Destabilising Masculinism: Men’s Friendships and Social Change 3031395352, 9783031395352

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Destabilising Masculinism

Men’s Friendships and Social Change Brittany Ralph

Destabilising Masculinism “Ralph engages with this fascinating data regarding socio-positive change in masculinities and men’s friendships with nuance, compassion and reflexivity. The work is intellectually sophisticated and complexifies established understandings of change and masculinities. Destabilising Masculinism provides significant practical conclusions for policy and practice regarding how masculinism may be challenged and dislodged.” —Lucy Nicholas, Associate Professor in Gender and Sexuality Studies, Anthropology & Sociology, Western Sydney University, Australia “In interviewing two generations of Australian men, Ralph eloquently unpacks how they navigate the complexities of same-gender friendship. Focusing on how men have been offered alternative subject positions that allow for care, expressiveness, and intimacy, the book sheds light on how men can now centralize their selves within their relationships with other men. In an engaging read, Ralph demonstrates how masculinities, as traditionally known, are becoming destabilized, reconstructed, and allowing for more feeling, beyond the bromance. Overall, the book provides a groundbreaking theoretical understanding of masculinities in their conceptualizations and a strong empirical argument for reinvigorating understandings of men’s relations with men.” —Rosemary Ricciardelli, Professor, Research Chair: Safety, Security, & Wellness, Memorial University of Newfoundland, Canada

Brittany Ralph

Destabilising Masculinism Men’s Friendships and Social Change

Brittany Ralph Department of Sociology, Social Policy and Criminology University of Liverpool Liverpool, UK

ISBN 978-3-031-39534-5    ISBN 978-3-031-39535-2 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-39535-2 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light. - Helen Keller For my incredible friends.

Acknowledgements

I was raised and educated on the stolen lands of Yugambeh and Yuggera speaking peoples. This book was written on the stolen lands of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nations. These lands were never ceded, and white settler Australia—of which I am a member—is yet to fully reckon with or atone for this history. This book contains many references to Australian masculinities, but these only reflect the most recent iteration of culture and custom violently imposed by the settler colonies, and perpetuated by those who have come after. As such, they do not reflect the value First Nations peoples place on kinship, community, respect and a deep understanding of and reverence for the land—values settler Australians should look to in our efforts to dismantle the harmful notions of masculinity we brought to this country. I pay my respects to the traditional custodians of the lands on which I have lived and worked, and to any First Nations people reading this book. I am honoured to share the stories of the men who kindly gave their time to take part in my study. I sincerely appreciate their openness and vulnerability, and I hope that this book does justice to the profound insights they shared. I would also like to extend enormous thanks to the many friends and colleagues who have supported me and offered guidance throughout my doctoral degree and the writing of this book. Especially Claire Moran, Helen Stenger, Ben Lyall, Ellen Reeves, Chloe Keel and Elsie Foeken for reading chapters, for sharing insights and for the countless cups of tea and coffee it took to get through it all. I am deeply grateful, as well, to my thesis examiners Lucy Nicholas and Paul Hodkinson for their incisive vii

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feedback and generous encouragement in what was arguably the most important moment of my career thus far. During my candidature, I was fortunate to have the guidance of two remarkable scholars, Brady Robards and Karla Elliott, who displayed extraordinary generosity, patience and expertise as my associate supervisors. And, while he might admonish me for saying so, the truth is that I would not be here, writing the acknowledgements for my first book, if it weren’t for my primary supervisor, mentor and friend, Steve Roberts. Steve’s expertise and intellectual guidance were fundamental to the formulation of my thinking and the production of this work, and the care and generosity he showed as a mentor have been fundamental to my personal and professional growth. As I move on to the next phase of my career, I doubt I’ll ever feel so wholly supported and believed in as I did as his student. Finally, to my parents—thank you for being a constant and unwavering source of love, support and encouragement, even when it wasn’t clear where this path would lead me. And to my friends—I could write an entire book about how important you are to me, so I decided to dedicate this one to you. The doctoral research reported in this book was funded by an Australian Government Research Training Program (RTP) Scholarship. Parts of this book have appeared elsewhere in different form. I thank Sage Publications for permission to reproduce revised sections of: Ralph, B. (2023). ‘The destabilising effect of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-­ discourse: A feminist poststructuralist account of change in men’s friendships’. Journal of Sociology, doi: 10.1177/14407833231162637. I also thank Steven Roberts and Palgrave Macmillan for permitting me to reproduce revised parts of: Ralph, B., & Roberts, S. (2020). ‘Theories of men and masculinity, and their ability to account for positive change’. In R. Magrath, J. Cleland and E. Anderson (Eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Masculinity and Sport, (pp. 19–38), Palgrave Macmillan. Finally, I thank Steve Roberts and Berghahn Journals for providing permission to reprint parts of the forthcoming article: Ralph, B., & Roberts, S. (forthcoming). ‘Making sense of increasing physical touch in Australian men’s friendships: A feminist poststructuralist dialogue with inclusive masculinity theory’. Journal of Bodies, Sexualities and Masculinities.

Contents

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 The Significance of Men’s More Intimate Same-Gender Friendships  1 The Problem with Aussie Men’s Friendships   4 The Rise and Rise of the Bromance   8 Theoretical Significance and Impetus for this Book  10 An Intergenerational Exploration of Australian Men’s Friendships  11 Chapter Outline  21 References  24

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 Theory, Debates and a Feminist Poststructuralist Way Forward 29 From the Science of Male Society to the Critical Study of Masculinities  29 Making Sense of the Distance Between Men  31 Increasing Intimacy: A Field-Altering Finding  35 Thinking Through Men’s Agency and Reflexivity  39 Conceptualising Change Through Feminist Poststructuralism  42 The Theoretical Contention of This Book  47 References  51

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 Friendship in the Fathers’ Early Lives 57 Men Don’t Talk (About Their Feelings)  58 Men Don’t Express Emotion  66 Men Are Self-reliant  69 Men Don’t Hug  71 Rearticulating Hegemony as a Product of Dominant Discourse  75 Conclusion  77 References  79

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 Friendship in the Fathers’ Later Lives 83 Men Can Talk (About Their Feelings)  85 Men Can Express Emotion  95 Men Are (Still, Principally) Self-reliant  98 Men Can Hug 101 Biographical Disruptions and Emotional Reflexivity 106 Conclusion 109 References 110

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 Friendship in the Sons’ Lives113 Men Should Talk (About Their Feelings) 115 Men Should Express Emotion 121 Men Should Ask for Help 127 Men Hug and Kiss (But Context Matters) 132 Conclusion 136 References 137

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 Overcoming Barriers to Intimacy Through Humour, Alcohol and the Disembodied Nature of Online Spaces139 Masculinising Emotion and Intimacy 140 Coded Intimacies 145 The Role of Recreational Substance Use 149 Online Intimacies 154 The Persistent Role of Masculinism in Some Men’s Lives 159 Conclusion 164 References 166

 Contents 

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 Towards a Feminist Poststructuralist Account of Change in Men’s Friendships169 Situating This Research in Current Debates 172 A Feminist Poststructuralist Account of Socio-positive Change 180 Limitations 183 Implications for Practice 185 Concluding Remarks 188 References 189

Index193

CHAPTER 1

The Significance of Men’s More Intimate Same-Gender Friendships

Mateship—a form of friendship characterised by loyalty, integrity and trust often (if not exclusively) thought to exist between (white) men—has long been considered a key feature of Australia’s national identity. Stemming from our violent colonial history and epitomised by the bonds between the ANZAC1 diggers, mateship occupies ‘a hallowed place in the Australian lexicon’, or so proclaims former Prime Minister John Howard. Yet even here, as is the case in many Western nations, men’s friendships with other men have historically lacked the care, expressiveness and intimacy that women friends typically share. Some scholars challenge this basic claim, arguing this ‘lack’ only exists because men are held to ‘female-biased’ standards (Fehr, 2004, p. 135). To them, the intimacy men cultivate through ‘having a pint and watching the footy’ is as legitimate as intimacy achieved through hugs and heartfelt conversations. Yet the latter are known to be foundational to feelings of support and trust (Radmacher & Azmitia, 2006), and research shows that men do desire more intimate and expressive friendships (Butera, 2008; Patrick & Beckenbach, 2009). Nonetheless, it remains widely established in both academic and public discourse that these forms of platonic intimacy are incompatible with traditional definitions of manhood in Australia, and across the Western world.

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 Australia and New Zealand Army Corps.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 B. Ralph, Destabilising Masculinism, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-39535-2_1

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The Aussie Bloke is an iconic motif, as easily exemplified in the shaggy-­ haired surfers of the East Coast, as it is in pub-dwelling city folk or iron-­ willed outback farmers. What transcends these tropes is a confident yet easy-going swagger, a sarcastic and self-deprecating sense of humour, an undying loyalty to his mates (and, of course, his footy club), and unyielding toughness and self-reliance (Sharp et al., 2023). While this is perhaps a reflection of how Australian men like to think of themselves rather than who they actually are (Waling, 2019), the cultural pull towards this ideal has—at least historically—led them away from deep, trusting friendships with other men. The lack of emotional connectedness in Australian men’s friendships may place them at greater risk of depression, heart disease and stroke, particularly as they enter middle age when the risk of social isolation increases and life satisfaction tends to drop (Valtorta et al., 2016; Sharp et al., 2023). Beyond this, dominant codes of masculinity have been linked to higher rates of suicide, substance abuse and violence perpetration (King et  al., 2020; Oliffe et  al., 2022; Tomsen & Messerschmidt, 2020; The Men’s Project and Flood, 2018). Understanding and disrupting the norms that restrict men’s ability to foster intimate, trusting friendships could thus improve the health, safety and well-being of all Australians—and in this respect, things do appear to be changing for the better. In recent decades, feminist discourse has problematised dominant Western metanarratives of masculinity. The pernicious effects of abiding traditional masculine norms are now widely acknowledged, prompting a transformative call for men to embrace emotional and expressive qualities once solely the reserve of femininity. Many Australian men are seizing the opportunity, as evidenced by the emergence of more involved and nurturant fathering styles (Lewington et al., 2021; Thompson et al., 2013) and an increased engagement in platonic physical and emotional intimacy between men—referred to herein as ‘homosocial intimacy’ (Drummond et al., 2015; Ralph and Roberts, 2020). Nowadays it is not uncommon to see two grown men hugging as they greet each other or, as I’ll go on to evidence in this book, to hear of them engaging in frank discussions about fear, heartbreak, confusion and poor mental health. So, where does this leave the iconic motif of a ‘true blue’2 Aussie bloke? As Australian men begin to shed outdated tropes of stoicism and self-reliance, does this 2  A phrase adopted into the Australian lexicon as meaning quintessentially Australian and committed to values of loyalty, resilience and patriotism.

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render him a thing of the past? Or do he still hold cultural weight, gently whispering ‘she’ll be right3’ to whoever is within earshot? The answer is, unsurprisingly, not entirely straightforward. For many men in the West, the expanding definition of manhood is profoundly threatening, and growing support for feminist critiques has created ‘a sense of being under siege’ (Whitehead, 2002, p.  219). The notion of a crisis of masculinity has once again taken hold, finding champions in prominent anti-feminist public figures like Jordan Peterson and, more recently and concerningly, Andrew Tate. This seemingly binary formation of contemporary masculinities has sparked debate in the critical studies on men and masculinities (CSMM) field. Some scholars contend that the rise of intimate friendships among men stems from and opens up possibilities for more egalitarian versions of masculinity, while others caution against overestimating its transformative potential, highlighting the enduring nature of unequal gender relations. To gain deeper insight into the nature and mechanics of social change in masculinities, I interviewed two generations of Australian men—14 pairs of fathers and sons—about how they have navigated the complex terrain of same-gender friendship across their lives. Applying a feminist poststructuralist lens to this data, I reveal how masculinist discourses of emotion and intimacy have governed their friendship practices at three chronological time points: the father participants’ early lives, the father participants’ later lives and the son participants’ early lives. My findings demonstrate a clear but complicated shift, such that the commitment to stoicism and self-reliance dominant in the fathers’ early lives has given way to a growing embrace of homosocial intimacy and emotional expression among both the fathers and sons. Critically engaging with key debates in the CSMM field, I offer an alternative to the conceptualisation of this change as either straightforwardly positive or largely insignificant to gender relations. Rather, I argue that the increasing influence of feminism, LGBTQIA+ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, queer/questioning, intersex and asexual) rights and mental health discourse has destabilised dominant discourses of Australian manhood, offering men an alternative subject position that allows care, expressiveness and intimacy. With a broadened set of homosocial practices now sanctioned by these progressive counter-discourses, I contend that men 3  A common saying in Australia and New Zealand that suggests whatever is wrong will right itself in the end, representing either apathy or optimism about a situation.

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have greater capacity for agentive and emotionally reflective choices about how they interact with their men friends. However, I note the tensions, nuances and contradictions that characterise this positive shift; that for some men there was a disconnect between discourse and practice, or a persistent desire to achieve a sense of masculine autonomy. Rather than ‘determining whether or not men ascribe to a type of masculinity or are oppressed by it’ (Waling, 2019, p. 102), I present a more complex picture of how men navigate new and contentious discursive terrain, capturing both socio-­positive change and the continuance of socio-negative conventions of masculinity. In doing so, I demonstrate how a feminist poststructuralist approach builds upon and fortifies the core tenets of prevailing CSMM theory, in ways that arguably more thoroughly account for men’s agency and reflexivity, and the complexity of social change. This chapter serves as both an introduction to the study and the book’s contents, and a review of key empirical literature surrounding men’s friendship. I first introduce the field’s foundational empirical finding that men’s same-gender friendships are largely activity-based, then review the growing body of research that highlights men’s increasing engagement in more caring and intimate friendships. I then establish the significance of these findings to theoretical debates about the prospects for and mechanics of socio-positive change in masculinities and highlight the gaps and tensions that remain in relation to theorising men’s agency and the complexity of this change. I conclude by describing the methodology of the study, discussing how my positionality came to bear on sampling, data collection and analysis, and presenting a chapter outline.

The Problem with Aussie Men’s Friendships Until recently, one might have been forgiven for thinking that it is women who lack the ability to nurture friendships of substance. The media has long portrayed women and girls as superficial, disloyal, obsessed with the attention of men and, by extension, indefensibly awful friends. On the other hand, friendships between men were romanticised as bastions of loyalty and integrity, upon which the foundation of civilisation itself was built (Messner, 1992). But, by as early as the 1970s, men’s liberationist scholars had begun to cast a more critical eye over men’s friendships, and found them to be ‘destructively competitive, homophobic and emotionally impoverished’ (Messner, 1992, p. 216). Many decades later, we have a fair idea of why.

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Masculinity has long been considered a homosocial enactment. Although women may be used as pawns or currency in the quest for masculine validation, men principally seek approval for their display of non-­ femaleness from other men, compete with other men to establish a sense of dominance and police other men’s behaviour to ensure it upholds and maintains masculine norms. As a result, men’s friendships have been described as the relationships in which they experience ‘the most joy, but also the most difficulty’ (Way & Chu, 2004, p. 168). While they may be deeply bonded and provide one another with companionship and loyalty, the imperative to compete with or achieve dominance over other men can inhibit more meaningful forms of homosocial intimacy. Homophobia is considered central to the persistence of this hierarchical dynamic. Referred to by Eric Anderson (2009) as ‘homohysteria’4, the fear of being perceived as gay shapes many Australian men’s homosocial behaviours. This is because: Gay men represent, as Judith Butler (1993, pp. 1–4) puts it, the ‘threatening specter’ used to discourage male gender non-conformity, with the ‘fag’ label acting as an all-purpose signifier for the effeminized male, implying physical weakness, emotional vulnerability, and submissiveness. (Barrett, 2013, p. 63)

To be perceived as sufficiently masculine and sufficiently heterosexual within this context, men must avoid behaviours coded as feminine and/or homosexual, and vehemently police these behaviours when enacted by other men. The expression of homosocial intimacy between Australian men, whether a hug or verbal expression of love, was (for much of the twentieth century) thus often met with homophobic ridicule. So, too, were expressions of fear, pain or sadness that veered to close to a feminine display of vulnerability or weakness. Talking about or expressing one’s feelings were—and in some cases remain—among the most stigmatised behaviours for men (Bird, 1996). From a young age, many boys are taught that expressing fear, sadness, pain or even love and affection reveals weakness, while confidence and anger indicate power and status. Reflecting on his own experiences as a cis-gendered man, Seidler (1989, p. 153) describes the cost of abiding by these expectations: 4

 Discussed further in Chap. 2.

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In concealing our vulnerability to ourselves and others, we learn to present a certain image of ourselves. We become strangers to aspects of ourselves. This reflects in our relationship to language as we distance and disown parts of ourselves. We refuse to experience parts of ourselves that would bring us into contact with our hurt, need, pain and vulnerability since these threaten our inherited sense of masculinity.

The sociological discussion of masculinity and emotion is littered with reflections such as this; pro-feminist men’s accounts of emotional dissociation, damaged relationships and violent outbursts. Men’s tendency to suppress emotions that signify vulnerability has also been linked to higher rates of accident-related harm and suicide (King et al., 2020), and lower rates of help-seeking behaviour (Randell et al., 2016). Of particular significance to this book is that an avoidance of emotional expression limits men’s capacity for intimacy. Writing over 40 years ago, Rubin (1985, p. 74) makes a salient (and, to this day, still relevant) distinction between bonding as connection predicated on companionship and loyalty, and intimacy as requiring ‘some greater shared expression of thought and feeling … some willingness to allow another into our inner life, into the thoughts and feelings that live there’. For men, this boundary can be difficult to cross. Balancing their desire for belonging, their need for homosocial validation and the ever-­ present threat of homophobic taunts, they become stuck in a homosocial double bind; ‘a man must not create love, dependency or sexual desire with his “fellow” men, but at the same time he must create solidarity with them’ (Kiesling, 2005, p.  720). As such, men’s friendships are often activity-­based; their interactions revolving largely around shared interests and activities like drinking, watching sport or playing video games. In this way, men bond without intimacy (Swain, 1989). When it comes to older Australian men, things are slightly more complicated. There is some evidence to suggest that men begin to value friendship more as they age, with scholars noting their more mature attitudes towards intimacy (Radmacher & Azmitia, 2006), and how life experiences such as divorce increase the salience of friendship in men’s later lives (Pahl, 2007). Yet, an equally rigorous body of research suggests that men become more socially isolated as they age and begin to value friendship less than women do (Adams & Ueno, 2006; Butera, 2008). Recent research by Sharp et al. (2023) found that despite a deeply embedded commitment to ‘mateship’ among older Australian men, their adherence to normative

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masculinities prevents the more meaningful forms of social support and connectedness they desire from their friendships. Likewise, the middle-­ aged Australian men in Butera’s (2008, p. 277) study report that ‘attempts to initiate intimate conversations are often avoided or rejected by other men in their age group’. Thus, while conceptualisations of and desires for intimacy might change over the life course, whether this intimacy manifests in men’s homosocial relationships depends largely on the dominance of particular masculine norms. Beyond the influence of peer-to-peer policing, the imperative to avoid emotional disclosure and homosocial intimacy is often traced back to socialisation within families and to the influence of fathers in particular. Parents are considered the primary socialisation agents in a young person’s life and, according to Bucher (2014), fathers often feel they must actively shape their sons’ masculinity, both out of fear of how their sons might be treated if they do not abide by masculine norms and because they view their sons’ masculinity as an extension of their own. Whether out of fear, love or a sense of pride, the outcome for many (Anglo-)Australian fathers across the twentieth century was the same: they chose not to hug their sons or tell them how much they loved them, and in turn reinforced the taboo nature of homosocial intimacy. As the parentheses above imply, a notable exception to this pattern was the first- or second-generation migrant families for whom physical and verbal affection between men was considered an acceptable expression of fraternal or paternal love. That is not to say these homes were any less homophobic, simply that hugging and kissing on the cheek was not culturally aligned with homosexuality. In these families, fathers more regularly hugged and kissed their sons. Yet, as I illustrate in the coming chapters, even these young men faced barriers to deeper emotional friendships. After all, the socialisation of boys into men does not fall solely on fathers, but on parents of all genders, on wider family units, on institutions like schools and workplaces and on society as a whole (Bjørnholt, 2009). Regardless of cultural background or the kinds of relationships young men had with their fathers, most men in Australia were subjected to norms that produced destructively competitive, homophobic and emotionally impoverished friendships. Yet we know that men develop tight homosocial bonds, as their tendency to do so within key social institutions has been central to the maintenance of their dominant position in society over time. To navigate the homosocial double bind, Kiesling (2005) describes how men create

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intimacy indirectly through insults and boasts. Relatedly, Underwood and Olson (2019) demonstrate how men in online spaces use masculinising strategies such as humour and swearing to express vulnerability and intimacy while still acquiescing to dominant codes of masculinity. Indeed, a growing body of literature makes the case that complete emotional restriction is ‘representative neither of typical nor ideal masculinity in contemporary dominant culture’ (MacArthur & Shields, 2015, p. 39; de Boise & Hearn, 2017). Drawing on the example of crying in a competitive sporting context, MacArthur and Shields (2015) argue men are required to exhibit ‘manly emotion’: a delicate balance of emotional authenticity as well as rationality and control. Taken together, these studies complicate the idea that men’s friendships lack intimacy and emotional expression entirely. Yet, it was not until scholars began to document deeper forms of both physical and emotional intimacy within young heterosexual men’s friendships that the all-encompassing nature of the masculine norms described thus far was more seriously called into question.

The Rise and Rise of the Bromance In a serendipitous research moment, I was scrolling through Instagram Reels as a distraction from my writer’s block, when I came across a short clip by a page called ‘Achieve You’ (@toachieveyou5). In the video, one young man approaches another young man on a US college campus, and their interaction goes as follows: Man 1: Truth or dare? Man 2: Dare. Man 1: Call a homie and tell them you love ‘em. Man 2: Bet bet bet, I got you. Only the real homies answer [dials Man 3 on loudspeaker]. Yo [Man 3], aye just wanted to call to say I love you brother. Man 3: G?! Man 2: Yeah brother, I really love you. Thank you for everything Man 3: I got you. Yeah, anytime, I love you too dog. What happened? Man 2: Nah nothing man, sometimes you just gotta tell the homies you love ‘em! Man 3: Dang, wow. I appreciate it, I really appreciate it.  Excerpt reproduced with permission from the owners of this account.

