My Encounter with the New Warriors

The following is an account of my experince of a portion of a "New Warrior Adventure Weekend." I have altered names as they do not need to be named and admit that on occasion there is an opinion expressed about what was going on. You'll be able to sort that out. The quotations are as close as my notes allow them to be given that they were written the next day after I left. The timeline of events I believe to be accurate. The attitude of the staff is described as I experienced it to be. Another person may experience it differently. The following contains graphic language.

Please notify me of any intent to reproduce this account.

Folks with the Mankind Project may be unhappy that someone has written this out in detail. They may state that I have broken an agreement I signed. One that was signed under distress. I believe that this disclosure is part of telling the truth.
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A friend of mine at the time, who I shall call “M”, was very enthusiastic about an organization called the New Warriors. Now they are part of the "Mankind Project"

This is a group that claims to hold the answer to any mans search for his identity as a man. They proclaim that men these days never have an initiation into being a man, we are simply told that we are one. Part of this is supposed to be based on the works of Robert Bly. It was started by a man here in Wisconsin named Bill Kauth along with two others. Kauth is a Psychiatrist.

Men have been warriors since the beginning of time and every man has his warrior side. But social forces pressure many to repress this part of themselves. They unconsciously substitute a distorted shadow for the healthy warrior energy so essential to sustaining individual and communal balance.The New Warrior is a man who has confronted this destructive "shadow" and has achieved hard-won ownership of the highly focused, aggressive energy that empowers and shapes the inner masculine self. Sustained by this new energy, the New Warrior is at once tough and loving, wild and gentle, fierce and tolerant. He lives passionately and compassionately, because he has learned to face his own shadow and to live his mission with integrity and without apology.
(From www.mkp.org - The New Warrior Training Advenure)

I went on a couple of Saturday mornings with "M" to a Men’s Gathering event. They were held at a church on West North Avenue in Brookfield Wisconsin. The gathering started off with drumming. Long sessions of guys beating on drums and other items that made noise. While I found it interesting how the pattern of sound kept changing, I was happy when it was over as it was loud.

Then, Bill Kauth, one of the founders of the New Warriors stood up and explained that in times gone by, when Warriors gathered by the fire one of them had the talking stick, and only that person could speak. Others would open up their hearts, spirits and minds and truly listen to what the other man had to say. And then he brought out a larger twig decorated with feathers and looking very American Indian and said it was the talking stick for the meeting. He went around the circle, “Who will take the stick first?” he asked. His voice almost a hiss as he said ‘first.’

One man stood and said that before he became a new Warrior, he was afraid of his boss, or even his wife. And himself.

Another told of how he had come face to face with his abuse from the past and took responsibility for him self in the here and now, thanks to New Warriors.
What followed was testimonial after testimonial about the New Warriors and how wonderful it was because it made them feel like they were finally a man.

Two things were going on with me in my life at that moment.

1: I was in a new relationship and being very afraid of it most of the time. I had not had a good role model for relationships and was all too aware of that fact.

2: I was looking for an identity. My views on Christianity were starting to fade. I had seen "M" find an identity and I liked that about him. I needed a role to follow and to be.

I talked about it with my girlfriend. She laughed and said something like, “If you wanna go running naked in the woods and that does something for you, I’m not gonna stop you.”

So, I put together the $300.00 and filled in the form for the weekend. It asked questions about my life experiences and why I wanted to be a New Warrior.

I received a letter a bit later saying I was accepted, and that someone would contact me about transportation to the weekend.

In doing some research for writing this, I found a script for the weekend on line and found it very interesting in that it was very, very accurate to my experience.

My encounter was in 1993 and among the people there running it was Bill Kauth. It was held during early spring at Camp Anokijig, a YMCA Camp near Plymouth Wisconsin. Mr. Kauth was one of the first people I encountered.

The first was a guy standing at the entrance to the camp 1/2 hour before the time we were told to arrive. Someone in the organization had arraigned a carpool so I was riding in someone else's van. We were turned away and told, in a very hostile way to return on time. So, we went into town and had a hot beverage at the DQ. Some of my fellow carpoolers eat sandwiches, but I was a bit too nervous for that. We talked about the attitude of the man at the camp, wondering what it will be like when we return. I was ready to go home already at that point.

When we returned, the scene reminded me a bit of boot camp as shown on the movies. At the entrance the person took our names one at a time and looked up and down the list. He seemed not to be in a hurry. Then, he looked at you, pointing his flashlight in your face and stated, “When you start this weekend, be aware your life will be different when you leave. Are you ready to be a man?” and then, of course, each of us answered, “Yes.” After we had all 4 of us been checked in, then he told the driver to go forward to the parking lot and to “Hurry, men are waiting.”

Once in the lot, two men came forward with flashlights, it was night and I though they would just be helpful to us getting into the building. Instead they begin to act like the drill sergeant one sees on TV, where they are yelling for you to hurry up, get unpacked and so on, and that “Men are waiting.” So, we grabbed our suitcases from the van and at their urging ran toward the building. But, two men stopped us at the edge of the parking lot. Both equipped with a flashlight and a clipboard. They each asked us for our names and made a mark on the paper on the clipboard. We were told to wait where we were until told to go. One by one we were told to go into the door that was on the wall ahead of us, close the door behind us, and again told, “Hurry, men are waiting.”

When it came my turn I walked as quickly as I could in the slippery snow to the door, opened it and set down my luggage, then turned to close the door.

Inside of the door there was a small foyer, perhaps three-feet wide by three-feet wide and a little taller than the door. On the floor there was a single candle and standing next to it, dressed in all black, his face smeared with ash was Bill Kauth. I said “Hello Bill.” Remembering him from the meetings.

“Speak only when given permission or spoken to. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” I said, feeling like I had just really set myself up in a bad way.

Then he moved close to me, very close. I could feel the breath from his nose on my moustache. We locked eyes. I had to work to fight off a laugh. It seemed like an unreal play. The other part was defiance. In my mind I was thinking, “Do you think you intimate me Mister? I have been toe to toe with bigger people than you who were drunk and angry, and I lived. You don’t bother me.” and he did not.

"Why are you here?"

“I want to be a man.” I responded, with a smile. As I said, I was having a hard time containing myself. The premise of this seemed to be strange.

“This is not funny, mister.” He said, trying very hard to sound big and angry. “Tell me, why are you here?"

“I want to be a man." I said, flatly.

He moved even closer, his belly touching mine. I don’t know how long he stood there, in my personal space, but it was a while. Then, he stepped back. “I belive you.” He said, “Go through that door and then close it behind you. Hurry! Men are waiting!”

