Mult inainte de a ajunge la varsta cugetarilor intelepte, mi-a fost dat sa intalnesc o intreaga tipologie de barbati, si asta datorita firii analitice care mi-a fost harazita.
Gandirea societatii in care traim este dominata de mitul barbatului dur, cu maxilarele patrate, cu par pe piept si cu privirea necrutatoare, de care valurile vietii se sparg ca de malurile stancoase de la marginea marii. Pe langa aceste exemplare, pe care, personal, nu le consider superioare, ci mai mult la limita primitivismului, mai sunt, inca, si barbati adevarati, oameni cu calitati si defecte, cu o cantitate de testosteron care nu depaseste limitele bunului simt. Sunt barbatii care pot sa planga cateodata, "cand nu-i vede nimenea"... Sunt barbatii pe care ii admir si ii respect, capabili sa iubeasca pana la moarte, sa sufere si sa indure mai multa umilinta si durere decat pachetele de muschi de care pomeneam mai devreme. Am cunoscut in viata mea mai multi asemenea barbati, incepand de la tata, care plangea la filme si-mi recita poezii de Minulescu, la fratele meu, care, desi se exteriorizeaza mai greu, e capabil de teribil de multa iubire, la barbatul de langa mine, sinteza a tot ce mi-as fi putut dori vreodata.
Azi am mai intalnit unul. Ne cunoastem de luni intregi, dar n-am stiut povestea lui, n-am banuit durerea ascunsa de ochii veseli si glasul jovial. Iubine neimpartasita, sau imposibila, sau "nu inca"... pe scurt, doi oameni perfecti unul pentru altul, care nu sunt impreuna. Si, desi banala, povestea capata ceva inaltator spusa de un barbat adevarat, care recunoaste ca-l macina durerea. Poezie pura, in secolul 21...
Citeam luna trecuta un articol despre moartea din iubire. Statistic vorbind, barbatii sunt cei care conduc detasat in topul macabru al suicidurilor din iubire. Autoarea, feminista convinsa, sustinea ca motivul care-i impinge intr-acolo nu este altul decat incapacitatea barbatului de a face fata durerii (cu trimitere directa la vaicarerile teribile de care sunt in stare cand se julesc la vreun deget). Adevarul e ca barbatii sunt capabili de sentimente cu mult mai profunde decat noi, femeile, putem sa intelegem vreodata. Se straduiesc sa ne arate asta cu cadouri exorbitante, versuri memorabile si, in cele mai nefericite cazuri, jertfindu-si viata pe altarul unei iubiri pe care n-o vom putea intelege niciodata. Noi femeile suntem mai egoiste, si asta mai ales dupa ce trecem de varsta de la care putem fi mame. Nu ne-am da viata asa, cu una, cu doua, pentru a demonstra ceva. Barbatii o fac, si mai presus de asta chiar, nu ar regreta-o niciodata.
Admir barbatii adevarati! Admir barbatii care nu considera lacrimile un semn de slabiciune, ci o modalitate simpla si eficienta de a-si arata fata umana.
***
Long before I reached the age of wise thinking, I was given the opportunity to meet a whole typology of men, and this was due to the analytical nature that I was blessed with. The thinking of the society in which we live is dominated by the myth of the tough, square-jawed, hairy-chested, unrelenting-eyed man, against whom the waves of life crash like the rocky shores of the seashore. Besides these specimens, which I personally do not consider superior, but more on the edge of primitivism, there are still real men, men with qualities and flaws, with an amount of testosterone that does not exceed the limits of common sense. There are men who can cry sometimes, "when nobody sees them"... There are men I admire and respect, capable of loving to death, of suffering and enduring more humiliation and pain than the bundles of muscle I mentioned earlier. I have known many such men in my life, from my father, who cried at the movies and recited Minulescu poems to me, to my brother, who, though he is more difficult to express, is capable of terribly much love, to the man next to me, the synthesis of everything I could ever want. Today I met another one. We've known each other for months, but I didn't know his story, didn't suspect the pain hidden in his cheerful eyes and jovial voice. Unshared love, or impossible, or "not yet"... in short, two people perfect for each other who are not together. And, though trite, the story takes on something uplifting told by a real man who admits that he is consumed with grief. Pure poetry, in the 21st century... I was reading an article last month about dying in love. Statistically speaking, it's men who lead the macabre top of suicides for love. The author, a staunch feminist, argued that the reason that drives them there is none other than the man's inability to cope with the pain (with direct reference to the terrible laments they are capable of when they skin a finger). The truth is that men are capable of far deeper feelings than we women can ever understand. They strive to show us this with exorbitant gifts, memorable lyrics and, in the most unfortunate cases, by sacrificing their lives on the altar of a love we can never understand. We women are more selfish, and this is especially true after we pass the age of motherhood. We wouldn't give our lives away like that, with one, with two, to prove something. Men do, and even more than that, they would never regret it. I admire real men! I admire men who don't consider tears a sign of weakness, but a simple and effective way to show their human face.
