was more manly? My corner of Black America was evenly divided.

I would’ve loved to hear my mother’s reaction to the incident, but she passed away two years ago, on May 10, 2021 — days after I wept at her bedside. Grieving her has been the most challenging experience of my life. Managing grief as a man requires being a source of strength and stability for others, while doing the things masculinity often frowns on: being vulnerable, seeking help and giving yourself permission to express sadness and insecurity and even fear.

On my last birthday before we lost her, my mother gave me a card with her handwriting on the inside spelling words now etched into my soul: “I am very proud of the man you have become.” I wanted to believe her. Questions about whether I was doing this masculinity thing correctly haunted me then, but grief has provided a certain clarity. I might not always know what the world expects of manhood, but I know what made a man in her eyes. Even from the other side, my mother continues to make me better.