To save describing it every time, each men on the weekend was wearing black pants and a button-down dress shirt and had his face smeared white with ashes. G told me later that they had had a fire in the afternoon in a purifying ceremony and that these were the ashes of that fire.

I had been told in the acceptance letter to prepare a dish of food to share with others on the weekend. I had been told by G that it happened at the end, but that anything I brought could be refrigerated. I brought a dish I made from a recipe that my girlfriend gave me. Only, with my lack of experience cooking with fresh garlic I misunderstood three cloves of Garlic to be three bulbs. I didn’t know what a bulb was versus a clove. So, it was very, very garlicy. With out notice, two men grabbed at me. One to take my bag, the other the dish of food. I wanted to tell him it should be refrigerated, but remembered what Mr. Kauth had told me. So, I kept silent. Stripped of these two things, I was manhandled by the two of them to where I faced another man.

I knew this man as well. I knew him only as a friend of "M". He pushed me by the shoulders against a wall and told me to stand there, “Don’t move.” He said, maybe a bit more gentle than others had so far. He brought out a Polaroid Instant camera and took a photo, no warning he was going to take it. It felt very mug shot like. Now, I understood how G had his photo like that and why he looked somewhat wild eyed. In darkness this flash photo was taken after a bit of stark manhandling. It made sense to me then. He also had an ‘after’ photo that was taken with a more professional quality to it.

I noticed that the air was acrid with the smell of cigars. Most every man that I encountered after that point was smoking a cigar.

Soon after the photo was taken, I was grabbed by the arm by another man, who pushed me around till we were near another man, who then manhandled me to a table. Behind it sat two men. One with several pieces of paper in front of him. On each side of them they had two candles lighted. I realized we were in the kitchen and behind them was the silver of a double door refrigerator. I wanted to chuckle. They were only men and they were trying to play this role of army men or something like that in a kitchen.

One of them asked my name. I told him and he looked at the clipboard. Then he pointed to a line on it and faced the sheet toward the other man at the table. He brought out a marker and one of those nametags that you put on at events with a sticky back on it. He wrote a number… 38 on it and handed it to me. The first man spoke, his words spaced out a bit, direct and forced as if he were following a script. “This is your nametag for the weekend.” Then, in an angry, threatening tone. “Do not loose it or fail to have it where it can be seen! Do you understand, 38?” I stuck the nametag on my shirt, figuring I would take my jacket off at some point.

“Yes, sir.” I said. Adding the sir. I guess I did that because it was my polite shield. I thought that if I was polite to someone, they were less likely to hurt me. I was also in a business at the time where I had contact with customers and addressed them as sir or mam'm out of business custom. It was a skill I learned at home, in school and in business. In some ways I thought that this weekend would get me past that. I thought that when it was over, I would be too much of a man for that.

A piece of paper was brought out from a folder and slid across the table, next to a candle. “This is an agreement for the weekend. You must read and understand this, then sign it. Hurry up, men are waiting.” I was handed a blue pen. I hate writing in blue ink. I started to read the text in the dim light of the candle. Actually, I was speed-reading it.

“You agree to hold New Warriors as harmless for any physical injuries you endure this weekend. You agree to not disclose to anyone the nature or exact activities of this weekend. You may share that you were on this experience, but you may not describe in any detail any portion of this weekend. You agree to hold New Warriors as harmless for any damage or loss. You agree to hold New Warriors as harmless for any difficulty you may have with this weekend. You understand that this weekend will be physically and emotionally challenging and you may opt to quit at any time. You understand that no money will be refunded to you after this point.” It went on.

“Hurry up 38, Men are waiting!” the men behind the table started shouting. I signed and returned the paper to them.

The man who had the marker also brought out a quart size baggie. In a very firm voice he said, “In this bag you will put any Jewelry, drugs, electronic items or weapons. It will be kept for you and returned at the end of the weekend. Do it now. Hurry, men are waiting.”

I took off my watch and a gold necklace that my girlfriend had given me. I don’t think I was wearing any other jewelry. I had cigarettes and a lighter (I smoked back then) I sealed up the bag and handed it back to them. The man with the markers threw it back to me. “I didn’t tell you to give it back to me. Go see the next man. Hurry, men are waiting.” Two men came up to me, one on each side and took me by my arms and pushed me along.

While I was rushed and pushed to the next stop I thought about how they had then started to address me by the number on my tag. This was something they were doing to break me down I theorized. To take away an identity I had. I had done some work with my name before and had thought about it prior to this as well. I had at one point decided to use a pen name while writing so, I didn’t think that it was too strange or so much a loss to have a number instead of my name.

I waited in line. Someone behind me giggled and from the shadows stepped a staffer who screamed, “Shut Up! You have not been spoken to!” I was waiting for the word ‘Maggot’ to be added, just for the Hollywood Army Effect. I had to work to stifle a giggle myself. It all seemed so fucking acted out. Like there was a cheaply written script that they were all following. It was like when I was a kid spending a day with my fathers family and my cousins and I decided to put together a ‘play’. We’d rehearse what was really improvised storyline and then after a few times through it, gather a few grown ups to watch. They were mostly drunk enough to enjoy it, or at least be kind about it.

I stood there asking myself what this was all about. If they just wanted to get us into the building, then have us stand in line and take our names, I could understand that, but this matrix of men pushing us around and the yelling and the standing order of silence. And now, taking away items from us. What was this all about?

Two men who were staff for the weekend came out from the room with a pledge and left the area. Two others came out and grabbed the next person who was in line, one-by-one. One would grab the person, the other the luggage they were carrying.

When my turn came, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light of the room on the other side of the door. I realized that there were four men in the room, one of them, a large black man stood behind a countertop. The others were standing near the shelving that wrapped around the room. It was a fruit cellar. I knew one of them, sitting in the corner, with a clipboard, flashlight and paper. Several freestanding candles burned on the shelves and the air was thick with cigar smoke. I was almost choking from it, but thought that the candles were a feminine touch.

“What is your name?” the man behind the counter asked.

I responded with my name. It was an honest answer. I heard a chuckle from the others in the room.

“What, is your name?” he asked again.

I again responded, this time giving my full name.

He then stabbed at my nametag. “What is your name?”

“38.” I responded.

“Very good. You were given a bag to put any Jewelry, drugs, electronic items or weapons in. Have you?”

“Yes.” I said, handing him the bag. He threw the bag to one of the other men. I was concerned about my watch.

