David McElroy

Men and women are equal, but the two will never be identical.

Are the two 80 percent alike? 90 percent? More? Modern culture seems to want men and women to be interchangeable, but it’s simply not true in my experience.

Is an apple or an orange more valuable? Neither. Each has value. Each is a fruit. Each is wonderful in its own way. But they’re different, just as men and women are different — despite the best efforts of modern philosophy and leftist politics to claim gender differences are a cultural construct.

Men are physically stronger, but women have more power and strength in other respects, at least in heterosexual relationships. That’s the only kind with which I have experience, so that’s my context. Some people believe that men hold the power — in politics, culture, relationships, whatever — but my experience is that it’s a delicate trade-off, at least in healthy relationships.

Italian actress Gina Lollobrigida was popular in the 1950s and ’60s, and she understood this secret.

“Man does not control his own fate,” Lollobrigida said. “The women in his life do that for him.”

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I have trouble forgiving myself for things I did in the past — but they’re things nobody else even remembers. They’re things I shouldn’t remember, either, but they’re still lurking in the back of my mind — like silent fingers pointed toward me in shame.

We all grow up emulating our parents or the other adult figures in our lives. We don’t have much choice, even if we consciously don’t like some of the things they do. We grow up believing that what we experience is normal in some way. We don’t decide to be like them. We just act that way without thinking about it.

I had no idea how dysfunctional my family was. I had a inkling — at times — that we were somehow different, but I vaguely felt proud of that. I thought we were better than other people. Whatever we were, well, that was the way things ought to be. Our way was right.

So I grew up emulating a narcissist. I had never heard of narcissistic personality disorder, of course. But I learned his ways and I acted like him. Every now and then, some tiny incident from the past comes to mind because of a tiny trigger — and I feel shame and embarrassment.

Tonight, the trigger was mashed potatoes.

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A friend sent me an unexpected note last week. He had observed me having a confrontation with a bully — and he had something to say about it.

“I wish I had your courage,” my friend’s note started. “I have wanted to tell [Bully] to ‘go to hell’ on more than one occasion, but I haven’t.”

This surprised me. I certainly hadn’t seen it as courage on my part. It just seemed like the obviously right thing to do. The bully was trying to be intimidating to me and to others — about something he knew nothing about — and I called him out on his behavior. I calmly pointed out his factual errors. When he doubled down on arrogance and bluster, I pointed out what he was doing and then moved on without allowing it to escalate.

As I’ve thought about my friend’s comment since then, it’s occurred to me that courage can be very different for different people. When I’m standing up for what I believe is right — or for people who I believe are being bullied or oppressed — it seems natural to speak up if I think I can help.

About other things, though, I’ve sometimes been a coward.

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