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It was a touching interaction to witness; one that, until recently, might have triggered an onslaught of homophobic policing in the comment section. Instead, most commenters called for further normalisation of this behaviour or lamented their not having a friend to call in this situation. At the time of writing, the video had been shared over 13,300 times. But while the gravity of this content being shared on social media was not lost on me, it was not entirely shocking. From Judd Apatow’s (2009) film I Love You, Man to the numerous ‘bromances’ depicted on popular reality television shows like Love Island, it has become clear in recent years that men have both the desire and the capacity for closer and more intimate friendships. And this shift is well documented in the literature. Outside of media depictions, multiple studies have found that nowadays young men are more comfortable talking about sensitive topics and expressing a wide range of emotions with their friends. Drawing on interviews with Australian men from three age-based cohorts (early 20s, 40s and 64+), Butera (2008, p. 269) notes that, while the older cohort were still emotionally restricted, stoic and self-reliant, the youngest group of men were ‘more flexible, emotionally expressive and individualistic’ within their friendships. Similarly, Anderson (2008) documents men in a US fraternity who openly discuss their anxieties, secrets, and fears; Roberts and colleagues (2017) observed young football players in the UK who felt comfortable discussing and expressing painful emotions; and McGuire et al. (2020) note the unconventionally gentle and intimate pledging practices of a Black Christian fraternity in the US. Speaking specifically about the ‘bromance’ phenomenon, Robinson and colleagues (2018, p.  102) note these more emotionally intimate friendships among men can offer them ‘a deep sense of unburdened disclosure and emotionality based on trust and love’. Many young men are more physically affectionate with their friends too. Hugging is now a relatively common greeting among men, and a growing body of literature documents young men engaging in other forms of tender platonic touch (e.g., McCormack, 2012; Robinson et al., 2018; Goedecke, 2022). A smaller subset of studies also documents homosocial kissing as a common practice among university-attending men from the UK (Anderson et  al., 2012) and Australia (Drummond et  al., 2015). Notably, Anderson and colleagues (2012) characterise this type of kissing as a genuine expression of homosocial love, one that demonstrates the extent to which homophobia has been dispelled from men’s gender practice. However, in my own research, young Australian men only

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described homosocial kissing as acceptable if it was a joke, a dare or a result of heavy drinking (Ralph & Roberts, 2020). I therefore contend that while kissing requires a level of trust and closeness (and may be underpinned by genuine affection), it has been adopted into the repertoire of ways men can validate their masculinity among friends. Nonetheless, I note it contributes to the broader normalisation of homosocial touch, meaning practices like hugging and saying ‘I love you’ are now less strictly policed. Indeed, research in this area continues to emerge, demonstrating a growing trend towards more physically intimate friendships between (mostly young) heterosexual men, from a variety of social backgrounds (e.g., Scoats, 2015; Wei, 2017; Roberts, 2018; Chvatík et al., 2022).

Theoretical Significance and Impetus for this Book These seemingly progressive shifts in men’s friendships have been theorised in several ways. Notably, Anderson’s (2009) inclusive masculinity theory posits that declining cultural homophobia in the West is causing the structures of ‘hegemonic masculinity’ theorised by Connell (1995) to disintegrate, enabling the coexistence of inclusive masculinities alongside more traditional forms. However, some argue that this optimistic lens obscures how softened masculinities still ‘entail an adherence to old forms of gender hierarchy’ (Ingram & Waller, 2014, p. 39). Demetriou (2001) and Bridges and Pascoe (2014) therefore propose the concept of hybrid masculinity, which contends that men in privileged social categories adopt hybrid identities to symbolically position themselves alongside or as part of socially subordinated groups, in ways that not only conceal but further entrench their privilege. I explore each of these theoretical frameworks in more depth in Chap. 2. What is important to note here is that the emergence of these opposing approaches to conceptualising positive change has had a polarising effect on the field, with scholars citing extensive empirical evidence that proves either the persistence of masculinities that legitimate unequal gender relations (Messerschmidt, 2018) or the existence of those that decidedly do not (Anderson & Magrath, 2019). Yet, amid this theoretical tug of war, a clear picture of how and why masculinities are emerging in such paradoxical ways remains elusive. This is significant not just theoretically but from a practical standpoint too. To pursue positive change in masculinities, we must understand its mechanics. A more rounded understanding of masculinity and how to curb its harmful aspects can only be achieved by

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documenting socio-positive change alongside the continuation of socionegative conventions of masculinity (Roberts, 2018). Indeed, in a recent Global Dialogue article, Connell (2022) herself cautions against an over-­ emphasis on structural determination and notes the strategic importance of understanding change and theorising the ‘more egalitarian forms of masculinity, which … prefigure ways for men to live in a gender-equal society’. The pressing question should, therefore, not be: which of the prevailing theories cover more empirical ground? But rather: if both theoretical positions are well argued and well evidenced, how is it possible that the phenomena they each describe can (and arguably, do) co-exist? To answer this question—and offer more detailed insights into debates surrounding the transformation of masculinity—I conducted an in-depth intergenerational study that examines how and why discourses surrounding masculinity and men’s friendship have shifted over time.

An Intergenerational Exploration of Australian Men’s Friendships The aim of my study was to ascertain how and why change is occurring in Australian men’s friendships, and whether it stems from a broader shift towards more socio-positive masculinities. To do so, I examined how two generations of men (both genealogical (father/son) and social (baby boomers/millennials)) living in Australia understand and enact masculinity and homosocial intimacy, and how this has changed across their life course. The focus on homosocial intimacy allowed for in-depth insights into a key social arena in which masculinities are established and validated (men’s friendships), and a direct empirical comparison to the research that informs Anderson’s (2009) inclusive masculinity theory (the most highly cited theory of socio-positive change in masculinities). To this end—and informed by a thorough review of the literature (detailed further in Chap. 2)—this study was guided by the following research questions: 1. How do two generations of Australian men conceptualise the boundaries of acceptable homosocial intimacy? 2. How do discourses relating to masculinity operate within these conceptualisations? 3. How do these discourses differ across and within the generations?

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4. How do these findings fit with current theoretical debates about the transformation of masculinity? Data Collection and Analysis In line with the view that ‘the socialisation of boys into men … takes place at the intersection of parents of both sexes, families, institutions and society at large’ (Bjørnholt, 2009, p.  98), I conducted in-depth, semi-­ structured interviews with 14 pairs of fathers and sons (n = 28). My methodology echoes that of Aboim (2010), who documents the life narratives of ten three-generational male lineages in Portugal to reveal change in men’s talk around sex and sexuality. This intergenerational methodology allowed me to examine the role of social and political context, familial socialisation and individual agency and reflexivity, in shaping contemporary Australian masculinities. Following Aboim’s approach, the interviews were conducted individually, rather than in a paired format. Each interview lasted 75–90 minutes, and while most (n = 24) were conducted in public places like pubs, libraries and cafes, four were conducted via the internet-based video conference software, Zoom. By utilising semi-structured interviews, I was able to explore the participants’ lived experiences while remaining alert to their ‘systemic and structural positions as gendered oppressors’ (Waling, 2019, p. 8). As well as honouring the participants’ agency and subjectivity, this style of interview produced rich, in-depth data in a way that was structured enough to facilitate comparison across the data set and thus an exploration of intergenerational change and continuity (Edwards & Holland, 2013). The interview content centred on the men’s engagement in physical and emotional intimacy within their same-gender friendships, and how this has changed over time. However, my analysis focused on how discourses of masculinity operated within these discussions of homosociality, and how this differed across and within the groups of fathers and sons. I transcribed the data verbatim and coded it in NVivo as it was gathered, which allowed me to develop a framework of emerging patterns to further explore in subsequent interviews (Bryman, 2016, p. 581). What emerged were instances of reflexivity, agency and transformation on the part of the participants, made possible by shifting cultural norms and a subsequent broadening of discursive possibilities available to men. However, alongside genuinely socio-positive practices, I documented the

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continuance of problematic conventions of masculinity. As I go on to argue in Chap. 2, the nuanced and at times contradictory nature of this transformation could not be accounted for within a feminist social constructionist framework, as it represented neither a holistic disintegration of hegemonic structures nor a superficial behavioural shift masking the retention of these structures. As such, I adopted a feminist poststructuralist theoretical framework and conducted a feminist critical discourse analysis. Poststructuralism acknowledges the existence of a material reality but rejects notions of essential meaning or objective ‘truths’, asserting instead that ‘all meaning and knowledge is discursively constituted through language and other signifying practices’ (Gavey, 1989, p.  464). The poststructuralist subject—and any knowledge it possesses or experiences it has—is socially constituted in discourse, and is therefore inherently fragmented, contradictory and inconsistent (Gavey, 1989). For poststructuralists, language is not a neutral reflection of reality but is instead intimately entwined with systems of power, continuously generating and validating ‘truths’ and subjectivities (Cosma & Gurevich, 2020). Analytically, then, poststructuralist research is concerned not with how language is used to describe the real world, but with discourse as constitutive of that world (Gannon & Davies, 2007). Discourse analysis thus involves ‘the careful reading of texts… with a view to discerning discursive patterns of meaning, contradictions, and inconsistencies’ (Gavey, 1989, p. 467). Adopting a feminist approach to critical discourse analysis, I was particularly concerned with the social discourses that constituted the participants’ gendered subject positions, and how this identity work reproduced or challenged broader gender relations (Gavey, 1989). This approach allowed me to examine how dominant and competing discourses are deployed, resisted and negotiated in men’s talk about friendship, and thus constitute shifts in the participants’ attitude towards and/or practice of homosocial intimacy. I used an inductive and deductive approach to coding, identifying discourses that emerged in participants’ responses (e.g., ‘men don’t hug’), as well as concepts identified in the literature (e.g., homohysteria). As part of this process, I separated the data into three subsets: the father participants’ retrospective reflections on their adolescence and young adulthood, the father participants’ contemporary reflections in late adulthood and the son participants’ contemporary reflections of early adulthood. Notably, the interview questions were not set up to elicit chronological reflections, and were in fact organised thematically (e.g., emotional support, emotional

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intimacy, physical intimacy and so on). The historical reflections occurred organically throughout our discussions, and it eventuated that the complex narratives of change I identified were best captured by analysing and presenting the data chronologically. Doing so, as I go on to illustrate, demonstrates the historical dominance of masculinist discourse, and how the increasing influence of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-­ discourses underpinned the slightly more subtle shifts that occurred across the father participants’ lives, and the not-so-subtle shifts that have occurred across generations. Yet, this positive change was neither linear nor necessarily consistent. At each time point, there were complexities, nuances and even contradictions present in the data. Some scholars might characterise these complexities as evidence that men’s socio-positive behaviour is in fact an instrument of patriarchal reproduction (Demetriou, 2001), or that despite positive shifts, ‘gender hegemony prevails’ (Messerschmidt, 2018, p.  121). However, a key value of poststructuralism ‘is its assertion that subjectivity is produced through discourses that are multiple, possibly contradictory and unstable’ (Gavey, 1989, p.  470). Indeed, within a poststructuralist framework, social change is said to arise out of contestation between discourses (Beasley, 2012). These contradictions and complexities were thus an important piece of data, as they offered insights into discursive contestation, and how men navigate shifting discursive terrain in their quest to establish a socially viable masculine identity. Following Allen (2003, p.  216), I treat the process of ‘taking up’ a masculine subject position not as ‘a cognitive choice, but rather a complex process of becoming that involves being subject/ed to, and subject of discourse’. Individuals can exercise a level of agency when positioning themselves in relation to various discourses (Gavey, 1989), but ‘we can only ever speak ourselves or be spoken into existence within the terms of available discourse’ (Davies, 1991, p. 42). So, for example, with the mainstreaming of feminist counter-discourse in Australia in recent decades, it can be surmised that men may knowingly ‘deploy discursive constructions which afford positionings that help them meet objectives within a particular social context’ (Willig, 1999, p. 114). A poststructuralist framework can therefore account for the broadening of discursive possibilities and corresponding positive changes in men’s behaviour, as well as men’s agency in perpetuating either progressive or harmful masculine conventions.

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Sample Much research around masculinity and homosocial intimacy in Australia has been carried out with university students aged 18–25. This has produced a somewhat homogenous understanding of Australian men’s friendships that gives limited insights into intersectional dynamics. Although I did not aim to achieve a representative sample, I endeavoured to recruit a more diverse cohort of men and thus contribute a broader range of experiences and understandings to the masculinities literature. However, given the limited sample size and complexity of recruiting multiple family members, it was not realistic to purposively stratify my sample along lines of class, cultural background or sexuality. Rather, I conducted convenience sampling with a broad set of inclusion parameters. I utilised a ‘snowballing’ recruitment technique by drawing on my personal and professional networks from across Victoria, Tasmania and Queensland. Specifically, I posted a recruitment call on Facebook and Twitter, and distributed flyers to my professional networks. The inclusion parameters for the sample applied mostly to the son participants, and required that they were aged between 20 and 35, and self-­ identified as Australian men. This gender identity parameter was intended to include trans men and those with masculine-of-centre genderqueer identities, but while efforts were made to contact networks of trans men, no volunteers eventuated, and the sample includes only cis-gendered men. The specified age range facilitated the recruitment of genealogical generations that entered adolescence and young adulthood before and after the 1990s, at which point public opinion in Australia began to shift in favour of LGBTQIA+ rights (Riseman, 2019). This initial thinking was informed by Anderson (2009) and McCormack’s (2012) research, which locates contemporary young men as trailblazers of socio-positive change and attributes this to a decline in cultural homophobia. Lastly, as the object of analysis in this study was Australian masculinities, the son participants could be of any cultural background, but were required to self-identify as Australian—whatever that meant to them. I did not interrogate this selfidentification too closely. This parameter was simply designed to ensure that participants who were born overseas but spent most their formative years in Australia would not be excluded. Given the plurality of Australian masculinities is in part due to the nation’s multiculturality (Hibbens & Pease, 2009), this parameter did not apply to the father participants. However, it eventuated that the sample was mostly white and thus

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culturally homogenous relative to the broader Australian population. Though there were no inclusion parameters relating to class, it is also worth noting that all but two of the son participants would be considered middle-class based on their current occupation and/or their families’ current class status. This is likely a consequence of my own middle-class position, given I relied heavily on personal and professional networks throughout recruitment. However, most of the father participants were socially mobile, having been raised in working-­class families (a point I reflect on further below). Despite some challenges related to the COVID-19 pandemic, I managed to recruit men from somewhat varied class and cultural backgrounds (see Table 1.1), who work a range of jobs, and live in rural and metropolitan areas across Queensland, Victoria and Tasmania. These intersecting social locations make each participant’s story unique and are explored in some depth when they have a bearing on the participants’ homosocial practices. However, key themes were identified that speak to a shared experience of the pressures and privileges afforded by masculinity in Australia, and the effect this has on men’s friendships. In other words, when it comes to friendship and homosocial intimacy, the participants had more in common than not. Positionality Given the collaborative nature of knowledge production in the interview setting, it is important to consider the impact of my own positionality on this research. As a late-twenties, middle-class, able-bodied, white, straightpassing, cis-gendered, Australian woman, my identity characteristics largely aligned with the participants’, and likely facilitated my ability to quickly establish rapport in the interviews. Although I am bisexual, my gender-normative presentation provides passing privilege and—though the participants did not espouse homophobic views—may have made them feel more connected to me given our perceived shared heterosexual subject positions. In terms of class, most of the father participants were from working-­ class backgrounds, but almost all would now be considered middle-class as they work white collar or well-paid jobs and live in middle-class areas. The son participants would, therefore, almost all be considered middle-class. Like them, I was raised in middle-class homes by parents and step-parents who predominantly grew up working class. On the whole, then, my class

69 51 58 49 59 54 68

51 64 64 60

Anthony Arthur Brad Derek

Working Working Working Working

Australian Anglo-Italian British Australian Australian Australian Greek Cypriot Argentinian Australian Australian Irish Melbourne Rural VIC Rural TAS Melbourne

Brisbane Melbourne Melbourne Rural VIC Melbourne Rural TAS Melbourne Mason Grant Taylor Jacob

James Nick Quinn Seb Joel Jason Connor

Joshua Matt

20 26 25 23

35 20 24 21 29 22 29

26 28

Australia Australia Australia Australia

Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia

Middle Middle Middle Middle

Middle Middle Middle Working Middle Middle Middle

Australia Middle Australia Working

Australian Anglo-Italian Australian Australian Australian Australian Greek Cypriot Argentinian Australian Australian IndonesianIrish

Australian Australian

Melbourne Melbourne Hobart Melbourne

Brisbane Melbourne Melbourne Melbourne Melbourne Melbourne Melbourne

Brisbane Brisbane

El Salvadorian Cairns

Cultural Lives in background**

**Defined according to information provided by participants about their place of birth, their parents’ or grandparents’ place of birth, and/or their cultural heritage, where specified. Where this information was not provided, participants’ nationality has been listed.

*Author ascribed designation on the basis of information provided about upbringing, including parents’ occupations broadly mapped onto a dichotomy of professional/nonprofessional. Where sufficient information was not provided, class of origin is listed as ‘unspecified’.

Argentina Australia Australia Australia

Working Middle Middle Working Middle Working Working

Brisbane Brisbane

Class of origin*

Australia Middle

Ron Stefano Peter David Marcus Andrew George

Unspecified Australian Working New Zealand

27

60 67

Julian

Colin Rhett

El Salvadorian Brisbane

Working

56

Eduardo

El Salvador Australia New Zealand Australia Australia England Australia Australia Australia Australia

Pseudonym Age Born in

Class of origin*

Pseudonym Age Born in

Cultural Lives in background**

Son participants

Father participants

Table 1.1  Participant’s demographic information

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capital matched that of my participants, which likely simplified the process of overcoming researcher–participant power dynamics and made the participants feel comfortable. However, my class positionality arguably had greater relevance beyond the interview context. Class is an important vector of analysis in discussions of social change, particularly in the CSMM field given the largely accepted (yet rightly contested, see Roberts et al., 2021) logic that class privilege offers middle-­ class men greater scope to engage in ‘softened’ masculinities. Given my predominantly middle-class sample and my own exposure to predominantly ‘soft’, middle-class masculinities, there was certainly a risk that I would draw similar conclusions. However, while this is ostensibly a study of middle-class men’s friendships, at no point in this book will I claim that the progress I document is only available to middle-class men. This would, after all, be a complicated argument to make given the working-class origins of many of the father participants. But more importantly, a poststructuralist approach uncovers the discourses that create the possibility for gender transformation and exist across the class spectrum. I therefore do not render the adoption of progressive subject positions as a product of class position or privilege, but as a product of exposure to and engagement with these contemporary counter-discourses. As I illustrate in the coming chapters, participants who were tradesmen or worked on mine sites were as exposed to public health campaigns surrounding men’s mental health as those who worked corporate jobs. Likewise, a growing body of work highlights how discourses of care are most prominent among the poorest groups (Elliott & Roberts, 2022; Ingram, 2011; Roberts, 2018; see also research on the caring capacities of low-income men of colour, e.g., Lamont, 2001; hooks, 2003; Young Jr, 2018). Informed by this literature, I adopt a critical eye to both the possibilities of a middle-class position and the ways this privilege limited the participants’ uptake of progressive discourse. I actively resist the tendency to treat middle-class status as the norm or neutral position (common among middle-class researchers) and, when it emerges within the participants responses, I attempt to render it visible, as an object to be researched. One aspect of this was how working-class men and their lives were sometimes pejoratively perceived within the participants’ middle-class imaginaries, and the extent to which the process of rejecting ‘macho’ masculinities was achieved through the demeaning of working-class tastes, humour and dispositions (see also Barrett, 2013; Elliott, 2020). That said, the topic of friendship did not glean reflections of class as overtly as discussions of

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work, education or migration might. But while it is not always overt in the data, it is still important and a key aspect of my positionality. Another was my whiteness. There were five participants of colour in my study: Eduardo and Anthony, who are from El Salvador and Argentina, their sons Julian and Mason, and Jacob whose mother is Indonesian. Though I did not perceive my whiteness as a barrier to building rapport with these participants, there are dimensions to their experience that are invisible to me as I possess ‘neither the language nor the cultural equipment to either elicit or understand that experience’ (Rhodes, 1994, p. 549). One such experience is that people who are not part of the dominant culture must ‘negotiat[e] the meanings and practices of their own original culture and that of the dominant majority’ (Gilbert & Gilbert, 1998, p.  146). That I did not share this discursive positioning did not entirely preclude communication on this topic. Both Eduardo and Anthony reflected on what it was like to move to Australia from what they described as more traditional, patriarchal Latin American cultures, particularly with respect to the shift in attitudes towards women and homosexuality. While there were subtle signs of hesitancy, both discussed the complexities of this transition largely unprompted and offered important insights into how migration can trigger reflexivity around gendered subject positions. As a white researcher, I am also more likely to inadvertently represent difference as deficit or deficiency, as Anglocentric beliefs, experiences and epistemologies have historically been treated as the norm in academia (Milner, 2007). Where insights relating to culture or experiences of migration are included in the book, I thus endeavour to offer a ‘more contextualised look at race and culture that goes beyond normal and abnormal’ (Milner, 2007, p. 389). This includes interrogating (rather than assuming) how and if whiteness offers privilege in modes of masculinity but ensuring that men racialised as ‘other’ are not relegated to a deficit status with no scope for productive and progressive same-gender friendships. To this end, I discuss how the participants’ histories produce unique sets of discursive resources that in turn shape their subjectivities and practices relating to gender and friendship. Yet, regardless of these efforts, I acknowledge that my research took place in a society that is systemically racist, and that my privileged position within that society shaped both the knowledge-production within the interview and my analysis of the data. Finally, it is crucial to consider how my being a cis-gendered woman impacted the constitution of gendered subjectivities within the interview

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context. Some scholars argue that men are more likely to enact softer, more non-traditional masculinities to appease a woman researcher. However, in her study of young men and sexuality, Allen (2005) found that demonstrating sensitivity, displaying genuine interest in participants’ ideas and opinions, and creating a safe space for open communication was more conducive to participants’ expression of less traditional masculinities than her simply being a cis-gendered woman. My experience echoes Allen’s, evidenced by the fact that most participants shared deeply intimate stories, and some even cried during the interview, yet others were more hesitant to reveal this deeper level of vulnerability. This indicates that being a particular gender may not necessarily glean a specific style of masculine posturing and nor, in all cases, will an open and supportive disposition. Indeed, the notion that interviewers’ identities should match that of their participants assumes there is a single truth to be uncovered that represents the participants’ genuine feelings or opinions, and anything else is a strategic facade. Here, however, I treat the participants’ responses as situated and contingent, as one of a variety of opinions they hold about the subject that is intricately tied to the context in which it was formed and expressed (Rhodes, 1994). However, it is worth noting that throughout the interviews, I inadvertently employed masculinising strategies as part of my attempt to create a safe and comfortable space. Early on in each interview, I would swear about something inconsequential (that is, not passionately or directly at the participants) to establish a casual atmosphere and implicitly demonstrate that they, too, were allowed to use ‘adult’ language. Where appropriate, I would also demonstrate vulnerability by telling stories about myself or making self-deprecating jokes. In the same way that swearing and humour ‘opens avenues of conversation that might not otherwise be socially possible’ among men who are friends (Underwood and Olson, 2019, p. 9), these strategies seemed to relax the participants almost immediately. Initially, I considered these techniques a benign attempt to build rapport and break down power dynamics relating to the ‘participant-­ interviewer’ relationship. However, on reflection I now recognise that it may have also served to perpetuate the norm that men use humour and profanities to perform toughness and masculinise emotional displays and discussions (Coates, 2003; Underwood & Olson, 2019). I reflect further on the cultural significance of swearing and how it shaped the data in Chap. 6, however it is worth noting here that my positionality as an

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Australian cis-woman compelled me to engage in these practices as part of building rapport, and that they seemed effective. Like the participants in this study, my subjectivity is shaped by my unique position within Australian society and the discursive resources this affords me. In her reflections on marginality, bell hooks (1989) highlights how privilege limits one’s exposure to counter-hegemonic discourse, and thus one’s understanding of the world. This is certainly the case for me. Through my study of sociology, I have been exposed to a range of counter-­ discourses relating to issues of sexism, racism, ableism, ageism, heterosexism and classism that expand my discursive repertoire and allow me to think more critically about the society I live in. But I cannot separate myself from the intersecting forms of privilege and disadvantage that have shaped my life and worldview. Thus, it is from the subject position described above—by means of the discourses that constitute it—that I offer the forthcoming analysis of the participants’ understanding and enactment of friendship with other men, and what this says about change in Australian masculinities more broadly.