“We will now search your bag and person for additional jewelry, drugs, electronic items or weapons. This is done for your safety.” And then one of the men came up from behind me and patted me down like the police search a suspect. He lingered a bit too long in my crotch – so it seemed to me. This was part of the script; intimidation, invasion of personal space and demeaning action.

My luggage was brought up on the table and opened. The black man rummaged around in it, using a flashlight to help him see. He soon closed it. My clothing was rumpled now and the suitcase did not close well. I had packed for being out in the cold or for being indoors. I had three changes of clothing. I packed as when I was with the Boy Scouts for a winter camping weekend.

“Drugs!” Said the man searching the pockets of my jacket. He brought forth a jar of Carmex, which he handed to the leader of the group. (Carmex is a lip balm made in Milwaukee. It is sold in small flat containers.) He brought out the baggie and dropped the jar in the bag. “You were told, were you not, to put all drugs you had with you in this bag.” The black man asked, his breath filled with cigar smoke, and his voice with anger.

“Yes.”

“Why did you not put this in there?”

“I didn’t think of it as drugs.”

“It is. You are not permitted to have it with you, 38.” He said, and then threw the bag back to the guy in the corner. I noticed he had a flashlight and begin writing on his clipboard much like others had.

I was then grabbed by two of the men, and pushed out of the room. There another man manhandled me to another person, who did the same. It was a maze of men and I was pushed from one to the next. The mantra “Hurry up, men are waiting!” was shouted often.

And then, there was a door. Outside of it stood two men acting like guards. I knew one of them from my ACOA group.

I was handed my luggage and then the door was opened, it was very dark inside. Two men took me, one by each arm and lead me to a spot. “Put your bag down and stand here.” They said, “Do not move, do not speak to anyone or make any sound. Wait here ‘till men are ready for you.”

They left, slamming the door behind them.

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the light that was in the room, from what little was escaping in under the cracks of the door and a candle that burned on top of a mound of dirt to one side of the room. We were in a room that had been carved out of the dirt, in the foundation of the building. It smelled of mold and dust and humus and the aroma of the cigars that the staff people were smoking as they pushed their way into and slammed their way out of the room. I was having some trouble breathing.

There were several other men around me, standing there. Each of them had a nametag like me. I could hear and smell their breathing. Another person was brought in and shoved to a spot and told the same thing. In the light of the open door and the flashlights I noticed one man standing near the far wall had with him only a briefcase, nothing else. I wondered if his luggage had been taken from him, or he knew something about the weekend others did not. I figured he was a plant.

I shifted my weight from side to side. I was tempted to sit down, as I would still be in the same place, but then acquiesced that I did not want to be intimidated by one of the ‘keepers’ as I took to calling them.

People were coming in on a regular amount of time. The routine was the same for each person. I leaned back against the wall. Hell, I’d figure out what to do if anyone said something. Then, the men stopped coming in.

We waited. There was no sound in the building. I was wondering what we were waiting for. I had time to consider the situation. Why was I doing this? What purpose was this entire weekend going to serve toward my being ‘a man?’

I was trying to figure out how what had been done so far played into that idea of becoming a man. Why the meanness and being hostile?

I had figured when I signed up for this weekend that it would be something that would put me in touch with my Native-American heritage. I wanted to know my Indian name. "M" had told me that at the end of the weekend each man was given a name, an Indian name by which other men in the New Warriors would address him. It was, he said, based on what the staff had learned about you that weekend. I thought that I would walk in and find men in a sweat lodge, beating on drums and smoking. That we would dance and there would be chanting and they would welcome me to the other side. I was a man now.

This was far from that.

I was standing in a dank, cold, dark, basement and I had paid over $300.00 for the privilege to be here. This was not fun, this was not giving me insight to my spirituality. I had been mistreated and this was not fair. I was, in short, pissed. Yet, I was curious. What would transpire to put this all into the place where I had been told it would? How would this all relate to being a man?

I need to be honest and say that I was also scared. I did not know what these men would do next and did not see an escape. All part of the plan - so I have learned.

I was wondering if they had someway to see inside of the room or someone already in with us. I wanted to try to get my luggage to close properly, but I was afraid that someone would yell at me for doing something I had not been told I could do. I was angry with myself that I was letting that happen to me. I am an adult. Other adults should not hold such power over me.

Actually, that time in the cellar is part of the planned script for the weekend. One account I read online said that they were held in trailers for over and hour. More of that would come.

We waited. I grew chilly and the bad air was getting to me. I started coughing and someone came in and screamed “quiet!” then slammed the door behind them. I figured that they would make a mark on the clipboard about me for that.

We waited, still longer. My sense of time was telling me that we were there about an hour or so. Nothing to do but stand there in the cold basement and perhaps think. I wondered what my girlfriend was doing right then. I thought about being on a silent retreat and how the silence there was a comfort, and this was anything but that.

Suddenly there was a burst of activity. I heard the sounds of stomping feet above us, coming though the wooden floor. Objects were scraped and dropped. I heard voices.

Without notice, the door to the dug out basement burst open and several of the men in black loudly rushed into the room. The kicked dirt over the candles and the room went black. Then flashlights were lighted and men in black rushed up to a pledge, grabbing them, Yelling “Take your shit, hurry, men are waiting!” And then out the door they went. One by one they plucked us out, henchman style and set us out side single file, and put in us in line. We were then ushered up some winding wooden stairs to a large hall. We were urged to hurry along with that same mantra repeated again and again.

Once we were all assembled at one end of the large hall we were stopped by two men. One of them I recognized as the large black man who had searched my luggage.

“You have 10 seconds to put your shit on the floor here and get your ass over to that square and sit down! Now!” he screamed, pointing at the other end of the hall where a square brown tarp was spread out on the floor and surrounded by wood rails, a few inches tall.

Drums started beating and there was a flurry of bags piled on the floor, the stomping of feet as we ran between the two rows of men in black, all of them beating on drums. I recognized a few more people.

We ran to the square area and set down on the ground. There was one larger man who was limping and had trouble running as quickly as they thought he should – or so they let on – and one of the two people who were at the start of the line were running next to him, screaming like a TV drill sergeant “Hurry up number XX, men are waiting!” He arrived in the square, sat and then the drummers moved to surround us. They continued to drum, I was trying to figure out of we would be given a drum to join in and this would be like those Saturday morning sessions. (I’ve used the term XX for the numbers that others were given. I don’t recall their numbers, only mine.)

Then, the drums stopped.

