In these benighted times, do we dare even pose such a question? What does it mean to be a man? Should we not instead find another term . . .
Fully Realized Adult
Functioning Member of Society
Credentialed Human Unit
Responsible Humanoid
Grown Soul
Something else?
I find myself at this cultural tripwire of a word thanks to Rudyard Kipling. Subject to much acclaim in his time, his regard has since dimmed in some circles for his unapologetic enthusiasm for empire. That and what feels like a confused understanding of the true meaning of The Jungle Book, but I digress.
With all that stipulated, I offer you this benediction on personhood, or what my forbearers would describe as a mensch, in the form of his poem, If . . . (change the last sentence if you must; keep the meaning close if you can)
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!