Chapter Outline This book comprises seven chapters. Having summarised key empirical literature and the methodology of the study, in the remaining chapters I introduce relevant theoretical debates, offer a detailed account of my key findings and conclude by making the case for a feminist poststructuralist account of change in Australian men’s friendships. The scholarly discussion of men’s friendships is situated within complex, ongoing theoretical debates in the CSMM field pertaining to the nature of gender and power, and the possibilities for socio-positive change in masculinities. In Chap. 2, I chronologically map these debates, introducing key theoretical frameworks including Connell (1995) and Messerschmidt’s (2018) conceptualisation of hegemonic masculinity, Anderson’s (2009) inclusive masculinity theory and the notion of hybrid masculinities substantively developed by Demetriou (2001) and Bridges and Pascoe (2014). Through this discussion I demonstrate the need for a more flexible, middle-ground theoretical framework that accounts for both change and continuity in men’s homosocial practices. To this end, I summarise a feminist poststructuralist approach, drawing specifically on Waling’s (2019) critique of the CSMM field and Whitehead’s (2002) conceptualisation of masculinist discourse, and propose that, for analytic

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purposes, masculinist discourse be operationalised into a set of discursive components. I then outline my key theoretical contention: that increasing homosocial intimacy among men has emerged because feminist, queer-­ inclusion and therapeutic counter-discourse challenges most of these discursive components, effectively destabilising—but not totally overriding—masculinism in the context of men’s friendships. The first three data-led chapters illustrate the utility of this approach to conceptualising change. They are organised chronologically, mapping how discourses relating to masculinity and men’s friendships played out at three time points: the father participants’ reflections on their early lives (childhood through to early adulthood) (Chap. 3), the father participants’ contemporary reflections on their later lives (middle age to late adulthood) (Chap. 4) and the sons’ contemporary reflections on their lives thus far (childhood to early adulthood) (Chap. 5). Each chapter begins with a discussion of the relevant social context, and how dominant discourses of gender manifest within and shaped the men’s social worlds at that time and place. The data is then organised according to four descriptive discourses that shaped the participants’ discussion of friendship, which address whether men should talk about their feelings, express vulnerable emotions, be self-reliant or hug other men. These shift across the book from, for example, ‘men don’t express emotion’ (Chap. 3) to ‘men can express emotion’ (Chap. 4) and finally ‘men should express emotion’ (Chap. 5). By exploring these discursive shifts individually, the book establishes a broad pattern of socio-positive change while illustrating the complexities, nuances and contradictions within each discourse. For example, I illustrate how some of the father participants retrospectively employed ‘gender difference’ discourse to make sense of their early years, while others employed feminist discourse to reflexively critique the masculinist subject position that was available to them at the time. I also note that while the son participants are embracing alternative subject positions in relation to homosocial intimacy, the persistent discourse of manly self-reliance produced contradictions along the lines of, I would ask for help, but I haven’t ever needed to. Rather than characterising this nuance as evidence that ‘gender hegemony prevails’ (Messerschmidt, 2018, p.  121), I treat it as a core component of social change; as providing salient insight into the contestation that occurs between dominant and counter-discourse, and how men navigate shifting discursive terrain in their quest to establish a socially viable masculine identity.

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Part of the reason this complexity exists in the data is that diverging from a masculinist subject position still invoked a sense of risk and vulnerability for the men in my study. The final data-led chapter (Chap. 6) therefore moves beyond discursive nuance, to critically examine how the men in my study subtly masculinised discussions of intimacy and leveraged particular contextual circumstances to overcome their trepidation about transgressing masculinist discourse. I begin by discussing the masculinising strategies participants employed both in the interviews (such as swearing and repurposing traditional masculine narratives) and with their friends (for example, using humour to balance out emotional conversations). Then, I highlight how online spaces and drinking and/or drug-taking events lessened the perceived risk of diverging from masculinist discourse and allowed the participants to experiment with intimate practices now socially sanctioned by progressive counter-discourse. While these strategies functioned to distance them from more ‘feminised’ forms of friendship, I contend that they still allow the men in this study to engage in more genuinely intimate friendship practices, without perpetuating masculinist discourse or causing harm. I conclude this chapter by documenting the experiences of Ron and Marcus—two men who have found it more difficult, or not at all possible, to overcome barriers to closer, more intimate friendships. In the concluding chapter, I situate the empirical contribution of the book within the broader theoretical debates described in Chap. 2. I begin by demonstrating how and why a full explanation of the data requires moving beyond prevailing theories of hegemonic masculinity, hybrid masculinity and inclusive masculinities. I then make the case for my theoretical proposition that the convergence of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse have destabilised masculinist discourse in the context of men’s friendships, and illustrate how this approach builds on and fortifies the core tenets of prevailing theories in ways that allow for a more productive account of change. I follow this with an outline of the study’s limitations, a discussion of whether class and/or race-based privilege allows further flexibility in homosocial practices and recommendations for further research that captures the perspectives of men with a more diverse set of discursive resources. This book thus attempts to move the debate about change in masculinities beyond the question of ‘which prevailing concept covers more empirical ground?’ and towards the adoption of epistemological frameworks that can account for the plural, complex and at times contradictory

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nature of gender practice. In the hopes that it will have impact beyond the academic sphere, I conclude Chap. 7 with a discussion of the practical implications of these findings for organisations seeking to promote sociopositive forms of masculinity in Australia and the broader Western world.

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Gavey, N. (1989). Feminist poststructuralism and discourse analysis: Contributions to feminist psychology. Psychology of Women Quarterly, 13(4), 459–475. Gilbert, R., & Gilbert, P. (1998). Masculinity goes to school. Allen and Unwin. Goedecke, K. (2022). Men’s friendships as feminist politics? Power, intimacy and change. Palgrave Macmillan. Hibbins, R., & Pease, B. (2009). Men and masculinities on the move. In M.  Donaldson, R.  Hibbins, R.  Howson, & B.  Pease (Eds.), Migrant Men: Critical Studies of Masculinities and the Migration Experience (pp.  13–32). Taylor & Francis. hooks, b. (1989). Choosing the margin as space of radical bell hooks quote openness. Framework, 36, 15–23. hooks, b. (2003). The will to change: Men, masculinity and love. Atria Books. Ingram, N. (2011). Within school and beyond the gate: The complexities of being educationally successful and working class. Sociology, 45(2), 287–302. Ingram, N., & Waller, R. (2014). Degrees of masculinity: Working and middle-­ class undergraduate students’ constructions of masculine identities. In S. Roberts (Ed.), Debating Modern Masculinities: Change, Continuity, Crisis? (pp. 35–51). Palgrave Pivot. Kiesling, S. F. (2005). Homosocial desire in men’s talk: Balancing and re-creating cultural discourses of masculinity. Language in Society, 34(5), 695–726. King, T. L., Shields, M., Sojo, V., Daraganova, G., Currier, D., O’Neil, A., King, K., & Milner, A. (2020). Expressions of masculinity and associations with suicidal ideation among young males. BMC Psychiatry, 20(1), 1–10. Lamont, M. (2001). The dignity of working men: Morality and the boundaries of race, class and immigration. Symbolic Interaction, 24(4), 505–508. Lewington, L., Lee, J., & Sebar, B. (2021). “I’m not Just a Babysitter”: Masculinity and men’s experiences of first-time fatherhood. Men and Masculinities, 24(4), 571–589. MacArthur, H.  J., & Shields, S.  A. (2015). There’s no crying in baseball, or is there? Male athletes, tears, and masculinity in North America. Emotion Review, 7(1), 39–46. McCormack, M. (2012). The declining significance of homophobia: How teenage boys are redefining masculinity and heterosexuality. Oxford University Press. McGuire, K. M., McTier, T. S., Jr., Ikegwuonu, E., Sweet, J. D., & Bryant-Scott, K. (2020). “Men doing life together”: Black Christian fraternity men’s embodiments of brotherhood. Men and Masculinities, 23(3–4), 579–599. Messerschmidt, J. W. (2018). Hegemonic masculinity: Formulation, reformulation, and amplification. Rowman & Littlefield. Messner, M. (1992). Like family. In P.  M. Nardi (Ed.), Men’s friendships (pp. 215–238). SAGE Publications. Milner, H. R. (2007). Race, culture, and researcher positionality: Working through dangers seen, unseen, and unforeseen. Educational Researcher, 36(7), 388–400.

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Oliffe, J. L., Kelly, M. T., Montaner, G. G., Seidler, Z. E., Ogrodniczuk, J. S., & Rice, S. M. (2022). Masculinity and mental illness in and after men’s intimate partner relationships. SSM-Qualitative Research in Health. Advance online publication, 2, 100039. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ssmqr.2022.100039 Pahl, R. (2007). Friendship, trust and mutuality. In J. Haworth & G. Hart (Eds.), Well-Being (pp. 256–270). Palgrave Macmillan. Patrick, S., & Beckenbach, J. (2009). Male perceptions of intimacy: A qualitative study. The Journal of Men’s Studies, 17(1), 47–56. Radmacher, K., & Azmitia, M. (2006). Are there gendered pathways to intimacy in early adolescents’ and emerging adults’ friendships? Journal of Adolescent Research, 21(4), 415–448. Ralph, B., & Roberts, S. (2020). One small step for man: Change and continuity in perceptions and enactments of homosocial intimacy among young Australian men. Men and Masculinities, 23(1), 83–103. Randell, E., Jerdén, L., Öhman, A., Starrin, B., & Flacking, R. (2016). Tough, sensitive and sincere: How adolescent boys manage masculinities and emotions. International Journal of Adolescence and Youth, 21(4), 486–498. Rhodes, P.  J. (1994). Race-of-interviewer effects: A brief comment. Sociology, 28(2), 547–558. Riseman, N. (2019). Australia’s history of LGBTI politics and rights. In Oxford research encyclopedia of politics. Oxford University Press. https://doi. org/10.1093/acrefore/9780190228637.013.1260 Roberts, S. (2018). Young working-class men in transition. Routledge. Roberts, S., Anderson, E., & Magrath, R. (2017). Continuity, change and complexity in the performance of masculinity among elite young footballers in England. The British Journal of Sociology, 68(2), 336–357. Roberts, S., Elliott, K., & Ralph, B. (2021). Absences, presences and unintended consequences in debates about masculinities and social change: A reply to Christofidou. NORMA, 16(3), 190–199. Robinson, S., Anderson, E., & White, A. (2018). The bromance: Undergraduate male friendships and the expansion of contemporary homosocial boundaries. Sex Roles, 78(1), 94–106. Rubin, L.  B. (1985). Just friends: The role of friendship in our lives (1st ed.). Harper & Row. Scoats, R. (2015). Inclusive masculinity and Facebook photographs among early emerging adults at a British university. Journal of Adolescent Research, 32(3), 323–345. Seidler, V. J. (1989). Rediscovering Masculinity. Routledge, London. Sharp, P., Oliffe, J. L., Bottorff, J. L., Rice, S. M., Schulenkorf, N., & Caperchione, C.  M. (2023). Connecting Australian masculinities and culture to mental health: Men’s perspectives and experiences. Men and Masculinities. Advance online publication, 26(1), 112–133. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 1097184X221149985

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Swain, S. (1989). Covert intimacy: Closeness in men’s friendships. In B. Risman & P. Schwartz (Eds.), Gender in intimate relationships (pp. 71–86). Wadsworth. The Men’s Project, & Flood, M. (2018). The man box: A study on being a young man in Australia. Jesuit Social Services. Thompson, R., Lee, C., & Adams, J. (2013). Imagining fatherhood: Young Australian men’s perspectives on fathering. International Journal of Men’s Health, 12(2), 150–165. Tomsen, S., & Messerschmidt, J. W. (2020). Masculinities and interpersonal violence. In The emerald handbook of feminism, criminology and social change (pp. 185–202). Emerald Publishing Limited. Underwood, M., & Olson, R. (2019). ‘Manly tears exploded from my eyes, lets feel together brahs’: Emotion and masculinity within an online body-building community. Journal of Sociology, 55(1), 90–107. Valtorta, N.  K., Kanaan, M., Gilbody, S., Ronzi, S., & Hanratty, B. (2016). Loneliness and social isolation as risk factors for coronary heart disease and stroke: Systematic review and meta-analysis of longitudinal observational studies. Heart, 102(13), 1009–1016. Waling, A. (2019). Rethinking masculinity studies: Feminism, masculinity, and poststructural accounts of agency and emotional reflexivity. The Journal of Men’s Studies, 27(1), 89–107. Way, N., & Chu, J. Y. (2004). Adolescent boys: Exploring diverse cultures in boyhood. New York University Press. Wei, W. (2017). Good gay buddies for lifetime: Homosexually themed discourse and the construction of heteromasculinity among Chinese urban youth. Journal of Homosexuality, 64(12), 1667–1683. Whitehead, S. (2002). Men and masculinities: Key themes and new directions. Polity Press. Willig, C. (1999). Discourse analysis and sex education. In C. Willig (Ed.), Applied discourse analysis: Social and psychological interventions (pp.  110–124). Open University Press. Young, A. A., Jr. (2018). Are Black men doomed? John Wiley & Sons.

CHAPTER 2

Theory, Debates and a Feminist Poststructuralist Way Forward

From the Science of Male Society to the Critical Study of Masculinities For much of the twentieth century, the gender binary was viewed as a natural organising principle for healthy societies, at least within Western thought. Rooted in dualisms of rational/emotional, assertive/passive and strong/weak, these biologically determined gender categories reified notions of men as stoic providers and rational knowledge holders, and women as emotional carers, incapable of (or unsuited to) contributing to matters in the public sphere. Little critical thought was dedicated to the nature or consequences of this social arrangement, which is perhaps unsurprising given the privilege it afforded and men and their (previous) position as principal producers of legitimised scientific knowledge. As Whitehead (2002, p. 10) aptly notes, ‘it was the relative absence of women in the production of knowledge that enabled malestream discourse to become so prominent and powerful’. Even when foundational research into the experience of being a man began to emerge, it tended to reproduce traditional gender stereotypes and attribute men’s socially problematic behaviour to the influence of women (e.g., Hartley, 1959; Sexton, 1969; Hacker, 1957). It was not until the 1970s that feminist theory and activism drew more substantial attention to the inequality inherent in gender relations—that as heads of family and state, men were afforded a disproportionate amount © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 B. Ralph, Destabilising Masculinism, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-39535-2_2

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of power and privilege within patriarchal societies (Gurfinkel, 2012). Through their critique of male power, feminists produced a theoretical framework and lexis that became the bedrock of gender studies (Carrigan et al., 1985). Simultaneously, sex role theory began to question the nature of gender itself, arguing that the division of labour required women and men to specialise in complementary roles, and that the endemic rate of this socialisation created the illusion of gender as naturally occurring (Parsons & Bales, 1953; Risman & Davis, 2013). In their highly influential piece, David and Brannon (1976) characterise the oppressive male role as four-­ pronged: ‘No Sissy Stuff’—the rejection of femininity; ‘Be a Big Wheel’— the attachment of social status to success in work, sports and heterosexual conquests; ‘Be a Sturdy Oak’—the valorisation of stoicism and strength over emotion and vulnerability; and ‘Give ’em Hell’—the promotion of risk taking, aggression and a defiant sense of self-determination. Building on this, Pleck (1981) introduces the notion of gender role strain to describe the costs (to the individual and others) of abiding by these rules, and the sense of failure that comes with deviating from them. Alongside critiques of gendered power structures offered by feminist scholars, this decoupling of gender from biological sex disrupted the previously accepted belief that the gender binary was natural and necessary (Thompson & Pleck, 1986), but it was the sociological critique of these frameworks that formed the basis for contemporary masculinity theory. Sociologists in the emerging CSMM field critiqued sex role theory for its confusing and inadequate definitions (Edwards, 1983), the distinct lack of historical or structural analysis and its inability to account for the economic and political power men exercise over women (Pease, 2002). In particular, Connell (1985) laments sex role theory’s failure to theorise structural relations of dominance and power between femininities and masculinities, or to grasp change as a direct result of the tensions this produces within gender relations. Simultaneously, she notes that in attempting to establish gender as a legitimate intellectual category, the categorical thinking that feminism set out to reject was creeping back into its own analyses. While well-intentioned, the use of phrases like ‘male power’, ‘male violence’ and ‘malestream thought’ aligns and implicitly attributes the social to the biological; ‘the biological fact of maleness is attached to the social fact of power’, while ‘the biological fact of femaleness becomes the central way of defining the experience of women’ (Connell, 1985, p. 265). To achieve gender equality, Connell (1985, p. 267) contends, ‘we need ways of grasping the interweaving of personal lives and social

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structure without collapsing towards voluntarism and shapeless pluralism on one side, or categoricalism and biological determinism on the other’. In this chapter, I map the key CSMM theories that emerged from this foundational gender scholarship, including hegemonic masculinity, inclusive masculinity theory and the notion of hybrid masculinities, ultimately demonstrating the need for a more flexible, middle-ground approach to conceptualising change in masculinities. To this end, I outline a feminist poststructuralist approach, drawing specifically on the work of Waling (2019a) and Whitehead (2002). I then outline my theoretical approach, including the operationalisation of masculinist discourse into a set of discursive components, and my broader contention that increasing homosocial intimacy among men has emerged because feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-discourse challenge these discursive components, effectively destabilising—but not totally overriding—masculinism in the context of men’s friendships.

Making Sense of the Distance Between Men In response to the inadequate account of male power produced by sex role theorists and the repurposed categoricalism offered by feminist scholars, Connell (1987) theorised the first and, to date, the most prominent social constructionist concept in the CSMM literature—hegemonic masculinity. Her central contention is that, in any given culture, multiple masculinities exist but only one will be considered the most appropriate or ideal form of manhood, and this hegemonic form ideologically legitimates men’s social, political and economic dominance over women. Scholars often characterise hegemonic masculinity as competitive, aggressive, stoic, courageous, rational and tough, but Connell is careful not to confine it to a specific set of traits. Instead, she stresses that hegemonic masculinity is a historically mobile pattern of practice that will assume whichever form necessary for the reproduction of patriarchal gender relations. A crucial feature of this concept is that while the hegemonic archetype is normative, it is not statistically normal as few (if any) men can embody it entirely. Indeed, the hegemony of a certain form of masculinity rests on the subordination of all others. Connell categorises these non-hegemonic forms as complicit masculinities, subordinated masculinities or marginalised masculinities. Most men are thought to embody complicit masculinities, in that they cannot necessarily achieve the hegemonic form but still sanction and validate it, and benefit from the unequal gender relations

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it sustains (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005; Roberts, 2018). In this way, they are said to be ‘the central allies of those holding power … [and] a strong pillar of patriarchal gender order’ (Aboim, 2010, p. 42). On the other hand, marginalised masculinities are embodied by men who cannot achieve the hegemonic form based on characteristics such as race, ability and class, and subordinated masculinities are considered deviant because of their association with femininity, such as those embodied by some  gay men (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005). This framework is highly useful for making sense of men’s friendships when they are distant and largely activity-based. The subordination of social practices associated with femininity, and by extension homosexuality (when enacted by men), explains why men would actively avoid affectionate homosocial touch, emotional disclosure and emotional expression. And the imperative to sanction and validate hegemonic norms (to maintain men’s dominant position in society) explains why they actively, and even violently, police these behaviours in other men despite likely craving deeper platonic connections. That many men are now openly hugging their friends and talking about their feelings therefore poses a challenge to the contemporary utility of hegemonic masculinity. While Connell’s theorising accounts for historical and regional variability, there is little analytic scope to conceptualise genuinely positive change, such as that which is occurring in men’s friendships. Even if a seemingly more equitable or progressive means of being a man becomes hegemonic, within this framework the hegemony of any archetype necessarily serves to ‘stabilise patriarchal power or reconstitute it in new conditions’ (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005, p.  833). Alongside broader critiques of hegemonic masculinity and how it has been applied (e.g., Hearn, 2004; Peterson, 2003; Wetherell & Edley, 1999), scholars have offered expansions of the concept that seek to remedy this somewhat inadequate account of change. Most notably, Demetriou (2001) contends that when necessary for the reproduction of patriarchy, the hegemonic form adopts elements of non-­ hegemonic masculinities. Citing the appropriation of gay culture by heterosexual men—and drawing on previous work by Messner (1993)—he contends that the recent softening of men’s behaviour represents a form of hybrid masculinity; a translation of ‘what appears counter-hegemonic and progressive into an instrument of backwardness and patriarchal reproduction’ (Demetriou, 2001, p. 355). Building on this, Bridges and Pascoe (2014) argue that by adopting hybrid identities, men in privileged social

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categories are able to symbolically position themselves alongside or as part of socially subordinated groups, in ways that both conceal and reinforce their privilege. They therefore implore CSMM scholars to remain alert to the flexibility of patriarchy and emphasise the importance of identifying ‘how and when real—not just stylistic—change happens in the gender order’ (Bridges & Pascoe, 2014, p. 256). Illustrating the utility of this approach, Goedecke (2022) documents young Swedish men whose friendship practices were constituted by feminist discourse, but in certain contexts would ironically engage in more ‘laddish’ behaviours. One pair of friends in her study described being both physically and emotionally intimate, but also said they enjoyed drinking with a group of friends, having shallow conversations and checking women out as they walked past. Whilst they stressed that this behaviour was partly ‘funny’ or ‘fun’ because it was a parody of other men, Goedecke rightfully notes that a woman passing by would not know the difference and might still feel threatened or objectified. Being able to play with both ‘laddish’ and ‘progressive’ homosocial behaviours in this way, she argues, is evidence of hybrid masculinity; of discursive distancing and strategic borrowing that is facilitated by ‘their well-educated, white, and middle-class positions’ (Goedecke, 2022, p. 100). Research that employs hegemonic masculinity or hybrid masculinity tends to treat social change as ‘a top-down reconfiguration and fortification of existing power relations’ (Roberts, 2018, p. 50) and often reduces men’s gender practice to the systematic pursuit of said power (Whitehead, 2002). Indeed, soon after characterising her participants’ friendship practices as evidence of hybrid masculinity, Goedecke (2022) notes that the concept cannot account for their reflexive subject position or their genuine use of feminist-inspired discourses. As aptly noted by Duncanson (2015, p. 240), within these frameworks: It is as if any shift in gender relations is inevitably hegemony at work; and there is little point in asking whether such shifts might be signs of progressive change, and, more importantly, how they could be furthered.