Bill Kauth stepped onto one of the logs that surrounded the square where we were.
The square was an area with a brown carpet and several logs surrounding it. During the time that we were in that section, sitting or standing as required, the staff people would stand on them. Taking turns. It seemed very choreographed. They would turn away at times, or look at one another or light up a cigar.

Mr. Kauth spoke first. I noticed he did not have the ‘talking stick’. I quickly figured that we were not going to have a session like that at this point.

“You have come here, “ he said, his voice booming, “because you want to be men. We will see if you have what it takes to become one! There are some rules you need to know and understand before we begin. They will be told to you only once so listen up.” I was thankful. There were rules? It had all seemed to be lacking of any boundary at this point. Like, they could do anything they wanted. I was looking forward to hearing some guidelines on how this weekend would go. I was disappointed by what I heard next.

“You will speak only when you are spoken to. You will address only the person who addresses you or someone when told you may. You will eat when we permit you to, and you will eat what we feed you. You will be given enough food for the weekend. You will be given a place to sleep and you will do so when told you may do so. You will participate in all activities. You will get out of this weekend what you put into it. We will encourage you to put everything you have into it.”

“There will be no fucking this weekend. No jacking off. Save your strength! You’ll need all of it. As for how the weekend will go, you will take breaks when we permit it, and if you need to take a piss, there are two buckets on the far end of the hall. If you need to take a shit during a break, you will need to ask one of us, and we will take you to a place where you may do that. If you are in need of medications that you brought with you, if you had alerted us to them in the forms you filled out, you will need to ask for them. We will give them to you as appropriate. We will decide if you may do so. Does anyone have any questions? You may ask them now.”

No one spoke. The idea was clear. They were in control.

Bill walked away. A group of the staff people walked up and stood on the rails around us. Another staff person walked into the square. “Each of you has come here for a reason.” He said, firmly. “I want to know that reason.” He then called out a number and told them to stand up. It seemed to be he was picking them at random. A power play move. Keeping each person off kilter so you did not know if you were the next to be called. I don’t recall details of what others said, but when my number was called out, I took to my feet as others had done. He drew near to me. “38. Why are you here?”

I had the perfect answer. It was from the heart. “I want to be a man. My father never was able to show me what that was like, and I’m told this is the place to find that answer.”

“38, tell me why your father was not able to show you.”

“He was an alcoholic and a child molester.”

“I see, and you were his victim? 38?”

“Yes” I said, looking away from him straight into the eyes of G, who was just over his shoulder, to the right.

“I see. And, 38, what if you don’t find the answer you seek here?”

It was a good question to ask. I’m sure he had done this before, or it was in the script.
“Well, then I would have wasted my money and your time.” I responded.

He told me to sit down and went on to someone else. I was surprised. Others were confronted with their answers to the second question. Mine was honest, hard to combat, I guess.

While this interrogation was taking place, I noticed that the staff people standing on the rail, a dozen or so men had changed at least once.

One man said that he was hoping that the weekend would help him stop abusing his wife and children.

“You beat your wife and your children, XX?”

“Yes.” The man responded flatly, his hands moved to his pants pockets, his face sank and he begin to scan the floor with his darting eyes.

“And does beating them make you feel like a man?”

“No.”

“Then why XX, why do you do it? You must enjoy something about it?”

“My father beat me, and my mother as well.”

“So that’s your excuse. You saw your father beat your mother and now think it’s OK to do that to your wife and your helpless kids?”

“No.”

”Then tell me, why do you beat them?”

His answer was lost on me. I believe he first mumbled something, then the interrogator screamed for him to speak up.

Inside, I was having a double moment going on. I was half expecting that since I had admitted that I had been abused that the staffer would make me stand and tell this man what I thought of him. Inside I was torn about what I thought of him, which was the other thing going on.

On one hand I was sympathetic of him. He was trying to do something to stop what he was doing, and felt was wrong. I had been in ACOA groups with people who admitted they were not being good to their children, and could find some compassion for them in at least making an effort to try to correct for it.

On the other hand, I truly was angry toward him for what he was doing. I was wondering what would have been the result of my rising, charging after him and beating the pulp out of him. I pictured myself doing exactly that.

The man gave some answer and then the staff person walked away from the square.

Another person stepped into the square. It was the large black man who had searched my luggage. “Bullshit! You guys have been telling us pure fucking bullshit! He was shouting, spitting every time he said the word bullshit. “I want answers that are the truth! Don’t give me that namby-pamby from your head, bullshit. Fuck that! I want the truth from each of you!” he then picked out a number and told that person to stand up. “Tell me the truth, or get the fuck out of here! Why are you here?” He gave an answer, a different one. I changed how I was sitting. My ass was starting to hurt from sitting on the floor. I watched what was taking place and considered my new answer to his repeated question. I wondered how much longer this could go on and if this was what the entire weekend would be like.

While I waited, I took stock of the room we were in. It was a large hall, two stores high at its peak, with a second floor of small rooms that were reached by stairs off to one side. I figured these might be the lodging areas where we would sleep, when they let us sleep. The walls and ceiling were logs, like a large log cabin and it had that smoky aroma of one that had had several campfires burned in it. From the ceiling hung several metal shaded incandescent lights; dark. Several torches like one would have on a patio burned not from the matt and some candles were around the room.

I noted that I had seen a lot of candles. Something I always associated with females, as it seemed that the woman in a couple was more likely to light up a candle, than a male.

Not far from where we were sitting there was a fireplace, it was not lighted, but it was plenty warm in the building. Or at least for me as I was still wearing my leather jacket. Windows lined the walls on two sides of the room. On the far end from where we where there were two white 5 gallon buckets sitting on a sheet of plastic. Those were our ‘toilets’ I figured.

I was wondering if I could tell someone I needed to shit and get to a regular toilet, or would someone be watching to make sure I did that. I mean, if I got in, sat down and then when I was done, would a ‘guard’ look in to make sure I had actually put down a piece of shit? Somehow that was something I would not put past them to do, given what I had seen thus far.

I returned back to what was taking place. The staff person had by this point had several people stand and answer the question and seemed to be done with this line of questioning. I noticed that I was not brought up for questioning, which I thought was odd. Either it was just a coincidence, or the guy felt that my disclosures had been enough. Or, the script had called for this to only take place for a certain length of time and we had reached that length.

He left the area and the group around us changed again. A new person walked into the square. He was holding a clipboard.

“When you were processed on your entry to our weekend, you signed a pledge and you were handed a bag in which you were to place any jewelry, drugs, electronic items or weapons. This was done for the safety of every person who has come here this weekend. Number XX, stand up.” He moved to stand closer, almost too close to the man who had stood. “When your luggage was inspected, you were found to have a bottle of aspirin in it. Why did you not remove it and follow instructions?”

