Prelude: A Letter To My Son

Dear Michael,

To become a man, some things need to be wrestled out, things that only come alive in your own struggle against whatever demons you take on as your enemies. I can’t fight those battles for you, nor would I want to. It’s in those fights that you’ll decide who you’ll become.

It seems like the further you go back in history, the easier it was to become a man. Without civilization, you couldn’t survive without turning from a boy into a man. You couldn’t live without learning to hunt, kill, and avoid dangers. You ate what you killed, owned what you earned, and found your place with others by giving and protecting. It’s hard not to become a man amid scarcity and danger.

In today’s world, it’s more difficult. You’ve had a bed to sleep in since the day you were born. You’ve never had to track an animal to eat. You were born into a world of things you didn’t build. These days, if you watch football, change your oil, and grill chicken, you might as well be Paul Bunyan.

A lot of people, seeing how far civilization has come, think that it doesn’t matter whether you’re a man in the old sense anymore. They wish that men could stop being so aggressive, obstinate, stubborn, and stupid. They roll their eyes at men who beat their chests.

For a while, I agreed with that. In working-class Ohio, where I grew up, everyone made money with their hands and backs. They were plumbers, electricians, and builders. They worked with wood, stone, and concrete. My dad painted houses for over 50 years.

But when I moved to Maryland for college, I felt like I was entering a refined world. The boats in Annapolis cost more than my parents’ house. I thought I went from blue collar to blue blood. I pictured myself like someone in a movie, a member of the aristocracy and ruling class. Someone who read books and had a favorite kind of brandy.

I felt proud to be in high society. The people there talked about jibs and juxtaposed things. I needed a dictionary to keep up. They played croquet and sniffed wine before they sipped it. I loved it. Who needed a world where men fought and worked with their hands? It was God’s small mercy that I didn’t know where to buy a seersucker suit.

As part of my new life, I learned to study Ancient Greek and dedicated myself to exploring the classics. I was sure at the time that studying the Great Books would only confirm the high-minded ideas I was cultivating. Although the Naval Academy was just across the street, I intended to learn all the best arguments against war and barbarism.

Instead, Plato and Aristotle and the other Ancients taught the opposite. They taught how to shape anger and aggression. The Greeks wouldn’t scoff at gym class; they thought sports were critical to the development of young men. They wouldn’t look at the 18-year-olds enlisting in the military with pity or blame their patriotism as unthinking; they insisted that men train for wars and fight courageously in them. They wouldn’t look up to investors as men who wisely used their minds to make money; they thought it was immoral to make money using other money and that men had to work hard and build things of value if they wanted to live excellent lives. The Greeks didn’t medicate aggression away or suppress anger. They weren’t worried about boys who couldn’t sit still or by young men angry at the world.

Those don’t seem to be the standard positions anymore. Their attitudes toward aggression and strife awoke in me a sort of anger when I learned them, like I’d been lied to by the modern world. The modern world wanted me to believe that happiness came from continuous pleasure. They wanted me to choose balance over excellence. They wanted me to treat all anger as a negative emotion. They didn’t want me to seek individual glory. They wanted to develop me to be a good employee. They cared much less about who I was as a husband, as a leader, or as a father.

Studying the Great Books, I suddenly felt like I had to reject the comfortable civilization I’d grown up in. I was ashamed that I was so soft, even ashamed that my parents had loved me so much and brought me up so well. I longed for adversity, challenges, and tests of my mettle. That was one of the main reasons I signed up to become a Marine and go to war. The Marine Corps offered a stark contrast to the entitled and comfortable world and helped me solidify lessons I wouldn’t have otherwise understood.

The quick version of what I learned is this: You don’t need to go to war to become a man, but a warlike mentality is critical. A warlike mentality encompasses many principles, but among them are these:

Accept indisputable facts quickly, no matter how bad.
Locate, close with, and destroy the enemy, whoever or whatever the enemy is.
Be a happy warrior and fight with optimism.

Our world still provides plenty of opportunity for grit, ambition, and manliness, but they won’t come to you if you don’t look for them. There’s nothing wrong with making money or being rich, so long as you still get scars and cal-luses. Finally, and most importantly, it’s natural and good for you to want to compete and be the best, but there’s a right way to win.

Warlike is an obsolete word that’s rarely used, not because we’ve come up with a new word, but because we’ve stopped believing in the idea it represents. We no longer have a word for focused, offensive anger that seeks conflict and victory. Yet understanding that kind of anger and making use of it has long been the most important education for a young man.

I’ve told you and your sisters forever that I’m not a perfect man and that everybody makes mistakes. You’ll find that this book is like an encyclopedia of mistakes I’ve made and they’re just the ones I’m willing to tell! I’ve always loved the part of the movie where the hero is learning his skills, in- cluding all the missteps and early iterations. These are mine.

I’ve tried to capture how funny everything was, because, although we were dealing with death and serious things, there’s no way to get through the tough times without laugh- ing at the absurdity. I hope that you can learn from these lessons I’ve collected and that the stories that taught me can help keep you from learning them the hard way.

Grandpa John always said to me growing up, “I’m so proud of the man you’re turning yourself into.” Watching you grow up, I can’t help but think the same thing every day. I hope that you never have to go to a real war, but for whatever war you choose to fight as you become a man, I hope this can be a book of weapons that might help you win.

Love,

Dad