However, in his recent book, Hegemonic Masculinity: Formulation, Reformulation and Amplification, Messerschmidt (2018, p. ix) claims to lay out a ‘more exacting, careful, and meticulous understanding’ of what he describes as a ‘terribly misunderstood’ concept.

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Across the piece, Messerschmidt argues for an understanding of contemporary hegemonic masculinities as ‘decentred, fluid, contingent, provisional, and omnipresent locally, regionally, and globally’ (p. 133), and in the case of Donald Trump, as ‘fleeting’ (p.  96). He also reiterates the distinction between hegemonic masculinities and those that are ‘dominant’ (normative in a certain setting) or ‘dominating’ (overtly oppressive of other men/masculinities) but do not contribute to the reproduction of patriarchy. For Messerschmidt (2018, p. 137), the ‘hegemonic masculine social structure is an unbounded nexus of practices and discourses that legitimate unequal gender relations’. A full critique of this book is beyond the scope of this chapter. Suffice to say, Messerschmidt has potentially lead hegemonic masculinity into what Healy (2017, p. 120) coins the conceptual framework nuance trap: ‘the ever more extensive expansion of some theoretical system in a way that effectively closes it off from rebuttal or disconfirmation by anything in the world’. Nonetheless, nestled within this writing Messerschmidt acknowledges that hegemony may fail: Put another way, the conceptualisation of hegemonic masculinity should acknowledge explicitly the possibility of democratising gender relations and of abolishing power differentials—not just of reproducing hierarchy. A transitional move in this direction requires an attempt to establish a version of masculinity open to equality with women. In this sense it may be possible to define masculinities that are thoroughly ‘positive’. (p. 57)

However, later in the piece he states that, ‘whenever a complementary and hierarchical relationship between masculinity and femininity exists, gender hegemony prevails’ (p. 121). Indeed, though Messerschmidt acknowledges the existence of positive masculinities—‘those that legitimate an egalitarian relationship between men and women’—he clarifies that these are ‘constructed exterior to gender hegemonic relational and discursive structures in any particular setting’ (p. 127). Thus, any action that supports unequal gender relations—regardless of how fleeting or situational, regardless of the gender of the actor (and he is careful to note that women can embody hegemonic masculinity, too), and regardless of the increasing prevalence of positive masculinities—is evidence that gender hegemony prevails. In other words, gender hegemony will exist until it does not. The work of understanding precisely what happens between hegemony existing and not existing has therefore been taken up in the form of a ‘third wave’ of masculinity theory.

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Increasing Intimacy: A Field-Altering Finding Although he entered the CSMM field a proponent of hegemonic masculinity, Eric Anderson’s early empirical work reveals dynamics that he argues cannot be explained by Connell’s framework. In his studies of university-­ attending men in a fraternity (2008a), a rugby team (2008b) and soccer teams (2005) in the US, Anderson documents the emergence of softer, more inclusive forms of masculinity alongside a distinct lack of hierarchical power struggles and, crucially, a substantial reduction in the espousal of homophobic language or views. Given Connell theorises homophobia as a central component of the hierarchical stratification of men, Anderson (2009) developed a new concept to make sense of this socio-positive change in homosociality: inclusive masculinity theory (IMT). Foundational to Anderson’s (2009) articulation of IMT is his conceptualisation of ‘homohysteria’, which (distinct from but intertwined with homophobia) describes heterosexual men’s fear of being perceived as gay within cultures that conflate homosexuality with femininity. Most societies are, or have at some point in history been, deeply homophobic, but only those that accept homosexuality as a legitimate sexuality (rather than a deviance or mental disorder) may become homohysteric. These societies accept that same-gender attracted people exist in large numbers and do not exhibit any distinguishable physical traits, therefore anyone can plausibly be gay and no one can permanently prove that they are not (Anderson, 2009). The spike in cultural homophobia that often accompanies this realisation triggers a ‘witch hunt’ to expose people who are same-gender attracted. In Australia, as in many Western countries, homohysteria reached its peak between the 1980s and the late 1990s, evidenced by high rates of anti-gay sentiment in societal attitudes data and a spike in homophobic hate crime (Tomsen & Mason, 2001; McCormack & Anderson, 2014). Within these conditions, men are forced to ‘prove and reprove their heteromasculinity through acquiescence to orthodox expectations and behaviours that are coded as heterosexual’, often resulting in an emphatic avoidance of homosocial intimacy and any other behaviour deemed feminine, and by extension gay (Anderson, 2009, p. 95). There is some debate over the usefulness of homohysteria as a concept, with scholars highlighting the deeply sexist roots of the term ‘hysteria’ (Plummer, 2014) and taking issue with the fact that it is not explicitly measurable or falsifiable (Parent et al., 2014). While I support Plummer’s etymological critique and the validity of concerns relating to the use of the

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term ‘hysteria’, its use in this context facilitates the feminist project of critically analysing men’s gender practice. Importantly, I would argue that neither perspective justifies discrediting IMT’s broader conceptual proposition: that when analysing men’s homosocial practices, it is worthwhile differentiating between homophobia as ‘the nature and effects of prejudice and discrimination against sexual minorities’ and homohysteria as ‘the contexts when homophobia effects (or is used to police) heterosexual men’s gendered behaviors’ (McCormack & Anderson, 2014, p. 153). The key conceptual takeaway, here, is that for Anderson, hegemonic masculinity retains its relevance within homohysteric cultures. The central contention of IMT, however, is that as cultural homophobia decreases (as it has, rather rapidly, in many Western countries) ‘a hegemonic form of conservative masculinity will lose its dominance, and softer masculinities will exist without the use of social stigma to police them’ (Anderson, 2009, p. 96). At this point, Anderson (2009, p. 8) argues that two ‘dominant (but not dominating) forms of masculinity will exist: one conservative and one inclusive’. Crucially, the inclusive form is made up of multiple masculinities, united by the fact that they are not defined by a rejection of the feminine. In this way, there may be multiple culturally esteemed forms of masculinity across peer groups (some progressive, some more traditional) but they do not engage in a hierarchical struggle. To illustrate this, he draws on a study of four rival cheerleading associations in the US, where he observed two forms of normative masculinity, but no evidence of a struggle for dominance (Anderson, 2005). One form largely mirrored orthodox notions of masculinity, while the teams that ascribed to a more inclusive form visibly embraced femininity and expressed acceptance of their openly gay team members. Importantly, Anderson (2005) argues neither group felt their model of masculinity was superior, nor did they appear to aspire to the opposing form. There is scope to critique this argument, given the logics of conservative/orthodox masculinities are inherently predicated on a rejection of femininity, and thus they espouse and support a hierarchical view of ‘masculine’ men over ‘feminine’ men. However, according to Anderson (2009, p. 94), there was ‘no evidence that the men [in either category] were influenced by hegemonic processes’. Within these less hierarchical social conditions, he argues that gay men face less stigmatisation, men’s attitudes towards women improve and men become more comfortable engaging in behaviours typically associated with femininity, such as emotional expression and homosocial intimacy.

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IMT has arguably come to be the most prolific paradigm for theorising socio-positive change in contemporary masculinities, but it has been met with a series of inter-related concerns. Primary among these is whether changes observed among boys and men represent selective or strategic incorporation of feminised practices that have no substantive effect on power relations, reflecting notions of hybridity (Bridges & Pascoe, 2014). Critics also claim that IMT selectively relies on studies of young, white, educated, middle-class, heterosexual men, and neglects considerations of how their privileged status permits more open engagements with feminised practices (O’Neill, 2015; de Boise, 2015). It is thus characterised as an overly optimistic framework that downplays the significance of heterosexism and frames gender relations as a ‘postmodern co-existence of multiple masculine cultures that entail no relationship of power’ (Ingram & Waller, 2014, pp. 39–140; de Boise, 2015; Christofidou, 2021). Yet Anderson and McCormack (2018, p.  551) unambiguously state that ‘decreasing homophobia is neither homogeneous nor universal, and heterosexism and heteronormativity remain significant social issues’. Crucially, even if not their intention, these critiques risk perpetuating harmful understandings that people in the margins of society are not as capable of progress (Elliott & Roberts, 2022; Roberts et  al., 2021). In relation to claims about superficial change, I agree that amid positive change scholars must acknowledge the persistence of harmful norms but, like Duncanson (2015, p. 240), I reject the implication that ‘any shift in gender relations is inevitably hegemony at work’. In my view, the most productive critiques of IMT address its theoretical particularities. Owen and Riley (2020), for example, acknowledge the value of IMT but take issue with the framing of masculinities as relatively fixed patterns of attitudes and behaviours, given the complex and constantly evolving landscape of contemporary gender practice. By over-emphasising the centrality of declining homophobia to positive change, they argue it is less equipped to explain ‘how the decline of one form of oppression can sit alongside the maintenance or active production of another’ (Owen & Riley, 2020, p.  534). In my previous research, I demonstrate that the meanings young Australian men attach to platonic physical intimacy do not squarely correspond with IMT, as practices like kissing are not solely deployed to communicate affection and can co-exist with homophobia (Ralph & Roberts, 2020). Likewise, a growing body of empirical research has begun to shed light on what happens between hegemony and

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inclusivity, highlighting both change and continuity, and the need for more middle-­ground theoretical approaches that capture this complexity. In Brandth’s (2019) study of Norwegian farmers and Brooks and Hodkinson’s (2020) study of primary caregiving fathers in the UK, men are observed engaging in softer, more caring approaches to parenthood, without resorting to compensatory masculinising strategies. Yet both temper their claims, noting that women are still considered to be in charge in the home (Brandth, 2019), and men are yet to fully embrace traditionally maternal responsibilities (Brooks & Hodkinson, 2020). Similarly, in my previous research I document increasing homosocial intimacy among young Australian men but note that these men still homosexualise some forms of platonic physical intimacy (Ralph & Roberts, 2020). Despite seemingly substantiating critiques of IMT’s optimism, these findings signify a progressive shift in both the style and the substance of masculine norms. Brandth (2019) notes that her participants’ fathering practices not only demonstrate a softening of local agricultural masculinities but could disrupt traditional processes of patrilineal succession. Similarly, while participants in my previous study (Ralph & Roberts, 2020) said they would only kiss or cuddle as a joke or a dare, the normalisation of homosocial touch means hugging and saying ‘I love you’ are less strictly policed in their friendship groups. Characterising these findings as hybridity or repackaged domination undermines their socio-positive impacts and the intricate processes of social change from which they arise. Like Duncanson (2015), I would instead situate these findings between existing theorisations of hegemony and inclusivity, as an initial step towards the dismantling of rigid masculine norms and hierarchies, even if they do not represent a complete elimination of gendered power relations. It is this middle ground that prevailing CSMM theory is yet to convincingly account for. Writing in the early 1990s, Donaldson (1993, p. 645) describes masculinity as ‘a lived experience, an economic and cultural force, and dependent on social arrangements’. Yet, the idea that masculinity is dependent on social arrangements rarely factors into scholarly accounts of how or why masculinities change. One notable exception being Segal (1990, p. xxxvi), who astutely notes that ‘resistance to change is… bound up with persisting gender routines which characterise most of the wider economic, social and political structures of contemporary society’. Likewise, for much of the twentieth century, masculinity and femininity existed in a complementary relationship both internally with one another, and

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externally with dominant ideas about family, health, sexuality, education, work and politics in the West. But in recent decades, these arrangements have begun to change. While we do not live in a postfeminist society, gradual social shifts in the West relating to women’s participation in the workforce, marriage equality and the de-stigmatisation of mental health could conceivably promote positive change in masculinities. Anderson’s work touches on this, by demonstrating how a decline in cultural homophobia has broadened the possibilities for men’s homosocial interactions. Similarly, Aboim (2010) found that socio-economic development and women’s increasing presence and power in public spaces has positively influenced how men understand and discuss sex and sexuality in Portugal. Per the remainder of Segal’s (1990, p. xxxvi) quotation: …social realities are not static. Future relations between women and men remain open, battles are continuously fought, lost and won; and change, whether the intended outcome of emancipatory activity or the unintended consequences of other agencies, is inevitable… It is possible to steer a course between defeatist pessimism and fatuous optimism.

To borrow her phraseology: such is the project of this book. As societies work to dismantle patriarchy, heterosexism and other forms of stigma, the range of behaviours considered sufficiently masculine expand. There is still misogyny, violence and homophobia but there is also, now, socially sanctioned space for care, intimacy and a more egalitarian approach to gender relations. The persistence of the former should not negate the growing empirical evidence of the latter. Yet, by over-­ emphasising the role of structure, prevailing frameworks risk reifying this dichotomy. What is needed, then, is a theoretical framework that captures both change and continuity, and better accounts for men’s agency and capacity for reflexivity.

Thinking Through Men’s Agency and Reflexivity In his book Men and Masculinities, Whitehead (2002, p. 92) levels a rigorous critique at the largely constructionist CSMM field, and in particular, the ‘unreservedly structuralist position’ taken by proponents of hegemonic masculinity. While it accounts for difference and resistance, and is not technically deterministic, he argues that hegemonic masculinity is primarily underpinned by notions of a fixed structure: ‘its very fluidity signals

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its ‘ability’ to be any male practice, anywhere, anytime … hegemonic masculinity will always be with us, it can never be overcome’ (Whitehead 2002, p.  94). In applying this framework, he therefore contends that scholars are: …excused having to engage in any deep analysis of the actual practices of men, it being taken as given that dominant patterns of masculinity exist and thus contribute in some ‘knowing way’ to a larger project of domination by men over women. (Whitehead, 2002, p. 91)

Alongside the contributions outlined above, a range of other sophisticated concepts have emerged that attempt to remedy the shortcomings of Connell’s theorising, including emergent masculinities (Inhorn, 2012), mosaic masculinities (Coles, 2008) and open/closed masculinities (Elliott, 2020). However, in an equally astute critique of the CSMM field, Waling (2019a) takes issue with the practice of naming or typologising masculinities, and the corresponding tendency to overlook men’s agency and capacity for reflexivity. Rather than determining the type of masculinity particular men embody (or are oppressed by), she implores CSMM scholars to examine how men reflect on and ‘engage [with discourses of masculinity] across time and place, and their capacity for agentive and emotionally reflective choices with such engagements’ (Waling, 2019a, p. 102). Central, then, is the ongoing sociological debate about what constitutes agency. According to Coffey and Farrugia (2014), sociologists tend to view structure and agency as separate and opposed forces, evidenced by either social reproduction or social change, respectively. Agency is treated as something an individual possesses or deploys to resist broader social structures. For example, Currie et al. (2006) position girls who transgress feminine norms as engaging in a conscious form of resistance, and therefore possessing more agency than other girls. However, in a discussion of women’s agency within sexualised and pornified cultures, Gill (2007) critiques feminist discourses of empowerment that inadvertently promote an image of autonomous, freely choosing female subjects. Rather, Gill calls for an understanding of agency, not as the absence of cultural influence, but as a complex, relational process whereby individuals reflect on and negotiate a variety of systemic and cultural forces (Waling, 2019a). Building on this, Waling (2019a, p. 101) draws on the work of McGladrey (2015), to note that:

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…young girls demonstrate a complex agentive process, in which they may be aware of their engagement with particular practices as being socially influenced and potentially problematic, and yet simultaneously enjoy and find pleasure in engagement with these same practices.

Agency should not, therefore, be characterised solely as the rejection of dominant social norms. As Coffey and Farrugia (2014, p. 468) aptly note, defining agency ‘as that which runs against existing structural patterns or the political status quo … risks obscuring the ways in which structural and political inequalities are reproduced by [individuals] themselves’. This is crucial to work on men and masculinities, as there is a tendency to assume that men whose identities or actions are not seen as progressive or emancipatory are therefore not agentic. But men and boys are not cultural dopes who ‘passively absorb totalising messages from the culture and its socialising agents and … can do only what cultural roles or scripts mandate’ (Oransky & Marecek, 2009, p. 221). With the increasing influence of feminism, LGBTQIA+ inclusion and mental health campaigns, the possibilities for acceptable male behaviour are expanding. But so too is men’s awareness of their privilege and how it benefits them. Acting with agency may mean diverging from traditional norms, consciously reproducing them, or more likely a complex combination of the two. Understanding men’s gender practice thus requires a consideration of reflexivity. In research with long distance, heterosexual couples, Holmes (2015) documents men’s ability to reflect on and alter their approach to intimacy out of concern for their partner’s well-being. From this, she developed a definition of reflexivity as ‘an emotional, embodied and cognitive process in which social actors have feelings about and try to understand and alter their lives in relation to their social and natural environment and to others’ (Holmes, 2015, p. 140). Reflexivity is therefore a crucial aspect of how individuals navigate shifting cultural norms and gender hierarchies. Illustrating this, McQueen (2017, p. 217) highlights that nowadays the emotion work required of men in heterosexual relationships is admission rather than suppression, and that reflexivity is central to how they successfully perform this emotional practice and overcome the ‘pervasive sense of vulnerability’ it invokes. Periods of reflexivity may also be triggered by ‘biographical disruptions’ such as marriage, fatherhood, divorce, serious illness or the death of a loved one (Charteris-Black & Seale, 2013; Das & Hodkinson, 2019), also referred to as ‘limit-experiences’ in Foucauldian terms (explained further in Chap. 4) (Foucault, 1978/2000).

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Equally, they may emerge from the broader political disruption brought about by the subversive and increasingly powerful social discourse that is contemporary feminism. To appear, and indeed feel, comfortable and relaxed is, after all, quintessential to the disposition of an Aussie bloke (Kiesling, 2018; Waling, 2019b), so increasing experiences of discomfort may provoke productive reflexivity among Australian men. By integrating considerations of agency and reflexivity into conceptualisations of change, CSMM scholars are better equipp to explore ‘how men reconcile their engagement with masculinity amid increased awareness of systemic and structural inequalities produced by relations of gender’ (Waling, 2019a, p. 102). Both Whitehead (2002) and Waling (2019a) contend this is not best achieved within social constructionist research frameworks, instead noting the benefits of a feminist poststructuralist approach.

Conceptualising Change Through Feminist Poststructuralism In Chap. 1, I introduce poststructuralism as the epistemological framework for my research, noting how the poststructuralist view of reality as constituted by discourse shaped my data analysis. Here, I discuss the broader utility of feminist poststructuralism as a framework for conceptualising social change in masculinities, and thus its capacity to remedy the current theoretical gaps in the CSMM field. Within poststructuralism, gender is not simultaneously done to us (structure) and by us (agency) (as in Connell’s ‘weak-modernist account of power’), ‘gender is done by stylised repetition’ of the dominant conventions of gender (Beasley, 2012, p. 757; see also Butler, 1990). These conventions are produced by dominant discourses of gender, which ‘provide subject positions, constituting our subjectivities, and reproducing or challenging existing gender relations’ (Gavey, 1989, p. 466). However, there are always competing discourses that facilitate reflexivity and resistance (Kiesling, 2005). Within a poststructuralist framework the age-old question of structure versus agency is thus replaced by a more productive consideration of how subjects are shaped by and in turn navigate particular discursive terrains. Therefore, the goal of feminist poststructuralist research is to identify dominant discourses of gender, examine how individuals employ, negotiate or resist these discourses in specific contexts and

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highlight the material consequences arising from these practices of gender signification. It is worthwhile pausing, here, to acknowledge the ‘affective’ turn in social theory, and the critiques of poststructuralism that have emerged from the sociology of emotion and affect. Broadly, scholars in this field take issue with the focus on text and discourse, arguing that it overlooks the embodied and affective components of human subjectivity. A consideration of affect is thought to offer: …a way of deepening our vision of the terrain we are studying, of allowing for and prioritizing ‘texture’ in Eve Sedgewick’s words (2003, p. 7). This texture refers to our qualitative experience of the social world, to embodied experience that has the capacity to transform as well as exceed social subjection. (Hemmings, 2005, p. 549)

It is important, though, to distinguish between discourse as it is understood within Foucauldian poststructuralism and discourse as conceptualised by linguistic analysts. The latter are concerned largely with the structure of texts and their sociolinguistic context, whereas I—in applying Foucauldian poststructuralism—consider discourse as constitutive of and by both language and practice, and do not find simultaneous attention to emotion and affect as theoretically or empirically untenable. There are, in fact, a number of poststructuralist scholars whose research integrates a consideration of emotion, affect and passions, and in doing so offers an arguably fuller account of social life (for a review of this work see Howarth, 2013). A core consideration in this space, however, is whether these embodied/affective components are positioned within discourse, or as extra- or pre-discursive (Howarth, 2013). This mirrors broader debates relating to the nature of emotion itself; whether emotions are something we experience or have—pre-social physiological responses to stimuli (James, 1884; Crawford et  al., 1992)—or something we do or manifest—a response shaped by how a situation is interpreted/evaluated (Arnold, 1970). Bridging this gap (or, arguably, side-stepping it), social scientists work from the ‘starting point that emotions are primarily individual, physiological changes’ (de Boise & Hearn, 2017, p.  784), but diverge from psychological perspectives by positing that both the triggers of these physiological responses and how they are expressed, are shaped by social and cultural structures (Charteris-Black & Seale, 2013). I adopt a similar approach, considering emotion and affect

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as at their essence physiological responses and sensations that can operate extra-discursively but, at the same time, are shaped by and interpreted/ evaluated through discourse. Within this affective cycle, judgement is tied to bodily response, and each has the capacity to intensify or diminish the other (Hemmings, 2005). I, for example, foreground the role of discomfort in bringing about change in men’s friendships; that biographical disruptions can trigger periods of reflexivity that lead men to question their commitment to discourses of gender difference and manly emotion. I note, too, that despite some initial trepidation (constituted by homohysteric discourse), the sensation of gentle and genuine platonic touch can strengthen the sense of closeness between men and lead them to invest more fully in progressive counter-discourse. That is, while I analyse and present my participants’ gender practice primarily in terms of discourse and counter-discourse, I acknowledge throughout the emotional, embodied experience of navigating this shifting discursive landscape. In applying a feminist poststructuralist lens to my data, I draw heavily on Whitehead’s (2002) theoretical contribution. Crucially, I adopt his conceptualisation of men as masculine subjects who—in the absence of a pre-discursive, inner self—are driven by the desire to be (a man) and take up (and are in turn disciplined by) prevailing discourses of ideal masculinity as means of self-signification. Most central to my thinking, however, is his rearticulation of masculine hierarchies, not as hegemonic structures, but as the product of masculinist discourse. To be clear, my use of the term masculinism is in no way aligned with the narrow definition adopted by Men’s Rights Activists, which reflects a broader discourse of anti-feminism underpinned by the contention that men are as disempowered as women in contemporary Western societies. Rather, the more nuanced definition originally offered by Brittan (1989, p. 4) states masculinism is: the ideology that justifies and naturalises male domination … takes for granted that there is a fundamental difference between men and women … assumes heterosexuality is normal … [and] sanctions the political and dominant role of men in the public and private spheres.