The man responded something along the lines of not being aware it was there. It was a bag he used for travel and forgot that he carried them in it.

“Bullshit!” the staff person responded. “Every man knows what tools he has with him. Every man knows what items they carry with them at all times. Forgot is not an excuse. Tell me the truth, number XX. Why did you not bring them out and put them in the bag as ordered? Do you not care about these other men?”

I don’t remember the response the man gave. The staff person made some demeaning comment about it and dismissed him. He then called up another number and told that person to stand up. “You were found with knife blades in your possession. Why were you carrying a weapon you did not turn in?”

“They were Exacto blades, hardly a weapon.” The man responded. I considered what I would say when asked about my jar of Carmex.

“Bullshit! You had a weapon. A knife, any type of knife can be a weapon. A man can use a pen as a weapon. Do you not trust these other men?”

Several of the staff people turned to face him. It was a very staged response. I happened to look up, right into the eyes of "M", and saw him do something I had seen him do before. It was an acting move. He stuck a pose; putting one arm across his chest, and rested the elbow of the other one on it. Then, he put his hand, with his thin index finger pointed skyward on the side his face and looked off, stage right, as if looking for some answer in the distance. He tilted his head slightly into the palm of his hand.

At this point I was very clear to me. G saw it as a play. A stage production carried out on a grand scale. Complete with violence, threats, the nice guy, the spitting mad guy, the confinement, the yelling “Men are waiting!” Even Bills greeting, all of it had been written and timed. He struck a pose much the same way as an actor would in a Victorian Era Play. He was like that when he was doing the actor doing a pose thing. It was a game we had played several times during the time I knew him.

The man said that he did trust the other men. That his only intent was do some wood carving that weekend, the knives were for art use only. He intended no harm.

“I see.” Said the staffer. “But, you know, deep inside, in that shadow of yours that if you wished, you would use one of those knives on any man here. If you had to defend you self, you would?
Am I right, XX?”

“Well, yes, if there was a threat, yes, then I would defend myself. Who wouldn’t?”

“If you didn’t trust these men. If your shadow didn’t say that you can’t trust other men, would
you even think about there being some threat to you?”

There was a long pause. The staff people shifted. “Well, come on XX, answer the damn question!” the interrogator yelled.

“I guess not.”

The staff person moved very close to him, his eyes wide and fiery. He poked the man in the belly. “You guess not? What kinda fucking answer is that? Here, in your gut,” he said, poking the man in the stomach, ”Deep inside of you, you know it’s true. You don’t have trust for these men, maybe for any man. So, you compete with him, you try to trip him up. You try to hurt him and be better than him. And your shadow says this is the way to act. Do you agree, XX?”

“Yes.” He responded, his voice filled with a mixture of fear and anger.

“Sit down now, XX. I want to talk to.” There was a long pause. “XX” he said calling out another number. I was relieved. I feel a bit guilty about that, but I was relieved it was not my number. I was angry with myself, that I was willing to answer to a number.

“XX, you were late getting here. Where you not?”

“Yes, sorry.” XX responded.

“XX, did you get a letter that looked like this one?” he asked, removing what looked like the confirmation letter from the clipboard. He showed it to the man briefly and then held it up for all of us to see.

I looked at the man. He was shaking. In his mind I could see he was trying to sort out his next move in that chess game it seems we all play when confronted.

“Yes.”

“And tell me, what time did it say to report to the camp gate?”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

“Did you read the letter, XX?”

“Yes.”

“So, why didn’t you follow the instructions and arrive at 7:30? It’s right here in the letter.”

“I had trouble getting out of work on time to drive here, I had to borrow a friends car. It took longer than I expected.”

“And that’s your excuse?”

“That’s what happened. Honestly.” I watched him as he said this. He looked like the small schoolboy who had just prepared himself for punishment. His shoulders drew up tighter to his ears. His eyes scanning the floor. He was a large man, pudgy some would say. He was young, perhaps only 18, maybe 20 years old. He was wearing a wrinkled gray jacket and blue jeans.

“What’s here?” he asked poking him in the belly. “What the fuck is deep in here? Why are you so ‘don’t give a damn’ about other men? Who appointed you king?”

“I don’t think I am. I was late. Geez!”

“A man, a real man faces his own failings and owns them. A real man makes right what he has done wrong. He had integrity and his life is all in congruity. You say it was a mistake, but you don’t act like it, do you XX?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You said it was just a mistake, but you are unapologetic for it. A warrior is congruent in what he does and what he says.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Deep inside, in that dark part of you, your shadow, that part you don’t want to think you have, or face, don’t you really feel you are better than any of these men?”

“No” the man said. His hands now shoved into the pockets of his coat.

“Really XX? You really don’t? You showed up late for this weekend.”

“That was not on purpose!” he responded.

“Really? No man ever does something by accident, XX. You cut someone off in traffic, that’s not by accident. It’s because you think your better than someone else. You spread a rumor about someone. Why? Because you think your better than the other man. These are not accidents; these are ways in which our shadow does things. We are not clean with others. Do you understand that?

“Yes.”

“So, why are you angry at other men?” I noticed that he had said the word angry. This was a change in pace. He suggested what the man was feeling. He implied what the man was saying.

“Angry? I’m not angry at anyone!”

“Really? So you showed up late just on accident? I don’t buy it.”

“That’s what happened.”

“You carry a lot of anger. Right here.” He said, pushing hard into the large belly of the man. “You swallow your anger at other men and put it right here. Do you know what that means?”

“Not really.”

“Well, XX, let me explain it to you. You swallow your anger and you are fat because of it. You hate other men and you put your anger in your stomach.”

“I do?”

At this point I admit I was buying a little of this. I had done some body and mind work while I was at an ACOA conference and I understood how our emotions and mind affect our body. Still, I had noticed his implication, his direction of what the man was feeling. This was something I knew that a therapist would not do and I would have resented had he been directing me.

“Yes, XX, you put on every pound of anger right here.” He said pushing hard into the stomach of the man.

There was a long pause.

“Alright, I am.”

“Are what?”

“Mad at men!”

“Why? What did these men do to you?”

“I don’t know, but men piss me off!” The younger man responded, his voice tinged with anger
that had not been there before, but was suddenly released.

“Go with that, tell me more, XX.”

His continual use of the persons number was not lost on me. It was a connection he was trying to make, but still say superior to the person he was interrogating.

