There comes a point in our psychological development when the male will come to understand what it means when people say, “boys will be boys.” I’m referring to the natural experiences that boys undergo at a certain stage of their development—the first moment they realize they are male, affected by what they find appealing and attractive, which often differs significantly from females. This is an age of discovery, distilled to a pinpoint—a moment of enlightenment when a boy comprehends his natural, undeniable destiny. Unfortunately, we live in an age where even mentioning this sequence in human development can trigger those who protect or promote mental illness, leading to accusations of fascism and the potential cancellation of one’s digital existence. But I digress; I’ll probably revisit this later.
For all of us “normal” guys, the experience may differ, but the realization remains the same. For me, it was an encounter with a pack of bikers that stands out vividly. I was with my dad, driving down a main street on Long Island—probably Jericho Turnpike or Sunrise Highway. It had to be a Saturday because I was with my dad, who usually worked all week, and he was driving Mom’s ragtop Jeep CJ. If it had been Sunday, we would have been at Nana’s for dinner (no Italian can skip that). I was six years old, making it the summer of 1967.
We came to a halt at a red light in the center lane of a large intersection. As traffic piled up behind us, a pack of motorcycles (which I would later learn were Harleys) filled the lanes on either side and behind us. It was hot that day, so Dad had taken the canvas doors off the Jeep. Those early CJ’s had a grab bar spanning the passenger side of the dashboard; I had grabbed it and stood up (no car seats in those days). I was standing right next to a guy on a chopper, with nothing between us but air—a really loud bike among many others. He had long hair, a beard, tattoos on his veiny arms, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. According to my dad, I was transfixed; my eyeballs were wider than he had ever seen— and he was a doctor.
I remember that every one of those guys looked like the man next to me, with long hair and beards. Since it was hot, most of them were just wearing their cuts, revealing tattoos I had never seen before, along with muscles, veins, and scars. Their bikes were all different, but each of them was loud as hell. When the light turned green, the roar that erupted still rings in my ears to this day. It was a sound that only testosterone could appreciate.
“Those were Hell’s Angels,” my dad said once they had pulled far enough ahead for normal conversation to resume. My dad said “hell”—the first time I ever heard him curse. Then he added another first: “don’t tell your mother.” It was the icing on the cake.
While I understood that the guys riding those motorcycles were probably somehow on the dark side, which was surely appealing, it was their bikes that burned into my soul—a big, loud American V-Twin with little to muffle the exhaust. The frightening racket they made fascinated me. The idea that a person—perhaps even I someday—could control such brute chaos? These guys were as cool as they were bad-ass, and the motorcycle completed the picture like a horse completes a cowboy. It epitomized “guy stuff.”
This realization is the crux of my point. Big, mean-looking, and tough, they harnessed their motorcycles and played their thunder. That experience catalyzed my first independent characterization of maleness as a six-year-old boy. This realization shaped not only how I modeled myself but also what drove me to befriend other guys. If you looked at the men close to me at any point in my life, you’d see tough, manly-looking men, covered in muscles, tattoos, and beards—generally well-armed, very capable, stand-up dudes, several of whom have been to prison, ride motorcycles, and endure hardships, including multiple divorces.
For every guy, the experience is different. Yet, on a guttural, human, instinctual level, there is an undeniable attraction that a young boy feels toward elements that will make him big, strong, fast, tough, brave—a protector and provider—essentially, “guy stuff.” Any girl my age taking my place in the passenger seat of that Jeep would have had both hands over her ears, crying and screaming for my dad to make it stop. This attraction is undeniable, and there’s only one reason for it.
Now, this has nothing to do with role modeling. I’m certainly not implying that the Hell’s Angels were my role models instead of my father. My dad was an academic—no tattoos, no bulging muscles, not into sports, and he didn’t grow a beard until he retired. He never rode a motorcycle, but he was tough, capable, smart, successful, a good husband, an exceptional father, and a loyal friend. He is, to me, the undisputed world champion of role models. I have skills and abilities that have allowed me to lead a life I find exciting, all because of what my dad taught me. Whatever flipped his boy switch is something we never discussed, but suffice it to say he had a dark side; I would hear “don’t tell your mother” after numerous mischievous acts of boys being boys.
To one degree or another, boys—on their journey to becoming men—are naturally drawn to things that are often perceived as bad, unsavory, nefarious, or destructive, but that can also be constructive, creative, heroic, or adventurous. We’re not content to sit around; it’s simply the boy in us.
Now, what happens when this attraction is absent?