Whitehead (2002) argues that if the ideological framework and assumptions underpinning this definition are replaced by a discursive understanding of power, masculinism can be understood as a dominant discourse of gender and thus retained by poststructuralists as a useful theoretical tool.

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As the dominant discourse of gender, masculinism ‘legitimate[s] existing power relations and structures by defining what is ‘normal’, [such that] alternative or ‘oppositional’ subject positions are not usually perceived as desirable or even possible’ (Allen, 2003, p. 216). By adhering to, promoting and policing this dominant discourse, those whose supremacy it legitimates maintain their material advantage and power (Gavey, 1989). However, the dominance of masculinism does not require all men to endorse or successfully embody it (Kiesling, 2005). Indeed, while masculinism has material impacts on, for example, organisational culture and the gendered division of labour, it is not inevitable or permanent. In this way, the conceptualisation of masculinism as a dominant discourse allows poststructuralist scholars to retain some core tenets of Connell’s (1995) theorising, while employing an analytic framework that better accounts for fluidity and complexity. Though not widely employed to account for socio-positive change, this approach is certainly not new. Nicholas and Agius (2017) invoke—and indeed flesh out in great depth—the concept of masculinist discourse to account for the persistence of gender inequality despite the ostensible successes of feminism in Western nations. For them: Masculinism is the underlying ethos or totalising worldview that implicitly universalises and privileges the qualities of masculinity, and in doing so subordinates and ‘others’ alternative ways of understanding, knowing and being. (Nicholas & Agius, 2017, p. 5)

They note that masculinism is not a binary attribute of male bodies, nor is it consciously reproduced by men in an attempt to maintain their dominant social position. It is ‘more complex than patriarchy in that it does not describe a top-down power or structure, but rather a productive discourse that shapes what is knowable’ (Nicholas & Agius, 2017, p. 11). By employing this concept within a broader feminist poststructuralist framework, Whitehead (2002, pp. 209–210) argues that: …it becomes possible to explore masculinities as a constantly moving array of discursive practices, languages, behaviours, while also understanding ‘men’ as a more stable political category … What is put under scrutiny is the material and power consequences arising from the practices of gender signification undertaken by discursive subjects.

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In their recent book, Nicholas and Agius (2017) illustrate how, despite the increasing influence of feminism, masculinist discourse continues to flourish in the context of online anti-‘PC’ discourse, gender-based violence discourses, humanitarian intervention and the politics of protection. Complementing this, I employ the concept of masculinism to critically explore prospects for socio-positive change in a space where masculinist discourse appears to have been destabilised: Australian men’s friendships. Building on Whitehead’s thinking and informed by existing literature, I operationalise the overarching discourse of masculinism (as it relates to homosociality) into the following inter-related discursive components: 1. gender difference—the notion that men and women are inherently different in both biology and behaviour (Kiesling, 2005) 2. male dominance—the alignment of masculinity with authority and control (Kiesling, 2005) 3. heterosexism—the conflation of masculinity with heterosexuality (Kiesling, 2005) 4. male solidarity—the cultural expectation that men prioritise their relations with other men, over relations with women (Kiesling, 2005) 5. manly self-reliance—which aligns masculinity with strength, courage and independence, and censors men’s help-seeking behaviour (Johnson et al., 2012) 6. homohysteria—the homosexualisation of all male-male intimacy (Anderson, 2009), 7. boys don’t cry—the importance of emotional control (McQueen, 2017), and relatedly, 8. manly emotion—the belief that when men do express vulnerable or feminised emotion, it is restricted to ‘serious situations of loss’ (MacArthur and Shields, 2015, p. 41). This is by no means an exhaustive list, and it may differ depending on the topic of research. For instance, in the context of heterosexual sex, one might include male sexual needs discourse (Gavey, 1989), which situates men’s sexual needs above those of women. Nor are these discursive components stable. In line with the logic of hybrid masculinity, the discourses that validate and maintain masculinism can adapt to shifting cultural conditions. For example, the rigid belief that boys don’t cry has evolved into an acceptance of contextually appropriate displays of vulnerability endorsed by manly emotion discourse, representing a stylistic shift that does

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meaningfully challenge men’s dominant position in society. Similarly, in line with the logic of IMT, as societies accept homosexuality as a legitimate sexuality, men’s homosocial practices become governed not only by the heterosexist conflation of masculinity with heterosexuality, but also with the homohysteric requirement that men avoid all same-gender intimacy (see Ralph and Roberts (forthcoming) for a more in-depth definition of homohysteric discourse). Nonetheless, when counter-discourses that challenge these discursive components emerge and gain traction, they can destabilise the broader discourse of masculinism, allowing men to adopt alternative subject positions that produce a shift in both the style and substance of their gender practice. By operationalising masculinist discourse into these distinct yet overlapping discursive components, scholars are better equipped to examine (a) the discourses that shape particular behaviours in particular contexts and (b) the counter-discourses that resist or destabilise dominant discourse.

The Theoretical Contention of This Book Within poststructuralism, social change is thought to arise out of contestation between discourses (Beasley, 2012), so the destabilisation of masculinist discourse can be conceptualised in relation to competing or counter-discourses. That is, it is possible to examine how masculinities transform in direct response to broader cultural, political and economic shifts. In this book, I thus offer an alternative to the conceptualisation of positive change in men’s friendships as either representative of a holistic disintegration of hegemonic structures (e.g., Anderson, 2009) or as a superficial behavioural shift that is largely inconsequential to the gender order (e.g., Bridges & Pascoe, 2014). Rather, I contend that the emergence and increasing potency of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse in Australia seems to have destabilised the near all-encompassing grip of masculinist discourse in relation to homosociality, resulting in more intimate friendships but not entirely eradicating masculinism across other relations and/or social contexts. This contention is underpinned by research that suggests: 1. the mainstreaming of queer-inclusion discourse in Western societies challenges the homohysteric discourse that prevents platonic intimacy between men (Anderson, 2009),

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2. feminist discourse problematises discourses of male dominance and gender difference, lessening the imperative for men to be competitive, inexpressive and aggressive (Giddens, 1991) and 3. therapeutic discourse undermines the gendering of emotional expression and disclosure (McQueen, 2017) I define each of these counter-discourses below. Feminist discourse in Australia can be traced back as early as the mid-­ nineteenth century, when (mostly white, affluent) women began to demand basic civil and human rights (for other white, affluent women) (Magarey, 1996). With each wave of feminism, the movement has become increasingly influential and complicated. Consciousness-raising of women and men over issues of gender is neither straightforward nor without its points of tension and resistance, but I would suggest that feminism has emerged as the most subversive, critical and, consequently, powerful social discourse during the past 100 years. And while this process is resisted by many men, the absolutist implications of patriarchy cannot capture the (gathering) success of the feminist dynamic, nor the potential for further gender transformations in favour of women (and, by implication, men). (Whitehead, 2002, p. 88).

As alluded here, feminism is not a homogenous movement. Its proponents ‘continuously divide along lines of political philosophy, class, race, sexual orientation, culture, nationality and a host of other factors’ (Fisher, 2001, p.  26). Nonetheless, a common goal across feminisms is to challenge and destabilise masculinist notions of gender difference and male dominance. It is this underlying and unifying theme that sparked the emergence of the feminist discipline of men’s studies in the 1990s (Connell, 1998). Likewise, when citing ‘feminist discourse’ in this book, I refer (1) to feminist critiques of patriarchal social systems that naturalise men’s dominant position in society and (2) to the—once radical, but now widely held—understanding that masculine traits are not inherent to male-­ sexed bodies, just as feminine traits are not exclusive to female-sexed bodies. The latter being particularly pertinent to my work , as ‘capacities for friendship and intimacy have operated discursively as key markers of gender difference’ (McLeod, 2002, p. 213). Indeed, my core contention is that by lessening the imperative for men to be competitive, controlling

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and aggressive, feminist discourse profoundly enhances men’s ability to develop trusting and intimate friendships. The term ‘therapeutic discourse’ originally referred to conversations between a clinician and their clients. However, ‘therapeutic language and practices have expanded into everyday life’ and formed a therapeutic culture (Furedi, 2004, p. 1). Critics of this therapeutic culture point to its individualising tendencies, noting that emotional disclosure does not necessarily transform unequal relationships or societies (Jamieson, 1999). However, following McQueen (2017), I use the phrase to describe the broader cultural discourse that promotes self-care and good mental health, and positions emotional expression and disclosure as crucial aspects of individual well-being and healthy relationships (McQueen, 2017). Thus, it challenges the hierarchical and gendered binary of emotion and rationality, and instead ‘support[s] the premise that men need to change to become more emotionally open’ (McQueen, 2017, p. 207). The increasing influence of this discourse is evident in men’s mental health campaigns such as Movember,1 as well as increasing demand for preventative gender-­ transformative programmes. Though it is, of course, inextricably linked to feminist critiques of masculine norms, the rise of therapeutic discourse has in and of itself had an immense impact on men’s engagement in emotional expression and disclosure within their friendships. Finally, when citing ‘queer-inclusion discourse’ I refer to discourse that challenges homophobia, biphobia and transphobia (or heterosexism, more broadly), and promotes acceptance and inclusion of LGBTQIA+ people. Queer-inclusion discourse—as it is conceptualised in this book—initially emerged in Australia through the gay rights movement of the 1960s, at which time it principally challenged the criminalisation and violent policing of gay men, as well as the taboos against and silencing of lesbianism (Riseman, 2019). Over time, it came to promote the acceptance of a wider range of queer and gender non-conforming people, including—but not limited to—those who identify as bisexual, transgender and non-binary. Though discriminatory policies are still being repealed across Australia, the impact of queer-inclusion discourse on cultural homophobia has meant that since the 1990s, to be openly homophobic is to be part of the minority (Riseman, 2019). Nowadays, queer-inclusion discourse challenges heteronormative discourse surrounding sex, gender and 1  Movember is an annual event in which people grow moustaches during the month of November to raise awareness of men’s health issues. See: https://au.movember.com/.

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relationships, and promotes not only social acceptance and civil rights, but also the inclusion and celebration of all queer identities. As with feminism, queer-inclusion discourse is not without its tensions, and while anti-­ homophobia is now more common than homophobia, Australian society is still structured around heteronormative systems and norms. So, while it is expanding and becoming more sophisticated, the extent to which an individual is exposed to and takes up this more radical version of queer-­ inclusion discourse will determine the subject positions and practices it produces. That is, a masculine subject may be exposed to and take up queer-inclusion in its most basic form as anti-homophobia, but not be exposed to or engage with more niche critiques of heteronormativity in relation to, for example, monogamy. For the purposes of this book, I define queer-inclusion as a discourse of inclusivity that challenges the heterosexism and homophobia that has long been considered central to masculinity, and thus problematises the assumed coupling of masculinity with heterosexuality (Anderson, 2009). Counter-discourses allow subjects to ‘reflect upon the discursive relations which constitute [them] and the society in which [they] live and… choose from the options available’ (Weedon, 1987, p.  121). On their own, feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-discourse may not produce holistic social change. Men might draw on these individual discourses in ways that do not meaningfully resist masculinism. However, in the context of men’s same-gender friendships, my data suggests that they have converged, with each challenging a different (though overlapping) set of the discursive components of masculinism detailed above, and thus collectively destabilising the overarching discourse. With a broadened set of homosocial practices now sanctioned by these counter-discourses, men have greater ‘capacity for agentive and emotionally reflective choices’ about how they interact with other men (Waling, 2019a, p.  102). This may not always or necessarily result in a widespread uptake of alternative subject positions. The options have expanded, meaning there is still space for socio-negative attitudes and behaviours, but there is now also socially sanctioned space for socio-positive practices. Nonetheless, in the coming chapters I make the case that this framework better equips scholars to explore how men navigate this new and contentious discursive terrain, rather than whether their practices fit within a particular typology.

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Furedi, F. (2004). The silent ascendancy of therapeutic culture in Britain. In J.  Imber (Ed.), Therapeutic culture: Triumph and defeat (pp.  16–24). Routledge. Gavey, N. (1989). Feminist poststructuralism and discourse analysis: Contributions to feminist psychology. Psychology of Women Quarterly, 13(4), 459–475. Giddens, A. (1991). The transformation of intimacy: Sexuality, love and eroticism in modern societies. Polity Press. Gill, R. (2007). Critical respect: The dilemmas of “choice” and agency for women’s studies. European Journal of Women’s Studies, 14, 69–80. Goedecke, K. (2022). Friendship as feminist politics. Palgrave Macmillan. Gurfinkel, H. (2012). Masculinity studies: What is it, and why would a Feminist care? SIUE Women’s Studies Program. Retrieved May 1, 2018, from https:// siuewmst.wordpress.com/2012/12/06/masculinity-­studies-­what-­is-­it-­and-­why-­ would-­a-­feminist-­care/ Hacker, H. (1957). The new burdens of masculinity. Marriage and Family Living, 19(3), 227–233. Hartley, R. (1959). Sex-role pressures and the socialization of the male child. Psychological Reports, 5, 457–468. Healy, K. (2017). Fuck nuance. Sociological Theory, 35(2), 118–127. Hearn, J. (2004). From hegemonic masculinity to the hegemony of men. Feminist Theory, 5(1), 49–72. Hemmings, C. (2005). Invoking affect: Cultural theory and the ontological turn. Cultural Studies, 19(5), 548–567. Holmes, M. (2015). Men’s emotions: Heteromasculinity, emotional reflexivity, and intimate relationships. Men and Masculinities, 18(2), 176–192. Howarth, D. (2013). Poststructuralism and after: Structure, subjectivity and power. Springer. Ingram, N., & Waller, R. (2014). Degrees of masculinity: Working and middle-­ class undergraduate students’ constructions of masculine identities. In S.  Roberts (Ed.), Debating modern masculinities: Change, continuity, crisis? (pp. 97–117). Palgrave Pivot. Inhorn, M. C. (2012). The new Arab man. Princeton University Press. James, W. (1884). What is an emotion? Mind, 9, 188–205. Jamieson, L. (1999). Intimacy transformed? A critical look at the ‘pure relationship’. Sociology, 33(3), 477–494. Johnson, J. L., Oliffe, J. L., Kelly, M. T., Galdas, P., & Ogrodniczuk, J. S. (2012). Men’s discourses of help-seeking in the context of depression. Sociology of Health & Illness, 34(3), 345–361. Kiesling, S. F. (2005). Homosocial desire in men’s talk: Balancing and re-creating cultural discourses of masculinity. Language in Society, 34(5), 695–726. Kiesling, S. F. (2018). Masculine stances and the linguistics of affect: On masculine ease. NORMA, 13(3–4), 191–212.

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CHAPTER 3

Friendship in the Fathers’ Early Lives

The father participants were born between 1950 and 1970; the golden era of the newly formed Liberal Party and middle-class values in Australia (Paternoster et  al., 2018). Post-war prosperity meant employment rates were high, and the advent of labour-saving appliances remarkably improved the standard of living (Allon, 2014). Many Australian families were said to be living the suburban dream, but digging only slightly deeper, this period seems, if anything, slightly nightmarish. Though increasing wages and opportunities for home ownership benefited some sections of the working class, others were not able to achieve social mobility and their disadvantage was rendered further invisible by the growing influence of neoliberal ideologies (Paternoster et  al., 2018). Patriarchal social structures and a high consensus around conservative family values meant women were relegated to the domestic sphere, and homosexuality was considered a deviance, illness or sin (Martin, 2003). Following a century of genocide, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders had been stripped of their rights, moved off their ancestral lands and forced to live in poverty on the fringes of white society (Foley, 2011). The suburban dream was, therefore, only a reality for straight, white, middle-­ class Australian men. By the mid-1960s, youth activists and advocates from within marginalised groups had begun to challenge the status quo. Unions began lobbying for fair wages, second-wave feminism confronted the social and legal double standards facing women and promoted sexual freedom, the gay © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 B. Ralph, Destabilising Masculinism, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-39535-2_3

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liberation movement fought against the criminalisation of homosexuality, and international discourses of universal human rights problematised Australia’s race-based discriminatory policies (Haebich, 2008). Though these movements would not see considerable progress in their demands for several decades, the emergence of these potent counter-discourses began to destabilise dominant conservative discourses that had previously governed social life in Australia. One such discourse was masculinism: the notion that there is a fundamental difference between men and women, and that this difference justified the sexual division of labour, and men’s dominance in both the public and private spheres (Brittan, 1989). This discourse dictated that men be aggressive, competitive, dominant and emotionally detached (Bird, 1996). There was, of course, still fluidity according to how one’s gender intersected with other discursive positions relating to class, race, sexuality and so on (see Bollen et  al., 2008; Barnett, 2018). Despite these nuances between men, the notion that all men were inherently different from and superior to women was the dominant discourse of gender at the time (Barnett, 2018). In this chapter, I explore how masculinist discourses operated within and shaped the father participants’ experiences of friendship, homosocial intimacy and emotion in their adolescence and early adulthood. This analysis speaks to well-established themes about the rigidity of masculine norms in mid-twentieth century Australia and establishes a clear baseline to examine how discourses surrounding homosociality have transformed over time in the successive chapters. Specifically, I discuss four main discourses that emerged in this portion of my dataset: men don’t talk (about emotional topics), men don’t show emotion, men are self-reliant and men don’t hug. The analysis in this chapter is based on the fathers’ retrospective reflections on their youth, and the kinds of behaviours they engaged in with their friends. In many ways, then, it is not a study of how discourses operated then to shape their behaviours, but rather an analysis of how the participants reflected on the social norms that governed their behaviours, to which I apply the lens of dominant masculinist discourse.

Men Don’t Talk (About Their Feelings) Masculinist discourse associates maleness with reason, rationality and emotional control (Whitehead, 2002). Some of the most stigmatised behaviours for men are ‘those that are associated with feminine

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expressions of intimacy (e.g., ‘talking feelings’)’ (Bird, 1996, p.  125). Likewise, sociological research into men’s friendships in the 1980s found that they tend to be activity-based and therefore operated ‘side-by-side’, while women’s friendships were more ‘face-to-face’ as they were principally based around emotional connection and sharing (Wright, 1982; Rubin, 1985). To re-quote Rubin’s (1985, pp. 61–62) observation at the time: ‘what [men] do may differ by age and class, but that they do rather than be together is undeniable… their interactions are emotionally contained and controlled’. The notion that men do not have deep, emotional conversations was laced throughout the father participants’ reflections on their early lives. Many traced this back to the lack of affection in their childhood homes. Brittany: If something was to happen, would you feel comfortable expressing sadness, heartbreak, or loneliness with those friends? Rhett: Oh yeah, yeah. Brittany: Is that something you’ve felt across your whole life? Rhett: No. No. Nah… I come from a strict Catholic family… I don’t think I was ever hugged or kissed as a child, ever. Marcus:

[My father] wasn’t able to express his love… ‘cause he lost his father when he was three, so he didn’t have any male figure to show him that.

As a result, some participants found it hard to express love themselves. Brad:

My dad died eight months ago, I told him I loved him twice in my life, maybe three times, cause I’m pretty sure I told him twice on his deathbed.

Derek:

I certainly didn’t [say I love you to my father] as an adult… [and] I can’t ever remember my dad saying it to me, although I’m absolutely confident that he loved me, too.

As Derek suggests, a lack of verbal affirmation did not necessarily mean the father participants did not know they were loved. For Marcus, this love was expressed through other avenues: “I suppose they show it through, um, going to watch you at the local football game or whatever it might be”. The question, however, is not whether these men felt loved, but rather, how these familial dynamics shaped their approach to homosocial

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intimacy, and how this socialisation was produced by and reproduced masculinist discourses. Parents are often considered the primary socialisation agents in a young person’s life, particularly when it comes to gender (Grønhøj & Thøgersen, 2009). From the moment blue or pink confetti explodes out of a gender reveal balloon, the child is assumed to be either masculine or feminine and the associated set of ‘knowledges, codes and protocols are placed upon it, bringing forth a sexed-gendered being’ (Whitehead, 2002, p.  208). Though the precise nature of masculine codes and protocols are not fixed or secure, the family unit is considered a key source of this discursive positioning in a male-sexed child’s developmental years and is thus ‘the first site in which masculinities are fashioned’ (Reay, 2002, p.  229). As the above excerpts suggest, the discourses circulating in the father participants’ childhood homes prevented men saying ‘I love you’ to, or confiding emotionally in, other men. Love might have existed, but it was not verbalised. Yet scholars warn against overstating the importance of father/ son gender socialisation, given ‘the socialisation of boys into men … takes place at the intersection of parents of both sexes, families, institutions and society at large’ (Bjørnholt, 2009, p. 98). Likewise, these masculinist discourses also circulated throughout the participants’ peer networks in adolescence and early adulthood. When asked how they spent their time with friends growing up, most participants listed a string of shared interests and activities. Ron said, “we used to ride our bikes, we lived near each other through our teenage years, and we’d do the cars and that sort of stuff”. Similarly, Brad said of his lifelong best friend, “we both grew up on small farms, we both have an interest in shooting, we have an interest in quad bike riding, we have an interest in rural activity, tractors and machinery and farm stuff, and tennis, which was from the very first time we met”. While these were reasonable responses to the question, what was discursively absent was any allusion to the ‘shared intrinsic revelation, nurturance and emotional support’ that was said to characterise women’s friendships at the time (Rubin, 1985, p. 61). Indeed, George, a 68-year-old, second-generation Greek Cypriot Australian, explicitly characterised platonic closeness as a function of shared activities: Brittany: What is it about these friends that separates them as your ‘close friends’?