“I’ve always been hurt by men. They take jobs away from me. They cut me off in traffic, they don’t respect me and...”

“So, because of that you are angry at all men?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me why, XX!” the staffer urged him.

There was a moment or two of silence. It was a pregnant pause.

“My father hurt me, he ignored me, he told me I was not good enough. I hated him, and I guess, I hated men from then on till now.”

“You guess, or you know, XX?”

“I know, I hated my father. He was a bastard who never paid attention to me!” The man cried out, tears now begin to flow down from his eyes.

“I see. Tell me more. Why did your father ignore you?”

“He was busy, working all of the time.”

“So, you never really had a relationship with your father. He never showed you what it was to be a man, or to help you become one?

“Yeah.” The pledge responded through tears.

“And he never told you that you mattered or that he loved you. So, then, tell me, are you better than these other men?”

I sat watching this all take place. Several things were going on in my mind at that moment.

One was that I was wondering what I would be called up for. I was in a van that arrived early and we were turned away. I was wondering if we would be called up for that.

I was wondering if I would be called up for having the jar of Carmex in my jacket. The man who was in charge of the search had been screaming at me about having drugs in my possession.

I was thinking how this was very much like the frustrating conversations I had had and seen with someone who was drunk. You can never win. Anything you say is turned around on you, and you go round and round, never really getting to a point.

And, I was thinking about a TV show that I saw in the 1970’s. Scared Straight.

Scared Straight was a documentary from 1978 that showed the Scared Straight program. I had hardened convicts from maximum security prisons tell their stories about the truth about prison life in order to convince kids that no crime is worth the risk of being incarcerated. The prisoners swore and were at times vulgar toward the kids. One prisoner I remember said to a kid that during his first night in prison, he would find himself with a sheet over his head and a cock up his ass. He went on to describe in detail the way he would be raped and passed around from several men. It was a stark, harsh program that was shown without commercials. My parents felt for some reason that we should all watch it.

A few minutes had passed, but apparently the large staff person was still not pleased with the results he was getting from this pledge.

“Do you have anything to say to these men?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“To me. Not to the one’s who you wronged. Do you know that these men had to wait for you? They waited, standing in a dirt cellar while you were out driving your way up here?”

“I did not know that.”

“Well, now you do. So, what are you going to do about it? How are you going to fix it with these men? What are you going to do to make it up to them?”

“I. I don’t know. I guess I don’t know what you mean.

“What act can you do to make up to them men for what you did wrong to them?”

“Aside from say I’m sorry?”

“Yes! Damn it!” the staffer screamed, his face a few inches from that of the pledge.

“I can offer each man a back rub. I’m sure after standing all of that time, that would make them feel better.”

“Ok. A backrub. Well, that might be good. What do you all think? Will that do it for you? Is that a good make up for you all?

I was thinking how little I really wanted that. The idea of having some stranger rubbing my back really was uncomfortable. Yet, I was here to try to find some ways to remove from myself the things with other men that made me uncomfortable.

The staff person seemed to be somewhat pleased with the result. He told the pledge to sit down.
I wondered who was next.

The questioning went on for some time as several people were called up and torn down for what they had left on them or in their luggage.

For some reason, I was not one of them.

Another staffer walked in and said, “You may now take a short break to piss, shit and eat something. When the drums sound, return back to your places.” And then he left the area.

I was happy to be able to stand. Like the others I walked toward the other end of the hall. On a card table, there was a large bowl of trail mix. That was our evening meal. I was wishing I had eaten something substantial before I arrived. I hadn’t because of the time squeeze between work and arrival. My ride had met me at work.

What I did not know then, but learned soon after was that I suffer from problems with low blood sugar and that not eating for long periods of time causes it to come forth on me. I begin to feel disoriented and ill. I figured that that was part of the plan. I needed first off to pee.

As I said, there were two 5 gallon white buckets on the far end of the hall from where we had been sitting. I have problems with bashful bladder. I can’t pee if another man is around. Get me in the men’s room at a sporting event and I can’t pass a drop unless no one else is around. I’m happy for walls between stalls and when I can find a toilet that is open I go for that. It’s something I’ve had for a long time. But, I was very much in need to go. So, I walked over the buckets and stood in line. I tried to tell myself that it could be OK. I only needed to focus on my need to pee and let it happen. No one would be watching me, they were too busy eating trail mix, drinking water or peeing themselves. A sheet of clear plastic drop cloth was on the floor around them, and the two buckets were about 3 feet apart.

It was my turn, and I moved up to the bucket and, well, with out all of the details, I gave it a good try and then gave up. I could not.

Up to this point in the weekend, I felt like someone was watching every move I made, looking for some failing so they could jump on me about it. I believe this was happening. I had seen how the interrogators were asking questions based on what had been seen by someone on staff. I expected that in the next session I would be called upon to stand and explain why I did not trust the other men to let them see me piss.

I eat a handful of trail mix and drank a little water. I didn’t want to add to my water and bladder problem. I stood in silence with the other pledges and considered what I would do next. I was trying to see what good this was doing? Why was I subjecting myself to this? Why had I let someone violate me and my personal space?

These were not professionals; they were rank amateurs playing out roles and in some cases not very well.

But, then again, what if I left? Would that mean I was not a man? Had a failed to achieve manhood? What was I then? I was not able to handle this weekend. I was took weak, too much of a sissy, a wimp for not being able to go with it.

True, I had been ill for much of the week before, crypto had hit Milwaukee and I fell victim to that. Perhaps that was playing into what was going on at the moment. Perhaps I was tired and needed to rest. I had been awake since early Friday morning, worked a full day and then came to this weekend. I had a feeling it was early Saturday morning.

Drums sounded calling us back to our places.

Bill Kauth came back into the room.

“We’ve been asking you and telling you about being a man. Now it’s time for you to tell one another something. So each of you turn and face the person to your right.” We did so and some of us were back to back. “Now, when I tell you to until I tell you to stop, you will tell the other person how you know you are a man. Go!”

I thought for a second, I opted to talk first. “I have a deep voice, I have a penis, I have hair on my chest. I do not have breasts for children to suckle.”

“Time, now the other person! Go.” Bill bellowed.

I don’t recall what he had to say. I honestly don’t think I was listening. Around me I heard similar responses to what I had said. At this point I was very uncomfortable and not feeling well.

After this was done, with staffers standing very close by, some of them writing on a clipboard Bill said, “Stand now and move over toward the other end of the hall. Single file!” He barked.

We arose and walked toward the large open area.

