"It's all just a bunch of fucking losers"

“It’s all just a bunch of fucking losers, anyway,” my girlfriend stated abruptly. “I don’t know why you want to go.”

“I don’t know, what does it really matter to you? You have girl’s nights. This is like a guy’s afternoon. It’s just some guys sitting around talking about being guys.”

I thought I summed it up pretty well. Apparently, I hadn’t. My girlfriend didn’t speak to me for the next week, the week leading up to the event.

It was mid-July, and my job had slowed considerably. That’s when I first came across MensRights, while at work, with nothing else to do. I’ll spare you the details of any transformative result of my finding this sub, as I experienced and recognized many of the things discussed here regularly.

When an event was posted in a sub dedicated to my community, I was initially pretty shocked. I had no idea there were MRAs in my community. It seemed that the subscribers to my community’s sub didn’t know either. Down-votes were cast, and harsh words were said. As a result, I never told the event organizers that I would go, because I didn’t want this tied to my account. After all, I had used my main account to post photos, and other identifying information. I couldn’t let the world know I was an MRA. I PM’d the organizer to let him know I planned on attending.

The event was held at a nearby campus, and I showed up about thirty-five minutes early. I had anticipated a backlash by the feminist community, and wanted to scout the area and see if there were any signs of protest building. There weren’t.

About ten minutes later, the group organizer walked by. We locked eyes. Neither of us were terribly enthusiastic about introducing ourselves, given the contentious nature of what we came to discuss. We had basically whispered introductions - his name was Mike - and went inside a small seminar room. To my dismay, there were only two of us. Then again, it was 20 minutes before the event.

About ten minutes before the event was slated to begin, another gentleman arrived. His name was Randy. Mike announced that he didn’t think anyone else was coming, but wanted to continue with the meeting nonetheless. There we sat, a bunch of privileged, white men. And so we began to converse, as privileged, white men do. Mike wanted to know if we could set up regular meetings and work under the umbrella of a local equality organization, of which he was a part.

I told Mike I was happy to attend meetings, but did not want to formally align myself with an already established movement. Randy had no issue in joining, but had some reservations about membership cost.

We talked about some recent events, some protests that had occurred on the campus against MRAs and against academic discussions of men’s rights. Eventually, the conversation lulled. I suggested we go to a local bar and continue there - as an aside, I was struggling with alcohol at the time, and wanted to feel a bit more relaxed.

We couldn’t go, however, as Randy had no money. After paying the cost of the divorce, plus spousal support, he barely had enough left to cover his rent, food, and a public transit pass.

“No problem, I’ll buy you a beer,” Mike told him.

As we were walking over, Randy asked me rather sheepishly, “How often do you work out?”

I was a bit taken aback.

“I don’t really. Sometimes I guess. When I feel like it. I used to work out a lot, but that was years ago now. I guess I’m lucky some of it stuck.”

Sitting at the bar, we were free from what felt like a stiflingly formal environment at the university.

“I don’t really have much in the way of stories, I guess. But I’m enraged by what I see on MensRights. I cannot imagine what some of these men have gone through.” I began the discussion with a pretty mundane statement.

“My mother raped me,” Mike stated, seemingly a bit too matter-of-factly. “Nobody would have understood. In fact, when I finally told my first wife about years of abuse by my mother, she told me she had to think about some things and be alone. Then she asked me to leave.”

I expected to see this man breaking down in front of me. But he didn’t.

“When I came back a few days later, she told me she wanted a divorce, and didn’t want me anywhere near the kids. She thought I was made sick by what happened to me.”

Mike drank some of his beer, wiped his brow, and continued.

“So, I left. It’s only recently that I’ve been able to speak to my kids again. And I couldn’t tell them the full story. And it’s not exactly gotten better. I’m not broken by what happened - not by what my mother did, and not by what my ex-wife did. The woman I’m seeing now is better equipped to handle what happened to me. I guess my first wife wasn’t.”

I remember saying something generically encouraging. I was shocked by what I heard.

Randy then recounted being sexually abused as a child. He told us how he tried to seek help, and the very people he sought help from continued the abuse. His childhood was fraught with sexual abuse from a babysitter and neighbour, physical abuse from his parents, and emotional abuse from everyone he turned to as a child and adolescent.

I remember sitting in stunned silence. How had I been so lucky? I hadn’t been abused. I had come from a loving family, had a childhood filled with opportunity, and I had been fortunate enough to be in a better financial position - even at a much younger age, than Randy.

The beer upset my stomach. I could feel myself sweating and growing uncomfortable as I reflected on what I had just been told. I felt like someone had put a weight on my chest. Is this what other men live with?

The other men must’ve noticed my disposition. They suggested we part ways for the day, and asked if we should keep in touch. I told them we should, and that I would love to attend a future meeting, even if just to talk as a group of men.

When I got home, I asked my girlfriend if she wanted to come over.

“All done your boys’ club meeting?”

“Yeah, I’m at home now.”

“So, how was it?” Her disinterest was apparent.

I thought about Mike, tormented by someone who should have loved him more than anyone else. I thought about how he must’ve felt, finally opening up, only to be accused of now being ill because of that abuse. And I thought of Randy, a man whose childhood was so full of abuse that he carried it forward into adulthood, costing him a marriage, and even now, affording him some dissatisfaction with his body.

“You were right. Just a bunch of losers,” I lied.