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George:

Um, they’re people that I grew up with… I met ‘em when I was young, played in a band with them, played sport with them, so a lot of history, spent lots of time building that strong bond between them. […] I’ve got lots of male friends because of growing up with them. Didn’t have very many female friends because I was sort of a late bloomer when it came to females. Because I went to a boy’s school and then I played in a band or played sport, there was a lot of males around in my life. Um, wasn’t very interested in girls or girlfriends, so I was a bit different. Brittany: What did you guys usually do together? George: We used to go to, um, there were a lot of live bands in those days, so three, four nights a week we’d all go out and watch bands, have a few drinks. […] we’d go watch the football and cricket a lot, we’d go to each other’s house and play some games, we used to have barbecues and just hang around and go to the beach. We were all mad rev heads [car enthusiasts], so we all had our very big V8s. For George, this long list of shared activities was not just what this friendships group did, but what built the “bond” between them. His use of words like “history” and “intimate” seem to be an attempt to communicate the strength and profundity of this bond. It is worth highlighting, too, that without prompt George discussed his lack of women friends, attributing this to his lack of romantic drive and the implied lack of interest women had in sport and live music. This revealed how George’s adolescent friendships were shaped by and reinforced gender difference discourse; that women had inherently different interests to men and were therefore only candidates for romantic connection. Though slightly less explicit here, it also appeared that George was invested in the masculinist discourse of male solidarity; that ‘male-male social relations [took] priority over male-female relations’ (Flood, 2007, p. 344). Thus, a focus on shared activities was not a benign element of these friendships, but rather was produced by and reproduced masculinist discourse. Though he may not ascribe to gender difference or male solidarity discourses when discussing the present day, George retrospectively employed these discourses to make sense of this period of his life. Indeed, the discursive absence described above (of the emotional connectedness characteristic of women’s

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friendships) was not benign, either; when questioned more directly, it became apparent that the participants’ friendships with other men were almost entirely void of deep conversations. Though many father participants reflected fondly on the friendships they had in adolescence and early adulthood, their descriptions lacked any mention of emotional disclosure. Eduardo, who grew up in El Salvador and spent his youth in an all-boys boarding school, said, “We did share a lot, but we were only teenagers back then, so the level of conversation was not that good”. Even relatively casual conversations constituted a “heart to heart” for some participants: Ron:

Terry was my mate… we would probably have the heart to hearts together and that type of thing. Brittany: What would you have heart to hearts about? Ron: You know, growing up, girls, ‘what’s gonna happen next?’, ‘should we try smoking?’ ‘No, no, ooh I don’t like that’. ‘Have a few drinks?’ ‘Yeah’. Just, the boys’ things that you do. What we’re going to do, ‘I’m going to go to uni’, ‘nah I’ll go work at the bank’… He was probably my best mate, back then. By stressing that these heart to hearts were about boys’ things, Ron revealed that his understanding of deep conversations was and seemingly still is governed by gender difference discourse. More significant, however, is that this was Ron’s closest friendship. Deciding whether to smoke or drink, talking about girls and discussing what career path to take, arguably does not constitute nurturance or emotional support. Of note here is Rubin’s (1985, p.  74) distinction between bonding and intimacy, that while a bond entails companionship, protection and loyalty, ‘intimacy requires … some willingness to allow another into our inner life, into the thoughts and feelings that live there’. Although the father participants felt deeply bonded to their friends, most portrayed these relationships as emotionally distant. According to George, this emotional distance was not due to a lack of closeness, but because he and his friends simply didn’t have anything serious to talk about: George:

When we were teenagers and even in the early twenties, we never got into anything deep or meaningful, really. No-one was going through any trauma. The families were all intact…

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so nothing really came up. I never opened up with anything, most of the others didn’t open up, basically we were just mucking around. Here George retrospectively aligned his friendship group dynamics with the masculinist discourse of manly emotion; that men need only express vulnerable emotions or seek support in the context of serious situations of loss (MacArthur & Shields, 2015). This sits in stark contrast to Rubin’s (1985) women participants, for whom deep emotional conversations were not limited to significant life events. However, in the absence of significant trauma, George and his friends did not need to talk about anything deep or meaningful, and instead just “mucked around”—a sentiment expressed by many of the father participants. Yet George did describe experiencing trauma. When he was 16, he spent a year in hospital fighting a life-threatening illness that left him temporarily unable to walk: George:

I fell really ill. Cut a long story short, I was in the [hospital] for 13 months. Um, been on my deathbed, had my last rites read to me. But… some miracles happened, I survived… spontaneous remission. Then I got home to our housing commission flats in Carlton, and I couldn’t go to school for another year because I was in a wheelchair.

There was a palpable nonchalance to George’s reflections on this experience. Granted, the interview was about friendship and this illness occurred before George met his group of friends. However, it is noteworthy given his claim that no one in his friendship group had been through any trauma at this stage of their life. Indeed, further evidencing this contradiction, George later described another profoundly traumatic experience he had when he was 19. One Saturday night when he was the designated driver for his friends, his last passenger (a friend of a friend) began convulsing and vomiting in the backseat. George rushed him to emergency and after waiting a few hours, the doctors informed him that the young man had died of a combination of drugs and alcohol poisoning, and they asked him to pass the news on to the parents. George:

Oh, it was shocking, probably one of the worst times of my life, really. The mother comes out, and she just went ballistic

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at me because it was ‘my fault’, because I’m supposed to be the chaperone, I was the designated driver, so she lashed out. She’d just lost her son, so it was pretty bad. And then her husband came, so I just ran out of there, got in my car and drove home. I did tell my parents, I told some of my friends. I can’t remember a lot of it cause I was a bit out of it. But then I went to the funeral, and his Mum and Dad were having a go at me again. And then my parents turned on me. Everyone was blaming me, even my parents, I had no support.

Not only is this a harrowing story, but it is also incommensurate with the strong platonic bonds George described earlier and his assertion that “no one was going through any trauma”. I discuss the broader significance of this contradiction at the end of this chapter. What is noteworthy here is that this story demonstrates the emotional distance that existed between men even when they shared a strong platonic bond. Indeed, other participants acknowledged that it was not a lack of trauma, but the discursive positioning of men as independent, competitive and stoic that prohibited them from confiding in their friends: Andrew: If you didn’t talk about the ‘shootin’, rootin’ [sex] and football’ stuff there was no conversation back when I was a kid. When I was 18 to 20, all the men were so stupid and macho and crazy. The conversations weren’t particularly deep. Here, Andrew speaks to the truth effects of masculinist discourse; that it signalled what it was possible to speak about at this moment, aside from which there was “no conversation”. This excerpt also illustrates that some men ‘exercise greater reflexivity about their masculinity in relation to their intimate lives’ (Holmes, 2015, p. 181). Rather than retrospectively employing masculinist discourses to contextualise their adolescent friendships, these participants reflexively distanced themselves from the masculinist subject position that was available to them at the time, and from the men who occupied it. What was once considered the ideal masculine disposition is instead referred to as “stupid and macho and crazy” (a comment that, as I explore further in Chap. 6, notably rings with the derision of working-class masculinities). Similarly, David attributed his tendency to

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maintain emotional distance from other men to the arrogance, bravado and competitiveness he felt he was surrounded by at the time: David: I can’t get along with arrogant men. And I think that’s maybe part of the distance that was there in those younger years, where there was a lot of arrogance going on, and bravado. And like I’m such the opposite where like, I’m going ‘why are you trying to compete? There’s no need to compete, we’ll just be who we are’… I kept myself aside from actually getting into deeper friendships, through school and early adulthood. The need to negotiate dominant (yet inherently contradictory) discourses of male dominance and male solidarity drove David inward. Likewise, Derek highlighted that at the time, deviating from this masculinist subject position felt risky: Brittany: Have you always felt comfortable seeking emotional support from your male friends? Derek: Uh, no. When I was younger I didn’t. When I was still trying to understand myself, still trying to establish who I was, I think I would have felt a little bit defenceless by being too honest about what I thought or how I felt about things. Derek’s use of the phrase “too honest” highlights that it was not simply a matter of not having feelings or thoughts that deviated from masculinist discourse or differed significantly from those that women experience (cf Kemper, 1978). Rather, these thoughts and feelings were regulated or censored by structural and cultural mechanisms (Hochschild, 1979). That is, the discursive positioning of men as independent, competitive and stoic made it difficult for them to have intimate friendships with one another. Yet some of these men turned to women for emotional support: David:

I had more female friendships because I was more comfortable talking to women about those, yeah, emotional issues.

Stefano:

Now I don’t, but I reckon through to even early 20s, I definitely found it easier to talk to women than men, I think I had more female friends… it wasn’t that I didn’t have male friends, I had really close male friends, but I had a lot more female friends.

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So, while masculinist discourses that prioritised emotional stoicism created barriers between men, it did not necessarily have the same effect on their friendships with women. This aligns with research that suggests women, as partners in particular, bear the brunt of men’s emotional load (Hochschild, 1979; Tudiver & Talbot, 1999; Erickson, 2005). It also corroborates the notion that there were thoughts and feelings these men could have shared but doing so with other men was not “easy” or “comfortable”.

Men Don’t Express Emotion To fit in to a given society, individuals are said to follow ‘feeling rules’; socially shared norms that dictate ‘the appropriate intensity, direction (positive or negative) and duration of … emotional displays based on one’s role’ (Underwood & Olson, 2019, pp. 91–92). Yet for men, it is not only a sense of belonging that is at stake, but the extent to which they are perceived as proper men. According to Whitehead (2002, p. 179), ‘masculinity … finds its roots, its discursive nourishment, in those philosophical and cultural beliefs that associate men with reason, rationality and emotional control’. In line with ‘boys don’t cry’ discourse, men are expected to be unemotional and inexpressive and avoid attachment and vulnerability; ‘a man does not share his pain, does not grieve openly and avoids strong, dependent and warm feelings’ (Jansz, 2000, p.  168). Though nowadays scholars consider men’s emotionality to be considerably more complex than this (see MacArthur & Shields, 2015), masculinist discourse around emotional control and stoicism was dominant throughout the father participants’ upbringing. It is worth noting first, however, that this was not an entirely gendered social norm. Up until the mid-twentieth century, both men and women in Western societies were expected to exercise a level of emotional restraint that might be considered extreme by today’s standards. Even relatively recent research notes that both men and women believe grief over a deceased loved one should be expressed in private (van den Hoonaard, 2006). Likewise, for some participants, emotional control was central to their familial dynamic: Derek: Normally I would prefer not to express my feelings at their extremities, to people outside my family… it’s the sort of

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behaviour that I’ve seen modelled for a long time. I can’t think of anyone in my family, my parents or my grandparents, who would do that, who would get extremely angry and start yelling and screaming, or extremely sad and, you know, burst into tears. Everybody I know was very controlled. I had a sister who died in a car accident when I was quite young [age 27] and my mother, who was very stoic—she’s a lovely person by the way—but she never cried. And then one time she sat on my bed and just wept for quite some time about it. And that was the only time I saw her cry over this, and I know she was completely heartbroken. We all were heartbroken over that event. But in a public sphere, she would never express that. And it must have been very hard for her to not cry, but she wouldn’t. She was pretty serious about how you would express yourself in a public place.

Here, Derek framed his aversion to expressing emotion as a familial characteristic, rather than a gender norm. Yet at the outset he developed a relatively—to use his own descriptor—extreme caricature of emotionality. The image he invoked of his mother weeping at the end of his bed sat in stark contrast to that of someone “bursting into tears” or “yelling and screaming”, which suggests a lack of restraint. This speaks, albeit subtly, to the Cartesian dualism of body/mind and emotion/reason, and the masculinist valorisation of emotional control. While Derek spoke specifically about his mother, perhaps to express the extent of his family’s stoicism, it was his father who explicitly policed these emotional boundaries: Derek:

It was terrible… my family was a family of six, and I’m pretty sure we were all depressed… And the way we handled it, is not what I would do today. I remember my father, he was quite depressed himself, and he said, ‘so what are you going to do? You’re just going to give up?’, because he saw the look on my face. And I said, ‘well, I don’t want to give up, but surely we can do something, what can we do?’ ‘No, no, you’ve just gotta keep going. You’ve got to take one step forward’. And you do have to keep moving forward, of course you can’t change things, but you can do it in a way that’s much more supported. I wish we’d got some counselling advice at the time.

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Even in the face of profound loss, Derek’s father viewed emotional expression and disclosure as tantamount to giving up, or at least it was not a step forward. In line with the masculinist dichotomy of emotion and reason, emotion is framed here as something to be controlled and concealed as it has no instrumental value. Through a contemporary lens this may seem extreme. Yet parallels can be drawn to the lack of support George experienced after his friend’s death. One could link this to their shared experience of Catholicism—which, at this time, very strongly promoted emotional restraint (Hatfield, 2022). However, this experience was not unique to the men who came from Catholic families or attended Catholic schools. There was relative consensus among the father participants that at this point in Australian history, men did not express their emotions. Most father participants described their fathers as unemotional or stoic. Arthur said, “My father was definitely non-emotional, I’d say my father was emotionally crippled in some ways”. Brad described this in generational terms: “He came from a very stoic family… my father was stoic, and my grandfather was 10 times more stoic”. As did Stefano, who said, “I can look back on points with my dad, where in hindsight you knew that he probably needed to talk to someone and didn’t”. This in turn shaped their own emotional disposition: Stefano: There was just a stoicism there, and that’s [my father’s] nature… I don’t know that I consciously emulated it, but I think you subconsciously do… From late teens through to early twenties I was probably the type of person who would just suppress the rage. Brad:

I’m sure I’ve been really, really upset, but I don’t know about crying. And I don’t draw a distinction there. You’re a result of where you come from, you know?

As is evident in Stefano’s response here, participants would often pivot between the social and the biological; framing emotionality both as generational, and as related to one’s nature. For example, as well as describing his father as emotionally crippled, Arthur said “Well, we’re certainly in different times, things are a lot better in some ways… my father would never show any emotions really, but that was partly who he was”. Yet, a person’s nature does not precede discourse—individuals are subjected to gendered codes and protocols from the moment of conception. Likewise,

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there was a clear uniformity in the father participants’ understanding that at this point in time, men simply did not express their emotions openly.

Men Are Self-reliant Underpinning the notion that men did not talk about or express their emotions in these early years was a (sometimes explicit, but more often implicit) sense that the participants could handle their problems alone. Johnson et al. (2012, p. 350) refer to this as a discourse of ‘manly self-­ reliance’ and argue that ‘this discursive frame is closely aligned with hegemonic masculine ideals including strength, courage and independence’. Equally, however, this could be framed as a facet of masculinism (rather than a hegemonic masculine ideal in the Connellian sense) in that the corresponding discursive positioning of women as weak, vulnerable and dependent justifies and naturalises male domination (Brittan, 1989). Doing so, I go on to argue in Chaps. 4 and 5, will allow CSMM researchers to comprehend some of the current empirical contradictions in the field. Here, however, I demonstrate how this discourse emerged in the participants’ reflections and the impact it has had on their friendships. Most father participants did not reflect explicitly on how a discourse of manly self-reliance emerged in their lives. After all, this was not part of the interview schedule. Nonetheless, it was implicit in their reflections on these early years. Ron:

[Before I met my wife], I used to have mates and talk about things or whatever, but I’m very much analytical, I’m more of a mathematical, analytical thinker rather than an emotional or verbal thinker… So yeah, I’m very much a ‘this is what I’ll do’ rather than an emotional person that will want to sit down and share.

Here, Ron draws on the masculinist dichotomy of emotion and reason to make sense of his orientation towards manly self-reliance. For other participants, this discourse emerged slightly more explicitly: David:

I didn’t like to open up and fully involve myself in other people’s lives or allow them into mine. It was kept more separate.

Arthur:

I’ve been through a lot of turmoil at different times when I was young, but I tended to keep it to myself.

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Similarly, Andrew explained that although he has always worked “in human services and trying to get people connected with people that can talk to them and sort things out”, when it came to his own struggles with depression and his brother’s suicide he said, “Personally, that was something that I, sort of, put to the back of my mind”. Of note is that these participants did not explicitly construct these instances of autonomy as connoting strength or courage, as per the hegemonic masculine ideal of the time. Rather, there was a sense of resignation; the participants kept it separate, kept it to themselves, or put it to the back of their mind. This perhaps indicates some level of reflexivity; that with therapeutic discourse now validating men’s need for emotional support, they can recognise how profoundly unfair it was to be discursively denied it. This sentiment was particularly strong for Rhett, whose distant relationship with his parents meant he developed a sense of self-reliance from a very young age, somewhat out of necessity. Rhett grew up in what he described as a “cold and miserable” working-­ class town at the bottom of the South Island of New Zealand. His parents were strict Catholics, and at the age of 13, they sent him to an all-boys boarding school. When he was old enough, he moved away to work in a forestry three hours from home, only visiting every six months; “I didn’t have this great drag back to see my parents every second week, there was none of that”. But this was not simply adolescent aloofness. As a young adult, Rhett’s parents were not a source of support or guidance: Rhett: Once I said, ‘I wouldn’t mind being a farmer’ and Dad said, ‘you don’t want to be a farmer’. And that’s the only bit of advice he ever gave me. They did not give advice, you were basically on your own, which was a bit sad. David described a similarly distant relationship with his parents, and noted the effect this had on his friendships with men: David: When I started making more male friends, a friend said to me… ‘who do you confide in?’ And like, I hadn’t thought about it before, and there was no one that I would confide in. I think that stemmed from the upbringing, and not having my dad around. And then my stepfather wasn’t someone I could really approach, and my mother was quite closed emotionally, so I learned to just get along by myself.

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Masculinity scholarship has long viewed autonomy as something men are discursively positioned to ‘crave, pursue and defend’ (Elliott et  al., 2022, p.  573). However, here, self-reliance was framed as a necessity, rather than valorised as masculine self-sufficiency and independence. Nonetheless, it was pervasive. Men didn’t talk about or express vulnerable emotions to other men, in part because doing so would signal a level of dependence that—even within the context of family—was not discursively permissible.

Men Don’t Hug For much of the late twentieth century, physical touch between heterosexual men was largely non-existent. Unlike restrictions around male emotionality, this was not merely an issue of discursively distancing oneself from the feminine. Rather, Anderson (2009, p. 95) links the physical distance between men to the emergence of homohysteria; that as cultures came to view homosexuality as a legitimate, pervasive and largely invisible sexual orientation, men were required to ‘prove and reprove their heteromasculinity through acquiescence to orthodox expectations and behaviours that are coded as heterosexual’. Indeed, in the father participants’ adolescence and early adulthood there was a clear and unequivocal understanding that men do not hug. When asked if they engaged in any physical intimacy with their male friends growing up, the answer was usually straightforward: “no, no” (Arthur), “no, nothing” (Rhett), “you’d flick someone on the arm or something, and that’s about the extent of it” (Marcus). According to Brad, it simply wasn’t the done thing: Brittany: Were you a hugger when you grew up, with your friends? Brad: Nope… physical contact was, uh, you’re bashing someone on a football field or just bloody going to get a beer and standing at the bar, and that sort of shit… it just wasn’t a done thing, anywhere… that generation didn’t do that. Though he framed it as generational, Brad struggled to give a clear reason why men did not hug. Rhett expressed a similar sentiment: Brittany: Was there any physical intimacy with the boys at the boarding school?

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Rhett: No, nothing. Not in those days. Brittany: And was that to do with masculinity, do you think? Rhett: I just don’t think guys did it then. There was no huggin’ then, Brittany. Brittany: What do you think the difference is, compared to how things are now? Rhett: Well, we’re a lot more open with our children and our children are more open with us. We were not open with our parents, and our parents were definitely not open with us. These excerpts again illustrate the ‘truth effects’ of masculinist discourse, and the extent to which it regulated the possibilities for men’s homosocial interactions. If men are stoic, independent and heterosexual then physical affection between them is not useful or even feasible; “you just didn’t” (Brad). Physical contact was only ever an incidental aspect of carrying out sufficiently masculine activities like playing sport. Another participant, Peter, acknowledged that he did not hug his friends because he had always “been conscious of what the normal, average behaviour would be”. However, Rhett and Brad seemed hesitant to directly attribute their behaviour to broader social pressures and instead reverted to a discussion of familial upbringing. Indeed, many of the father participants linked the lack of physical intimacy in their male friendships back to their family: Derek: Not only did my father and I not tell each other that we loved each other, but I can’t remember him ever hugging me. Rhett: There was no great affection in those days, maybe in some families, but there wasn’t in mine, I don’t remember ever getting hugged or kissed as a child. Ron:

I was brought up in a family of a lot of brothers… When men greet men, you shake hands. There was none of this hugging business that goes on now. And with all my mates, going through in the 60s and 70s, there was no hugging going on… a man shakes another man’s hand and that’s the way it is.

Though Rhett and Derek spoke mostly of a lack of affection and openness, Ron alludes to a more explicit process of familial socialisation: “when men greet men, you shake hands”. Spoken like an unimpeachable truth, this phrasing illustrates that in the familial context physical affection

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between men was not discursively possible. Yet, for men whose masculinity intersected with other subject positions relating to, for example, cultural background, this was not the case. Several father participants came from cultures where hugging and kissing on the cheek were standard practices among men. Though he grew up in Australia, George’s family were Greek Cypriot: George: I’ve been brought up that way, being Greek. I still cuddle my son… and give him a kiss… I did it with Mum and Dad, did it with relatives, you know, the Greek kiss on each cheek. So that was always normal growing up, I don’t even think twice about it. Despite representing opposing sentiments there was a similar tone to these two discursive positions: the Anglo-Australian men would never have thought to hug a man, whereas George would not have thought twice about it. Anthony, who moved to Australia when he was 20, expressed a similar sentiment: Anthony: Argentinians, they kiss, you know, we see a man and we will give him a kiss, shake hands or a hug. Not on the lips, it’s on the cheek, but that’s the way we do it. Eduardo, who grew up in El Salvador, said, “Oh yeah, we were huggers”, and added that “we were in boarding college, so we would walk around with nothing on, no worries”. This sense of openness and intimacy, although certainly a positive facet of their upbringing, is expressed as largely intra-cultural. Anthony said, “Argentinians, they kiss” and George only mentioned his relatives. This suggests they may not have engaged in physical intimacy with men outside of this context during their adolescence and early adulthood. This may align with Anderson’s notion of homohysteria, as each of these cultures has a  unique history and set of discourses informing dominant ideas about sexuality. According to Anderson (2009), cultures that have not yet accepted homosexuality as a legitimate sexuality do not homosexualise physical touch between men, therefore it is a more widely accepted behaviour. Greek Cypriot and El Salvadorian cultures have strong roots in the Orthodox and Catholic churches, so for many in these communities homosexuality is still considered taboo (Trimikliniotis & Stavrou

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Karayanni, 2008; Ghoshal & Cabrera, 2020). Though the history of LGBTQIA+ rights in Argentina is (slightly) more complex, the spread of Christianity and the enforcement of local regulations meant queer folk were violently persecuted until the 1980s. Thus, while masculinist or ‘machismo’ discourse was still dominant in these cultures, a lack of homohysteric discourse meant physical intimacy was an acceptable expression of fraternal love and respect (Cruz, 2001). This offers some explanation as to why these participants were more comfortable with homosocial intimacy and did not draw on masculinist discourses that position platonic hugging or kissing as gay or unmanly. Among the Anglo-Australian participants, however, this discursive link was explicit. Although homosexuality among men was not formally legalised in Australia until 1994, it could be argued that it was accepted as a legitimate sexuality sometime prior to 1973 when it was removed from the Australian Medical Association’s list of illnesses and disorders (Kirby, 2003). As such, the father participants came of age precisely when homohysteric discourse gained prominence, linking homosocial touch with homosexuality, and homosexuality with femininity. Marcus, who grew up in country Victoria, highlighted how this impacted men’s ability to engage in platonic physical affection: Marcus: [Physical affection is] becoming more acceptable… it wasn’t the right thing to do [when I was young]… The whole issue of sexuality, I’m more open to that now than I was. Brittany: Do you think there’s an alignment with men hugging and homosexuality, and that made it harder for you to engage physically? Marcus: Yeah, that was our understanding… there was language at that point in time. We didn’t use words like ‘gay’, it was ‘pooftas’ and things like that. You’re using that sort of derogatory language, and you wouldn’t wanna be tagged like that. Similarly, Brad highlighted how homophobic discourse was utilised to police the boundaries of an acceptable masculinist subject position: Brittany: What would have happened if you’d hugged one of your mates back then? Brad: They’d probably think you were camp or gay or a poofter or a bloody shirt-lifter or whatever the term is. It was just that male

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to male physicality, other than in the sporting arena, was minimal. In line with Anderson’s (2009) concept of homohysteria, these participants avoided platonic affection with other men so as not to be labelled gay. However, I conceptualise this as a function of discourse; that for men, physical intimacy was discursively tied to homosexuality and femininity and thus not considered desirable or even possible for those occupying a masculinist subject position; “a man shakes another man’s hand and that’s the way it is” (Ron). Except, that is, for participants with culturally specific discursive resources that preceded homohysteric discourse, for whom platonic affection between men was, and has remained, an acceptable expression of friendship.