Several staffers came out among us. One of them, a scruffy looking man with a cigar in his mouth told us he was going to tell the story of Iron John. We were going to act out the story.

“Shut your eyes. Do not let us find you have your eyes open.”

I was suspect of what was coming next. I don’t like to be places and not have my eyes open to see what is being done. At this point, my trust in any member of the staff had been dissolved.

The story begins when a king sends one of his huntsmen into a forest nearby, a huntsman who never returns. The king sends more, each meeting with the same mysterious and unknown fate. The king finally sends all his remaining huntsmen out as a group, but again, none return. The king proclaims the woods as dangerous and off-limits to all.

Some years later, a wandering explorer and his dog come to the kingdom, hearing of these dangerous woods. The explorer asks permission to hunt in the forest, claiming that he might be able to discover the fate of the other hunters.

As they come to a lake in the middle of the forest, the dog is almost dragged under by a huge arm. The hunter returns to the forest the next day with a group of men and directs them to empty the lake. At the bottom of the drained lake they find a naked man with skin like Hair all over his body. They capture him and take him back to the king, where he is locked in a cage in the courtyard as a curiosity. No one is allowed to set the wild man free, on penalty of death

Years later the young prince is playing with a ball in the courtyard. He accidentally rolls it into the cage where the wild man picks it up. The prince asks for the ball back, but the wild man says he will only return it if he is set free. He states further that the only key to the cage is hidden beneath the queen’s pillow.

Though the prince hesitates at first, eventually he builds up the courage to sneak into his mother’s room and steal the key. He releases the wild man, who reveals his name to be Iron John (or Iron Hans, depending on the translation). The prince fears he will be killed for setting Iron John free, so Iron John agrees to take the prince with him into the forest.

(From Wikipedia.com)

This was read aloud and we were told to act out the various portions such as the hunter walking in the woods, the boy playing with the ball. During it, staffers were walking amonst us and I could smell the puff of cigar smoke as they went by and hear them as they grunted or made other sounds as part of the story. Music was played. I recognized it as something by Ray Lynch.

At this point I was very unhappy with the situation. I felt like I was in the middle of a very dumb play. I felt this was pointless and I wanted to stop having someone else have control over me.

The plot for my escape was hatched in a few moments. I honestly fought with myself about doing it or not. Following it would mean that I was not clean with the group. I was not being congruent, as they had said a man would be. Somehow, I decided that none of that mattered. I wanted out and would follow my own script to get out.

I fell to the ground, panting. A staff person rushed over to me quickly. I acted faint. Inside I could feel my temperature rushing and did feel slightly faint. It was part panic, and fear. I was trying to fool these people in order to create a reason for them to let me go, one so well crafted that they would not hold me there, but send me home gladly. Illness. I could play the illness card, and with that drop to the floor, I had set it in motion. It seemed like the only way I could get out of here with out a major problem.

“Are you OK 38?” he asked. It was not someone I knew.

“Dizzy, sorry I fell.”

“You, keep going!’ he shouted to the others. He offered that I could sit down for a moment and have some water. I took him up on the offer.

I sat on the floor, off to the side from where the story was being played out.

“How are you, 38?” another staffer asked me.

“OK." My hands were shaking. I could feel my face was flush. He told me to stay put.

Bill Kauth came over to me. “Well, 38, are you going to be ok?”

“I, I don’t know. I don’t feel very well.” I said, kicking in every bit of acting I could.

I was helped to my feet and escorted to a door, on the one larger wall of the hallway. On the other side was a smaller hallway. I suspected it was the food service area. Several sleeping bags were spread out and inside of them I noticed people who had been in the hall earlier. They were working us in shifts. This could go on all night at this rate. I felt I was right in my conclusion that it was time to get out of here.

I was shown a place that I could sit on the floor. There was a cushion. I was then feeling chilled. Perhaps it was the change in the room temperature or I was really ill, or I had managed to convince myself that I was truly ill with something and my mind was taking over to do the rest of it. “Rest here a while, we’ll check on you in a bit.” Someone told me.

I leaned against the wall, shivering, chilled.

I sat there for a while and truly felt ill. My stomach was churning. It might have been low blood sugar, left over problems from crypto, panic, what ever, it was getting bad and then I felt I needed to vomit. I looked around and could not immediately see a restroom or a sink, but I saw a door and ran out of it, into the cold night air and onto the crunching snow. I saw a tree to my right and headed toward it. For some reason I need to be at the base of something. I puked a little bile, and then eat some snow to clear the tasted. One of the staffers had come out. He helped me to my feet and then into the building, back to the place where I was sitting before. Another staffer came up with a blanket and offered it to me. I thanked them for it, not careing the “Don’t speak unless spoken to.” Rule. I was at this point, hot and shivering.

Not long after that Bill Kauth came up to me and said, “The other boys are playing ‘capture the flag’ for a while. Do you think if you rested for a bit you could continue? Perhaps in the morning?” I allowed for a pause and then responded, trying not to make a lot of effort in doing so, appearing weak. “I don’t think I can, sir.”

“Ok” he responded.

I wrapped myself tightly in the blanket and was shivering, hard. I had the chills, badly. I heard G explain that I had been pretty sick from Crypto just a week before. There was a lot of chatter and then Bill came back to me. “We should get you home.” I had to explain that I was grouped with guys in a van, so I didn’t have a way home. Someone told me that they would find a way. I fell asleep for a while. It was the first, and only time I have ever slept while leaning against something on the ground.

"M" gently woke me. One of the staff people, a man I knew from ACOA would take me home. I needed to go get my bag from the pile in the other room and then I could go any time.

Bill told me there was one more thing to do before I left. I needed to tell the others who I was to be on the weekend that I was leaving. They had returned from their time out in the woods, I had seen on someone’s watch that it was close to 4:00AM, this had all been going on non-stop since 6:00PM the day before.

I kept the blanket around me and was shown the way to the hallway. I was directed back to the square where the others were sitting, sweaty and looking tired. I felt better, but tried to keep my level low.

“38 will be leaving us.’ Bill said to them. ”He has decided he cannot continue the weekend with you. He will not graduate to be a man. Do you have anything to say to them, 38?”

My mind quickly passed around several things that I could say. I could tell them that I knew it was phony; a well-timed and acted play and that I felt violated by what had gone on thus far.

I considered saying that I was leaving because I saw no point to this, based on what I had experienced so far. And that we were men, and didn’t need them to tell us so.

In the end, I said something very simple, “I wish you all the best at finding whatever you seek this week.”

I left. When I got in the car I saw the time, it was well after 4:00.