Rearticulating Hegemony as a Product of Dominant Discourse Through the lens of hegemonic masculinity, it could be argued that an arrogant, competitive, heteronormative and stoic pattern of practice was culturally exalted among Australian men, and that the father participants were compelled—by way of hegemonic forces—to orient themselves to it. Equally though, from a feminist poststructuralist perspective this could be framed as an issue of discursive possibilities; that at this point in history feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourses were yet to become dominant or aim their critique at masculine norms specifically. Thus, there were no potent counter-discourses to destabilise the dominant masculinist subject position, which produced the conditions for the apparent ‘hegemony’ of a particular pattern of practice. Further, each of these participants expressed a sense of resignation to this reality; that at this stage in their lives, they had to either engage in the masculinist “shootin’, rootin’ and football” discourse or keep their distance from other men entirely. Certainly, then, one could argue that these men were complicit in the reproduction of masculinist discourse, or in Connell’s language, embodied a complicit masculinity. The outcomes of a poststructuralist analysis of this data may not, therefore, appear to differ significantly from that of a Connellian analysis. Yet, one key value of a poststructuralist approach ‘is its assertion that subjectivity is produced through discourses that are multiple, possibly contradictory and unstable’ (Gavey, 1989, p. 470), and as

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such it allows for a better understanding of inconsistencies and contradictions within a dataset. One such contradiction emerged in my interview with George. The critical perspectives offered above by David, Andrew, Derek and Stefano sit in stark contrast with other participants’ more nostalgic reflections on their youth. One might argue that participants like Ron and George simply had fewer struggles, and therefore fewer reasons to feel ill-­ at-­ease within the masculinist subject position they occupied at this time. However, as noted above, George did describe experiences that undoubtedly warranted emotional support and were among some of the more traumatic in my dataset. Like Stefano and David, he did have thoughts and feelings he could have shared with his men friends, but while he alludes to conversations with “some” of them, he said he “had no support”. This is incommensurate with the closeness that George initially described as characteristic of his friendship group. However, to interpret this contradiction as evidence that George’s negative reflections represented his true feelings ‘is problematic because of its oversimplification and essentialism as well as elitism and arrogance’ (Gavey, 1989, p.  471). Rather, as Gavey (1989, p.  471) contends, for poststructuralists, ‘some conflict of this kind is almost inevitable’. A key dimension of poststructuralism is its capacity to account for complexities such as this. As I will argue in Chap. 4, these types of trauma would act as biographical disruptions later in the fathers’ lives and trigger a shift in their approach to friendship. However, in these early years, masculinist discourse that prioritised stoicism, independence and a sense of youthful nonchalance operated essentially unchallenged and heavily shaped the participants’ subjectivities. At the time, George’s ability to reflect on his masculinist subject position was limited by the discourses at his disposal. Though nowadays he engages heavily in therapeutic and feminist counter-discourse (see Chap. 4), he still appears to be invested in the masculinist subject position he once occupied. As a result, he presents a compartmentalised image of these early years: carefree and social most of the time, but isolated and lonely in times of trauma. And he does so not despite his negative experiences, but arguably because of the strong bond he felt he had with his friends. Rather than the opposing perspectives in this dataset (one nostalgic, the other more critical) stemming from markedly different experiences of trauma in these early years, I would therefore argue that participants like David, Derek and Andrew exercise greater reflexivity in their contemporary reflections (Holmes, 2015).

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Drawing on the language of feminist and therapeutic discourse, these participants critiqued the impact masculinist discourse had on their lives. Reflecting on the death of his sister Derek said: Derek: You do have to keep moving forward… but you can do it in a way that’s much more supported. I wish we’d got some counselling advice at the time. I’d freely use psychologists today, and I have for many years, but in those times we wouldn’t have done that, and we didn’t do it, and we didn’t get the benefits of it either. Similarly, David and Andrew utilised feminist discourse to critique the “bravado”, “arrogance” and “stupid and macho and crazy” practices of men who occupied masculinist subject positions. Though not all participants exercised this level of reflexivity when discussing their past, my data suggests that these counter-discourses have destabilised masculinism in the context of contemporary male friendship and allowed most participants to occupy alternative subject positions in their later life.

Conclusion The father participants’ experiences in adolescence and early adulthood substantiate well-established themes about the rigidity of masculine norms in mid-twentieth century Australia. Their friendships during this period were largely activity-based, and even when they developed strong bonds with their friends, there was a distinct lack of intimacy between them (Rubin, 1985). However, it was not a matter of not having feelings, thoughts or desires for platonic intimacy that deviated from masculinist discourse or differed significantly from those that women experienced. Rather, that these thoughts, feelings and platonic desires were discursively censored. The father participants often attributed this to their familial upbringing and how masculinity was modelled and policed by their own fathers. This aligns with the notion that parents are the primary socialisation agent in a young person’s life (Grønhøj & Thøgersen, 2009). However, ‘the socialisation of boys into men … takes place at the intersection of parents of both sexes, families, institutions and society at large’ (Bjørnholt, 2009, p.  98). Indeed, as the dominant discourse of gender, masculinism was pervasive across contexts and relations, and implicitly shaped what was

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knowable and thus possible within men’s friendships, almost to the exclusion of all alternative subject positions. There was some fluidity in the participants’ homosocial practices according to how their gender intersected with other discursive positions relating to, for example, cultural background. Men who had access to culturally specific discursive resources that preceded the imposition of homohysteric discourse were not invested in aspects of masculinism that discursively tied platonic physical intimacy between men to homosexuality, and thus femininity. For these men, hugging and kissing a friend on the cheek was not incompatible with a masculinist subject position. Despite these nuances, the masculinist notion that men were inherently different from (and superior to) women was the dominant discourse that shaped the participants’ friendships in adolescence and early adulthood. In the interviews, some father participants retrospectively employed masculinist discourse to contextualise and justify certain behaviours. For the minority, this reflected a continued investment in a masculinist subject position (at the time of the interview), but for those who had taken up progressive discourse in their later life, it seemed to be an attempt to distance themselves from blame for their problematic practices, such as the lack of women friends in their earlier years. However, most of the father participants were critical of the masculinist subject positions that were available to them at the time and the limited opportunities they produced for genuine homosocial connection. Though subtle, this flags the relevance of Holmes’ (2015) theorising around emotional reflexivity and how men navigate discursive tensions during periods of social change (see also McQueen, 2017), which I explore further in Chap. 4. Most significantly, the data presented in this chapter demonstrates the benefits of a rearticulation of masculine hierarchies as the product of masculinist discourse—rather than hegemonic structures. While hegemonic masculinity could explain the themes in this subset of my data, a poststructuralist perspective better accounts for the contradictions and inconsistencies. In addition to this, rather than assuming (as Messerschmidt (2018) implies) that hegemonic masculinity (or masculinist discourse) will exist until it does not, a feminist poststructuralist framework more effectively accounts for how these participants’ approach to friendship has changed across their life course—as I explore in the following chapters.

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CHAPTER 4

Friendship in the Fathers’ Later Lives

In recent decades, feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse have become increasingly influential in Australia, bringing about significant social and cultural change. Homophobia and sexual prejudice have been steadily declining since they peaked during the AIDs crisis in the 1980s, and in 2017 61.6% of Australians voted ‘yes’ to legalising same-sex marriage in a national referendum. Women are no longer relegated to the domestic sphere with workplace participation at about 70% in 2017 and around one-third of federal parliamentary seats currently held by women (Collier & Raney, 2018). Laws have been implemented to protect a range of minority groups from discrimination, and key institutions like schools, workplaces and football clubs are promoting awareness around violence against women and the experiences of queer folk. Finally, and crucially, mental health has become a key issue on the national public health agenda, with a particular focus on men’s mental health having emerged in the past decade. Discriminatory systems and attitudes still exist at every level of Australian society resulting in, for example, the gender pay gap, high levels of homophobic abuse in schools and entrenched cultures of sexism in federal parliament. Nonetheless, these cultural shifts illustrate an increasing uptake of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse by large portions of the Australian public. In this chapter and the following chapter, I argue that the emergence and increasing potency of these counter-discourses has destabilised masculinist discourse in relation to homosociality, resulting in more intimate © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 B. Ralph, Destabilising Masculinism, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-39535-2_4

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friendships but not entirely eradicating masculinism across other relations and/or social contexts. This contention is underpinned by the view that: 1. the increasing influence of queer-inclusion discourse in Western societies, and subsequent reduction in (though not elimination of) homophobia, challenges the homohysteric discourse that once prevented platonic intimacy between men (Anderson, 2009); 2. feminist discourse problematises notions of male dominance and gender difference, lessening the imperative for men to be competitive, inexpressive and hypermasculine (Giddens, 1991); and 3. therapeutic discourse rejects the gendering of rationality and emotion, and thereby undermines ‘boys don’t cry’ discourse (McQueen, 2017). On their own, these three cultural discourses may not produce holistic social change, but in the context of men’s friendships, I argue their convergence has destabilised masculinism, offering men a viable alternative subject position that allows expressiveness and intimacy. Alongside these broader cultural shifts, the father participants were becoming husbands and fathers, and in some cases experiencing the kinds of trauma that are said to increase the salience of friendship in men’s later lives, such as divorce. As a result, their approach to friendship has shifted markedly, and so too have the discourses they employed to make sense of it. In the previous chapter, I examine the father participants’ reflections on their earlier years, and how their homosocial practices were shaped by masculinist discourse. In this chapter, I move to their contemporary reflections on friendship during adulthood and describe the four discourses that governed their understanding of friendship in their later lives: Men can talk (about their feelings), Men can express emotion, Men are (still principally) self-reliant and Men can hug. Each subsection illustrates how feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-discourses have broadened the discursive possibilities for men’s homosocial intimacies. I then highlight the impact ‘biographical disruptions’ or ‘limit-experiences’ have had on the father participants’ engagement with emerging counter-discourses (Charteris-Black & Seale, 2013; Foucault, 1978/2000). Ultimately, I argue that with a broadened set of emotional responses now sanctioned by feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourses, experiences of discomfort or trauma can trigger a period of emotional reflexivity and lead older Australian men to explore the potential of alternative subject positions.

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Men Can Talk (About Their Feelings) In their adolescence and early adulthood, the father participants created bonds but not intimacy with their men friends. Here, I make the case that masculinist discourse has been destabilised, such that within their more contemporary friendships it is understood that men can talk about emotional topics and can demonstrate ‘some willingness to allow another into [their] inner life, into the thoughts and feelings that live there’ (Rubin, 1985, p. 74). In this later stage of their lives, some of the father participants still described shared activities as a focal point of their friendships with other men. Brad and his best friend share a laundry list of interests including tennis, quad bike riding, machinery, farm work and shooting: “those things are solid, if we catch up, I’d invariably throw my quad bike on the back of the ute, chuck the rifle in behind the seat, might go and shoot a possum, and ride a bike or whatever”. Similarly, Marcus said, “The local sporting club, the football club, tennis club, that’s your life, and that’s where I’d have to say that my friendships have come from”. However, the father participants framed these shared activities as the gateway to a deeper friendship, not the be all and end all of one: “I think when you get to that level of the people that you trust… the interests fall away, it’s about you as a person” (Brad). A crucial element of this shift is that although many of the father participants still emphasised the importance of having a commonality, this was not restricted to interests or activities typically considered masculine within gender difference discourse. Many of the father participants said that traditional ‘guy talk’ no longer interested them and distanced themselves from men who engage in surface level conversations. In reference to his all-men therapy group, Andrew said, “Our relationship wasn’t based on the usual male bullshit, ‘I drive a car, I go shooting, and can build a house in five minutes’”. David expressed a similar sentiment: David:

I started playing tennis recently and it’s predominantly middle-­ aged men that are part of the social tennis group. And the last time we played they talked about, um, it was a ‘boy’ sort of communication that was going on, like about sport… and then a bit of a sexist thing towards women… so I’m going like, ‘Oh wow, this is really not my group to be connecting with’.

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In both excerpts and indeed across the data set, there was an explicit rejection of the kinds of surface-level conversation that men were previously restricted to. Exemplifying this, Andrew said he prefers to engage at a deeper level than what he believes is typically expected of men: Andrew: I guess it’s like any relationship, it progresses from the commonalities. So first of all, there’s gotta be something you engage with at more than a superficial level, but it can’t be the ‘shootin’, rootin’ and football’ kind of stuff. If you’ve got something in common that you can talk about, the only real difference is talking about your emotions, that’s something to build on. Before continuing my reflections on how these excerpts illustrate a positive change in relation to homosocial intimacy, it is important to pull back and acknowledge the subtle derision of working-class masculinities emerging within this discursive distancing from stereotypical masculinity. In his work on friendships between straight and gay men, Barrett (2013, p. 64) also demonstrates ‘how the articulation of class distinction became imbricated in his participants’ production of “tolerant selves”’. Though perhaps not to the extent that Elliott (2020) observed, whereby working-class men were more explicitly referenced and even made fun of, it is implicit here in Andrew’s repudiation of conversations about shooting, building houses and watching football, which he associated with men who are “stupid, macho and crazy”. Notably, Andrew himself grew up working class and nowadays works in the human services and housing sector, meaning this perhaps represents punching across, rather than punching down. Nonetheless, the sentiment expressed here reflects classist prejudices and the tendency for working-class taste and sensibilities to be positioned as the punching bag for progress in masculinities (Roberts, 2018). Another— slightly more explicit—example of this emerged in Marcus’ interview, when he explained his transition to more progressive ideas about masculinity: Marcus: …before I went into teaching, I was working in a plumbing supply business and that’s a really blokey bloke arrangement. There’s a real, in some ways, sometimes a lack of respect for

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other, and that could be females, and I could have quite easily gone into that. Well, whether I would have become like that, I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t be who I am today because of my association with the people I’ve worked with. So, it’s through your connections with others over time, that unconsciously your character is formed. While Marcus’ intention was to highlight the sexist cultures that can emerge in male-dominated industries and the positive role that care-­ oriented (and women-dominated) workplaces have played in his life, this was underpinned by a characterisation of working-class men as inherently and immovably backwards. But progressive discourses are not solely available to privileged men, nor is a refusal to take up these discourses solely apparent among the working class. My intent is not to deny Marcus’ experience, but to problematise his underlying assumption that it is only through exiting the working class that men can access the cultural discourses necessary to be progressive. I would not, however, go as far as to suggest that the persistence of classist discourse illustrates the maintenance of hierarchy among men as it is imagined within Connell’s hegemonic masculinity. Instead, I reiterate the importance of identifying when, in the process of dismantling masculinist discourse, men leverage other forms of intersectional privilege (e.g., class or race), to stabilise their subject position as exceptional or at least more ‘good’ (see also Goedecke, 2022). The examples provided herein also highlight the need for a more widespread uptake of counter-discourse that challenges the view of Australia as a classless society and reveals both the subtle and overt ways everyday Australians deride and demean the working class. I return, now, to thinking through Andrew’s original reflection on connecting with men. While there is still a focus on sharing commonalities, the narrative Andrew constructed explicitly resists masculinist discourse around men’s friendships. What Bird (1996) once described as the most stigmatised behaviour for men—talking feelings—is framed as foundational to friendship, as “something to build on”. Taking this a step further, David said the key commonality he shares with his two closest men friends is their nurturing nature: David:

Having common interests or having similar [things] you’re involved in and how you are, I think that helped a lot with me. So, with Aaron being a counsellor, he’s got a nurturing nature,

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Jared’s a nurse and he’s been doing palliative care for the last five years. There’s that compassion, and we all hold that, it’s very strong. That these men have embraced a trait discursively associated with femininity is significant; that David explicitly described this as the focal point of his closest homosocial connections is profound. According to Allen (2003, p. 216), when a discourse is dominant, ‘alternative or oppositional subject positions are not usually perceived as desirable or even possible’. Here, an alternative subject position that values feminine traits is framed as both possible and desirable. My data therefore aligns with—and contributes the perspectives of older men to—research based primarily on younger men that troubles the idea that men’s friendships are solely activity-­based (e.g., Redman et  al., 2002; Anderson, 2009). Though to varying degrees, these older Australian men construct a narrative of men’s friendships as a space for ‘shared intrinsic revelation, nurturance and emotional support’ (Rubin, 1985, p. 61). Many of the father participants described having quite in-depth, emotional conversations with their men friends: Andrew:

I used to have coffee with Darren at least once a fortnight. He would tell me basically that he was feeling shithouse and lonely, and I would tell him any bullshit that was going on in my life at the time. Eduardo: When we do speak it’s really hard to shut up… He’s had quite a rough patch with his wife in the last few years and he always tells me everything. The masculinist discourse that men don’t talk no longer appears to censor emotional disclosure between men to the extent that it once did, or at least it has shifted such that nowadays, men can talk about their feelings. In a particularly lovely moment, Derek described quite a profound emotional compatibility he shares with a friend: Derek:

Everybody’s parents pass away, that’s not a unique thing to us, so anybody is capable of talking about it. It was the way we talked about it… if you can get through the sadness of it and sit in the melancholy, there’s actually quite a peaceful space in there. And so maybe, when we were capable of going to that

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place together… that’s where we saw that deeper connection between us. This excerpt not only demonstrates the depth of vulnerability that Derek is now capable of showing other men (a far cry from his younger self, who would have felt “defenceless by being too honest”), but also that for him, emotional conversations are no longer associated with femininity and thus governed by gender difference discourse. In his words, “anybody is capable of talking about” their grief. Though this gender-neutral language was not necessarily the norm among the father participants, most framed emotional support as a given in their close friendships with men. Nowadays, it is something that Andrew consciously seeks in a male friend: Andrew: It’s rare… but what I would look for would be the fact that someone’s a loyal person, they’re empathetic, are not self-­ centred, willing to give and take in the relationship and talk about my problems, your problems, and just genuinely concerned for your welfare. The emotional dispositions and conversations that were deemed impossible by masculinist discourse are now well within the range of acceptable behaviours for men, and are indeed considered desirable (Allen, 2003). In fact, for David this kind of care and reciprocity is already a reality: David:

They will check in if they know that stuff’s going on, and offer an ear and, if I ask, advice as well. Very good listeners, really willing to help and support.

Not only is there an emotional openness between these men, but also an appreciation of the importance of listening without offering solutions. This level of emotional intelligence is not usually associated with men, who are often assumed to be incapable of providing emotional forms of care. Yet in my data, this awareness emerged more than once: Derek:

The one thing they do, which is a very male thing to do, is you know, ‘Oh, this is how you can solve it, this is a solution’… I’ve only learned it by talking to women, that we don’t need to solve a problem, we can just articulate it and we can hear it. And that’s part of the solution right there.

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Peter: …there are some people that it’s good to have around because they’ll give you advice, and they’re useful for what they’ll say to you, but it’s also important to have friends that you just talk to, and every so often you’ll have a beer, and yeah… having someone to talk to, literally to talk to, not to listen, not someone to analyse what you said, not someone to even offer you words of support necessarily—I mean you’d expect that, but it doesn’t have to be deep insight— it’s the ‘you talking’ bit, that’s important. Here, Derek and David in particular not only critique this behaviour but are aware of how it relates to gender norms. This demonstrates that men who have occupied masculinist subject positions for most of their lives can still take up therapeutic discourse to critically reflect on and subsequently alter their homosocial practices. These are, of course, two quite significant cases. Other participants said they appreciate friends who “just look at what’s on the table and say, well you’ve got to move that from there to there if you want to do that”, which Brad described as “practical” and “calming”. Indeed, while there is evidence of significant positive shifts in my data, this wasn’t the case for the whole sample; as Rhett noted, “it’s not easy to open up for some people”. Even those participants who have embraced emotional openness alluded to a lingering sense of risk. Although the discourses that shape the participants’ friendships appear to have shifted such that men can talk to other men about their feelings, trust was described as a central condition of these interactions. Stefano described his close friendships as “trust-based”, and emotional intimacy as “being able to share pretty much anything that is going on, knowing that you’re not gonna get judged, that you’re gonna get supported”. This led me to ask if there was a corresponding sense of risk. Stefano denied this was the case: “I don’t see it as risk… [it’s] about trusting that you won’t tell me what you think I wanna hear”. Yet in the previous excerpt, Stefano mentioned the importance of knowing “you’re not gonna get judged” for opening up emotionally. Likewise, George said, “that bond and that trust… [meant] you didn’t feel it was going to be threatening face, or that they were going to be critical or judgmental”. As well as trust, Derek noted the importance of self-confidence:

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Brittany: When did you start feeling comfortable seeking emotional support from your friends? Derek: I’m not too sure, I think it was when I actually became comfortable with myself to be honest, when I thought in the end, I didn’t care what anyone thought. So, if I was to release something of significance to another person and they laughed at me or thought I was weak, then I wouldn’t care. This fear of being judged was common among the father participants, yet previous studies have found that is not something women typically associate with emotional disclosure (for a foundational study of this phenomenon, see Walker & Wright, 1976). This may be because masculinist discourse remains present in contemporary Australia, and indeed dominant in some social contexts. Yet younger men are increasingly able to disclose personal issues and feelings without fear of social ridicule. The reluctance among the older participants may therefore suggest that processes of emotional reflexivity do not always or entirely undo decades of masculinist subjectivity. While the poststructuralist subject is fluid, dynamic and ever-becoming, individuals can become emotionally invested in particular discursive positions, and these investments are not overcome by the mere availability of alternative subject positions (Willig, 1999). Nonetheless, once trust and open communication is established between men, the risk associated with emotionality dissipates and men feel comfortable opening up. For Andrew and his all-men therapy group, open communication was not necessarily a function of trust, but of institutional conditions: Andrew: When I got into the hospital, I was doing a very intensive one day a week therapy program, and these boys were in it, and we just sort of bonded… After we all got well, we started to catch up once a month and debrief, and that was pretty regular for the first two or three years… Maybe because we came from therapy where we were forced to talk about stuff, we found it pretty easy to continue after therapy, because our relationship wasn’t based on the usual male bullshit… we were there to keep each other sane and happy. […] Brittany: It’s interesting, when you change the rules of the game, how much men can open up.