Most of the ride was in silence and I think I fell asleep. I really didn’t care if I seemed weak or not. I needed sleep.
------------------------------
Postlude: Looking back at the 10,000 plus words that I have written about my encounter with the New Warrior, many thoughts come to mind.

I went in search of something, an identity; man. At the time I was seduced by the idea that I had lacked having some in my life say to me, “you are now a man.” Like someone handing me the certificate of manhood, or something like that. I thought that this weekend would be such at the end, I could say “I’m a man.” Instead I found what I had experienced already at the hands of other men. Brutality, mistreatment, some might say a sexual assault while I was being searched. The script for the weekend reads that you are kept off balance for much of the time. Food is controlled and meager. Breakfast both days is ‘gruel’, other food times are nuts and berries. Water intake is controlled, your actions are watched. What I came away with was a worse mis-trust of men than I had before. I had trusted this group to treat me with the respect that I was due, not only as a human, but as a grown man of 32 years. Even children do not deserve that same treatment. Criminals neither.

I’m impressed by the fact that I felt I needed someone to tell me that I was a man. I now understand that we are what we tell ourselves to be as far as roles. No matter what someone else tells us we are, or are not, we accept the role we want. Some choose to accept the role of cripple and live their life that way. Others choose to accept the role of victim, and life that way, often making other victims as well. Still others take the role of healer and help others and yet others are TV or motion picture stars and play that role. I’ve chosen to accept many roles to play and along the way I’ve picked up some others and dropped a few. I had hopes that that weekend would give me a permanent claim to a role I had already – a man.

I’ve been told that had I stayed, it would have all been pulled together for me. That the early stages are tough, so you break open and look inside. What I wanted to do more so was shut down, tightly. My trust of them was set lower as each event took place. Each moment that someone made accusations; each time they twisted the words of someone around into a disclosure of some issue. I saw it happening, and was reminded of my drunken parents and what they did. And I hated them for it. I saw it and wondered how these dysfunctional people were supposed to be able to extend to me some well-earned title of ‘man’ at the end of this. And so, I left.

I had trusted these men, trusted that they would take good care of me, but instead they abused me. Perhaps sexually, and I was again a victim of that at the hands of another man. When it took place, I wondered if they had been told about me. That I was to be given the number 38, which was odd since I went to 38th street School. That number 38 listed on his application that he wanted to go on this weekend to overcome being sexually assaulted by his father. I wondered if they were pushing the envelope on what I could take to see how I would respond. I can’t say if they did the same to other men who came up on the weekend. I’ll never really know the answer to the question. Was it another sexual assault that took place that weekend?

I look back at that time in the cellar, and how controlled I felt then. I stood, waiting for someone to come and let us out. I did not permit myself to sit because I heard the detailed command to stand where I was put. I saw them come in and dress down anyone who was not exactly as placed. I was intimidated in submission, and I hated them for it, and I hated myself for it as well. I wonder why I was so afraid to just sit down. I had seen how each of us was brought in, henchman style and the shouting whenever anyone made a sound. I was reminded of being home, with my mother waiting for the moment for me to make a sound, just so she could scream at me and extend my punishment. I do believe that she waited for that to happen, and I think those who were stationed outside that door were told the do the same, or so the script went.

I wonder now what would have happened if I had walked up to the door, pushed it open and walked past them, leaving. After all, I never knew the door was really locked. Just imagined it to be locked based on an assumption that if they had us here, the door must be locked.

What if I had just walked right there and then? Or any other time of the weekend. I felt so controlled by them, and that was part of the way the game was being played. I didn’t understand the rules, and I didn’t know my own power. What would they do, hold me in place. I’d have threatened them with calling the police and filing false imprisonment charges against them. But I was still living by the old rules where I didn’t feel I had power to do that.

Instead I called them ‘Sir’- my shield word, a protection word. No man would be angry toward me if I called him ‘sir’. I learned that in business.

I sometimes wonder what it would have been like, after spending the weekend with them, what would my life have been like? If they had told me that I was a man now that I had completed the weekend, that I had drunk the cool-aide of their version of what it took to be a man, would I look at life from some different angle? Would my life be what it is now, or something very different?

I’ve heard the rest of the weekend included one point being naked and some have said they were told to reach over and hold the cock of the man next to them. That there was a sweat lodge and forced cold showers. That men are deprived of sleep and when they do sleep, it is in what ever they where wearing when the weekend started – never mind what they packed – and on the floor of the hall where all of the rest of it is taking place. And, no need for a sleeping bag, men don’t need them. (Never mind that the staff people were in sleeping bags in that room where I waited.) I wonder, what of that is true?

I went on the weekend in part because I was attracted to the Native American spirituality that seemed to be a basis for the weekend, yet I found none. I found brutality not respect for all humans. I found drums and I saw anger. I wanted to find my own Native American heritage and let that be a part of my life. I am proud to say that two of my ancestors, that I was told of by an aunt who is was a nun and researched the family tree that it had happened. One more and legally, I’d be able to claim American Indian, and the tribe would consider I was as well. I’ve put the quest of that heritage aside.

In part because of the unpleasantness of the weekend, I turned away from that heritage and have not persuaded that. A role to take up, yes, but an honoring of a part of myself.

In the weeks that followed, I was in a bad place. I had failed to live up to the expectations of a group that I thought would tell me I was a man. So, was I not a man? I asked that question for several years.

I said once that some men may need such a thing, I however felt I was not at that place. Some should be compelled to go, but I was not one of them. Perhaps some need this type of weekend so they know they are a man. Some need someone to look at them and ripe them apart so they could see the things that are stopping them from being a real man. What stopped them from being a man who cares about life around him and those who matter most? I suggested that instead men should just be, well, men. Be a man about it. Whatever it is, just be it. Don’t define it, just be it and it will be so.

In the weeks and months that followed I questioned if I was a man or not because I had not completed the weekend. I was feeling low about myself and how things had gone. I was depressed at times as my anger at myself for not being able to be “man enough” to endure the weekend weighed heavy on my mind.

It took sometime before I discovered that what I needed to do was to define for myself what it meant to me to be a man. I had examined for myself what it meant and that was very simple: being me as I am at the moment that I am what I am. That is being a man about it.

No one really ever had to tell me I was. I already was a man. I just had to tell myself it was true, and then, it was.

As character in the Movie Roots once said, “No one can put anything into your hand when you are making a fist.” So it is with we humans. We cannot allow ourselves to be who we are, unless we are open to finding out who that truly is. No matter what someone else tells us. We will be, who we are.