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Andrew: Well, they can. They definitely can if they’re given permission to take on another set of rules. We’ve taken the rules we were given in the group and sort of applied it outside and now continued life. If we’d met in the pub, there’s no way the four of us would ever spend time together. We were all very different people, but our mental health issues united us. This friendship diverges wholly from masculinist discourse: an emotionally open, support-based connection between men who have little in common. As Andrew eloquently notes, it demonstrates what is possible when men are “given permission to take on another set of rules”; permission, here, having been granted by therapeutic discourse. Perhaps what is important then, or what trust represents for men, is discursive permission. Alternative logics about the value of emotion that give men permission to move beyond the confines of masculinist discourse and take up a new subject position constituted by emotional expression, vulnerability and deep connections with other men. Indeed, my data suggests that therapeutic discourse is destabilising masculinism at the interactional level between men, institutionally at group therapy sessions, and at the societal level via public health campaigns and progressive political movements. Though the notion of permission still indicates a level of restriction, this collective divergence from masculinist discourse has resulted in a significant shift away from Whitehead’s (2002, p. 174) appraisal that for men: …it is the very spontaneity of intimacy—and trust—that is threatening and precarious … In seeking to control the uncertainty … many men … reach for conventional practice and behaviours of stereotypical masculinity.

However, there did appear to be a limit to the father participants’ verbal openness. One aspect of the father participants’ homosocial connectivity that is yet to shift considerably is their willingness to verbally express affection to other men. At the most basic level, the phrase “best friend” seemed to have a connotation that some of the father participants were not particularly comfortable with: Brittany: Arthur: Brittany: Rhett:

Is there anyone on that map that you identify as your best friend? No. I wouldn’t go that far, no. Would any of these people consider you a best friend? Aww yeah, nah, they would. Yeah, best mates.

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Even when the father participants were comfortable with the title ‘best friend’, this was not verbalised: Brittany: Do they know that they’re your best friends? Stefano: Umm, possibly, yeah… I think they’d have a fair idea… I don’t think it’s ever been said. Homosocial love was considered implied, communicated in indirect ways: “we do say love in a particular way, not very often, but we’ll do it if need be” (George). Thus, the masculinist discourse identified in Chap. 3—that while love might exist between men, it did not need to be verbalised—still appears to hold some sway in the father participants’ later lives. This is perhaps to be expected, given therapeutic counter-discourse around men’s mental health dictates that ‘it’s good to talk’, but does not necessarily emphasise the need to express homosocial love. Perhaps, too, the queer-inclusion counter-discourse that has destabilised homohysteric discourse in younger generations of men has not had the same effect for older Australian men. There were, however, a few father participants who said they felt comfortable saying I love you: David:

Both of [my close friends] I can be very expressive with and, you know, share love as well, we’re open in that way. Brittany: Do you say, ‘I love you’? David: Yeah, yep. David’s ability to openly express love regardless of context somewhat problematises Kiesling’s (2005) argument about the ‘homosocial bind’ and demonstrates a significant shift from the emotionally guarded man he was in adolescence and early adulthood: “I didn’t like to open up and get involved in other people’s lives or allow them into mine”. This also reinforces the poststructuralist understanding of identity construction as fluid and constantly in motion, rather than fixed or secure. For other men, however, there were conditions around expressions of affection. Since his father’s death Brad has made a conscious effort to express homosocial love—but only to friends who he felt needed to hear it:

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Brad:

Jack is equally as good a friend as Damian, but on a different level. Jack has cried in front of me, I tell him I love him, I don’t tell Damian I love him. Brittany: Why not? Brad: It means something to him, he needs to hear that, [Damian] doesn’t. I know he knows. Other participants noted the importance of context; that saying ‘I love you’ is acceptable among men of their generation, but only as a joke, in the context of alcohol consumption or in times of grief: Brittany: Have you ever said that you love one of your mates? Rhett: No. Oh, I probably have, yeah. I’ll say ‘I love you mate’, I’ll say that… There’ll be a joke, and I’ll say ‘mate, you know I love ya’. Derek: For me and my friends, if you said those words when you were not drunk, they would be genuine. And we would say that… not often, but sometimes [in those] extreme moments, where I feel like they need to hear it. In line with my previous findings around homosocial touch (Ralph & Roberts, 2020, p. 98), verbal expressions of affection were described as acceptable by the father participants if the ‘intent fits with a traditionally acceptable masculine endeavour… a joke, a dare, a celebratory gesture, [or] a gesture of support’. Thus, while the discursive possibilities for men’s emotional intimacy have broadened, there is still a need for permission, whether this be granted by trust, by contextual factors like alcohol or by an understanding of verbal affection as instrumental in times of grief. As such, some of the father participants were resistant to the idea that men should express affection verbally: Brittany: Do you draw a line between joking and genuine affection? Rhett: Yeah, but do you need to have this deeper emotional stuff? I told you, we didn’t have it in our family, none of it… I would think that if you’re always there for your close friends, that should be enough. You don’t have to get down on your knees and say ‘I love you’ all the time. The notion that jokingly saying “mate, you know I love ya” might not be considered genuine, made Rhett a little defensive. He questioned the

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necessity of verbal expressions of love, drawing on the traditional notion that men express love indirectly and feminising verbal affection by invoking the image of a man on his knees—a position that suggests weakness and submission. In this way, he pivoted back to a masculinist discourse of gender difference to re-establish his approach to friendship as valid and culturally acceptable. This oscillation is reflective of McQueen’s (2017, p. 207) finding that when men discuss emotionality and intimacy, ‘the tension between the traditional and progressive discourses is tangible’. Despite this oscillation, and the various complexities and nuances I have documented in the data thus far, the shift away from a discursive positioning of men as inherently and entirely independent, competitive and stoic, is stark. So too is the change this has produced in their friendships, which now often entail a willingness—albeit slightly tentative—to engage in emotional disclosure and verbal expressions of homosocial love.

Men Can Express Emotion While therapeutic discourse has had an immense impact on Western culture, evidenced in particular by the proliferation of men’s mental health campaigns in recent decades, feminists have promoted the idea that men should be more emotional since as early as the 1960s (Seidler, 1991). It appears that due to the convergence of these two discourses, most of the father participants agreed that it is now socially acceptable for men to express vulnerable emotions: Arthur:

Well, we’re certainly in different times, things are a lot better in some ways… my father would never show any emotions. Eduardo: I think that we are now at a time when men can be more openly emotional, right? Anthony: I think that it’s very stupid for men that don’t admit crying, we’re human, you got feelings the same as anybody else. George: There’s nothing wrong with showing your emotions and feelings. I still think that’s part of being a masculine… ‘cause I think we need to be true to ourselves. While therapeutic discourse informed men’s shift towards talking about their emotions, here, it is feminist discourse that informs the participants’ understanding of emotional expression; as human rather than strictly feminine. Not only do these excerpts represent a shift away from masculinist

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discourse, but they also demonstrate the problematisation of a masculinist subject position via the labelling of emotional stoicism as “stupid” and inauthentic (“we need to be true to ourselves”). However, when it came to describing their own emotional dispositions, there was a wider range of responses: Ron:

I guess I’m the sort of person that doesn’t like to show too much emotion. I do get upset over things, but I tend to hold it in. Derek: Those emotions at the extreme end, anger or sadness or happiness, I typically keep them fairly low key. Eduardo: I can become quite emotional in certain circumstances. Marcus: I’m quite an emotional, sensitive person. Thus, while there was an acceptance that men can show emotion, whether one does was seen as an issue of individual emotional disposition. Arguably, this indicates a persistent masculinist framing of emotional stoicism as biologically inherent to male-sexed bodies. However, as above, it is perhaps more likely that decades of masculinist subjectification is, for some men, not overcome by the mere availability of alternative subject positions. This appeared to be the case for Brad, who expressed an acceptance of men crying, but said he does not cry himself: Brad:

I’m sure I’ve been really, really upset, but I don’t know about crying. And I don’t draw a distinction there. It’s just, you’re a result of where you come from, so I haven’t felt that… And since my dad’s death, my brother is 500 times more visibly emotional than I am. And whether I force myself not to go there or not, I don’t know the answer to that. But sometimes you don’t present externally what you’re feeling internally… And it’s not ‘cause I demean that. I think there should be nothing that men can’t talk to other men about.

Here, Brad wrestled with the disconnect between his belief that men should be able to cry and the reality that he struggles to do so. He noted the relevance of familial socialisation (“you’re a result of where you come from”), yet also acknowledged that his brother can express his emotions freely. Abiding by ‘feeling rules’ is said to involve both ‘surface acting’— the performance of expected feelings, and ‘deep acting’—an attempt to

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sincerely embody an emotion (Hochschild, 1979). Perhaps for Brad, then, the ‘embodied effects of the taboo against emotionality and vulnerability’ were more permanent (Berggren, 2014, p.  245). Indeed, Hochschild (1979, p.  568) notes how ‘contradictions between contending sets of rules’ brought about by, for example, a shift from masculinist to therapeutic discourse, can lead to a sense of uncertainty about how one should feel (see also McQueen, 2017). Despite this uncertainty, Brad did not fall back on an essentialist understanding of men as simply unemotional. Rather, he sat with the unknown, accepting the glaring contradiction between his feminist political consciousness and his body (or more specifically, his limbic system), which has been stifled by masculinism. Indeed, while the participants expressed a general acceptance that men can cry, which is significant ‘given the association of tears with so-called “weak emotions”’ (MacArthur & Shields, 2015, p. 39), there were a number of important complexities to how this translated into their emotional practice. For some, crying was only associated with major life events: Brittany: Rhett:

Do you feel comfortable crying in front of friends? Oh, yeah, nah. Yes and no. If it was a deep problem, no problem at all. You know, death, serious illness.

Brittany: Derek:

Have you ever cried in front of your male friends? Yes, I have. Once when I was remembering that period of my life with my sister. Even now, as I tell you these stories, I’m preparing to cry. Um, another time is when my parents passed away, and another time when I was going through quite a lot of stress in my work and family life.

This somewhat aligns with a discourse of manly emotion, as crying is considered acceptable in serious situations of loss (MacArthur & Shields, 2015), yet it is also associated here with general life stress. Similarly, other participants described themselves as “quite emotional” (Eduardo) or “sensitive” (Marcus), but still indicated an awareness of where and with whom they reveal this vulnerability: Eduardo: I have had friends cry to me. I cry, but often on my own. George: Oh, we’ve all cried… we trusted each other and we were close, so it felt safe… Anybody else, I wouldn’t cry because you feel a bit guarded and a bit vulnerable.

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Marcus: I do [express emotion] with these people [from work], because our leadership team is really connected and really tight… I am sensitive, I can resort to tears quickly if something really is affecting me. But that couldn’t happen over here [football friends]. Here, again, there is evidence of broadening discursive possibilities alongside a lingering sense of risk or vulnerability. However, while the father participants’ friends were not entirely prepared for this kind of interaction, it was not met with ridicule or gendered policing: Derek:

There was no judgment… they didn’t know how to handle it, exactly… so there was a bit of an awkwardness about the environment, but they didn’t laugh or anything. And I felt quite comfortable doing it.

Thus, while there are complexities to the father participants’ emotional expressiveness, the ease with which they discussed emotionality now represents a significant shift from the masculinist subject position their fathers occupied, which they described as “stoic” and “emotionally crippled”. Indeed, within the interviews, five of the father participants shed tears while reflecting on major events in their lives. The nature of how these men cried might be considered manly, as they demonstrated control by not openly weeping. However, even as an academic who is trained to be critical of gendered behaviours, I did not get the sense that this restraint was an attempt at masculine posturing. Rather, they appeared genuinely moved by the experiences they were recounting and—despite my being a complete stranger—felt comfortable expressing vulnerable emotions while exercising the level of restraint expected for people of all genders in public settings. These tearful displays of grief and nostalgia, alongside an almost universal belief that men should be able to express vulnerable emotions and seek emotional support from their friends, represents a significant shift away from the masculinist notion that men don’t show emotion.

Men Are (Still, Principally) Self-reliant In a recent study of men’s drinking practices, my colleagues and I (Elliott et al., 2022, p. 1) note that ‘masculine autonomy remains an influential and harmful discourse, often impeding possibilities for men’s greater

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intimacy, connection and care’. A similar finding emerged here; despite an increasing engagement with therapeutic discourse that promotes emotional disclosure, the valorisation of manly self-reliance persisted in the father participants’ contemporary reflections. That is, while men can talk about their struggles and show vulnerable emotions, some father participants described themselves as not necessarily needing to: Rhett: I’m pretty independent. Andrew: Helping other people has been protective for me, so I haven’t felt that I’ve been at the point of needing a lot of support myself. This was particularly evident in Brad’s reflections on how he dealt with his divorce: Brad:

My marriage was terrible, and I went way down in a hole, quite happily… I’ve got a little farm in the middle of nowhere… I quite happily could have become a recluse. [My best friend] knew I was in the hole. He knew whenever I popped my head up, which was regularly to him because he’s my support network. But no one else can go down that hole with you… I just think you sit down and reflect, until you can take that step forward. No one can do it for you.

This excerpt is constituted by competing discourses of men can talk and manly self-reliance, as Brad was willing to confide in his best friend, but still viewed the process of healing as entirely autonomous. Rhett shared a very similar reflection on his own divorce: Rhett:

It comes to a point where you basically realise you’re by yourself. You can have as many friends as you want and you can call on them, but ultimately when the separation happens, you’re on your own. With support, but y’know… that’s just life, you are by yourself, and you get to make your own decisions.

While their acceptance of other men’s vulnerability and help-seeking was informed by feminist and therapeutic discourse, they remain invested in—or in Rhett’s case reluctantly resigned to—masculinist notions of independence. However, in both cases, the participants constructed the need to be self-reliant as a self-evident truth: “no one else can go down

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that hole with you” (Brad), “you’re on your own… that’s just the facts” (Rhett). Their persistent engagement in a discourse of self-reliance thus seemed to stem from the truth effects of masculinist discourse, rather than solely from a desire to successfully embody a masculinist subject position. Relatedly, those that were still married framed their autonomy as relational, in that it was premised on the existing intimacy and interdependence they shared with their wives (a point that, as noted in Chap. 3, highlights how women in romantic relationships with men tend to bear the brunt of their emotional load): Ron:

Do I have a particular person that I sit down and have a heart to heart with? I don’t really, ‘cause I like to do that with [my wife]. Brittany: Would you ever go outside of the relationship to seek emotional support? Arthur: Not at this stage in life, no… I don’t have the need to. While Ron was largely concerned about maintaining his “privacy”, Arthur attributed this persistent sense of autonomy to a lack of trauma in his later life: Arthur:

I do like to be in charge and do things myself… We’re a partnership, and I do have friends, but maybe I’m fortunate because most of the traumas in my life were when I was young, so maybe I haven’t had enough go wrong.

Whether framed as a function of privacy (Ron), circumstance (Arthur) or individual nature (Rhett), a discourse of manly self-reliance was pervasive across the father participants’ interviews. This further substantiates the claim that the ‘cultural valorisation of autonomy has … persisted and adapted to significant social and economic change’ (Elliott et al., 2022, p. 574) and might indicate that feminism and therapeutic culture do not serve as potent counter-discourses to manly self-reliance discourse. Further, while it does not appear to entirely censor the father participants’ emotional expression or help-seeking, this persistent commitment to autonomy could explain why these practices are usually reserved for relatively extreme circumstances.

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Men Can Hug In mid-late twentieth century Australia, platonic physical intimacy between men was discursively tied to homosexuality and femininity and thus not considered desirable or even possible for most father participants in their adolescence and early adulthood; “a man shakes another man’s hand and that’s the way it is” (Ron). However, a growing body of research has documented an opening up of the prospect of platonic physical intimacy between men (Robinson et al., 2018; McCormack, 2012). Though much of this newer research is predicated on data from younger generations of men, my data suggests that similar—though certainly not as extensive— shifts are also occurring among older Australian men. Central to a discussion of this increasing physical intimacy is McCormack et al.’s (2016) intent-context-effect matrix. Originally devised to explain the appropriateness of gay-themed phrases among young men, the matrix highlights that ‘the intent with which they are said and the context in which they are used are vital in understanding their meaning and effect’ (McCormack et al., 2016, p. 748). In this study and my previous work (Ralph & Roberts, 2020), this has proven to be a useful framework for understanding how men determine the appropriateness of platonic physical intimacy. When discussing physical intimacy, there was a range of responses from the father participants. Some still maintain physical distance from their men friends: Marcus: Colin:

No hugs. It would be a handshake. Handshakes are frequent. I probably wouldn’t give [my close friend] any kind of hug, although if he was in great emotional distress… that would be quite different.

Others were slightly more comfortable with hugging their friends: Arthur: Stefano:

Yeah, no, you’d hug them occasionally. Umm, it’s probably the brotherly handshake, hug, depending on the circumstance. Ron: If one of my male friends wants to have a man hug then I’m quite happy to do that. David: All my male friends I’ll hug as a greeting. Eduardo: We hug all the time, we see each other, we give each other a hug.

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In line with research into younger men, hugging appeared to be an acceptable form of greeting and a way of providing comfort and support for these participants (e.g., Anderson & McCormack, 2015). This was, as noted in Chap. 3, particularly the case for participants with culturally specific discursive resources that preceded homohysteric discourse: “Oh yeah, we’re huggers” (Eduardo), “I’m Argentinian, I like hugging” (Anthony). Interestingly, too, some Anglo-Australian father participants indicated they were more comfortable showing physical affection to friends from diverse cultural backgrounds: Andrew: Marcus:

My Persian mate, he’s younger than me, he’ll hold my hand in the street and he’ll want to dance with me. I’m not a kissy person, to start with… actually that’s changed over time… These people, they’re very affectionate… there’s hugging and that. I think it’s part of their culture as well, the Afghanis in particular.

This substantiates the centrality of homohysteria to men’s engagement in platonic physical intimacy but highlights how—in contexts where counter-­discourse is present—competing discourses can constitute different homosocial practices. For some participants, though, there were conditions around when and to whom they would show physical affection. Unsurprisingly, many said they would only hug men they had a close friendship with: Derek:

Brittany: Peter:

There is some line that I draw that says that ‘I give those people a hug’… it’s only a handful of people that would probably be in the inner circle there. And it’s only on particular occasions. Would you hug your friends as a greeting? Yeah, it depends. It depends on who it is, and it depends on the context… If I hadn’t seen, say, Charlie for a while… he’s had his problems with cancer, and his wife does now as well, so it would be a hug for him, because there’s an element of making it a bit more obvious that you’re thinking of him.

This substantiates the notion that hugs can be an expression of platonic love, support or at least closeness. However, as these excerpts suggest, the acceptability of physical intimacy was also contingent on intent and

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context. The most common contexts that were cited as appropriate for physical touch were a funeral, or seeing someone after a long time: Stefano: If I haven’t seen any of these guys in a while, depending on the circumstance, it’ll be somewhere between a handshake and a hug. Marcus: In times of extreme grief, there would be a hug, but in normal circumstances in would just be a handshake. Hugs within these contexts indicate an intent beyond simply expressing affection, such as providing comfort. Other participants cited the importance of intent, noting that it would be acceptable to hug someone as a celebratory gesture or a joke: Marcus: I suppose in times of great joy there would be hugging, but that’d be purposeful, you know, we’ve won a big game or [something]. Rhett: The guys [at work] are more open for a hug than they were in the past, that’s me being in the [construction] industry for thirty years… but it’s just a joke. Things might be a bit tense sometimes, ‘come here mate, gi’us a hug’, y’know? Notably, the working-class men who occupy blue-collar work environments such as Rhett’s are often treated ‘as the bearers of ‘bad’ forms of masculinity’, who are ‘violent, regressive and always reaching for power’, when in reality—as evidenced here and elsewhere—these men can and do model open, egalitarian forms of masculinity (Elliott, 2020, p. 1; Roberts, 2018). Nonetheless, these excerpts also highlight that while the father participants inferred that nowadays men can hug, they often described an intent beyond simply expressing closeness, such as giving support in times of grief, celebrating a sporting win or making people laugh, all of which align with traditionally masculine endeavours. Some scholars might frame this as evidence of hybrid masculinities and the strategic integration of feminised practices. However, given the viciousness with which men were subjected to homophobic discourse in the father participants’ earlier lives, a lingering sense of discomfort is to be expected. Indeed, their increasing engagement in some homosocial touch—albeit tentative and conditional—represents a shift away from the definitive notion that ‘men don’t hug’. Crucially, too, it is an assertion of queer-inclusion discourse,

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meaning it is underpinned not by a desire to maintain male dominance but by an acceptance that homosocial intimacy is not necessarily an indicator of homosexuality. In line with Anderson’s (2009) theorising of inclusive masculinities, the father participants attributed this increasing engagement in platonic physical intimacy to the steady decline in cultural homophobia in Australia: Marcus: [Physical affection is] becoming more acceptable…And I think I’ve grown in that as well. Because once upon a time I might’ve been quite critical of that sort of stuff… the whole issue of sexuality, I’m more open to that now than I was. However, rather than signalling a disintegration of hegemonic structures, I would argue that this is a function of expanding discursive possibilities, due to the emergence and increasing potency of queer-inclusion discourse. Indeed, the increasing uptake of this discourse has meant some father participants now face a new kind of policing: Ron:

When I got into barbershop [singing], I met this guy and he called me homophobic because I wouldn’t hug him… so that’s something that I’ve had to learn, how to hug other men… I don’t want to appear homophobic.

In this context, queer-inclusion discourse constitutes homosocial intimacy to the same extent that masculinist discourse once constituted an avoidance of it. Thus, in moments where dominant discourses of friendship dictate that not hugging equates to homophobia, men can and evidently do reflexively adjust their behaviour. Yet, despite seeing the value in this form of affection, Ron does not hug people from his other friendship group: “these are more men’s men… we’re not homophobic, it’s just the way we were brought up” (Ron). Indeed, the extent to which queer-­ inclusion and/or feminist discourse are embraced in certain social groups or contexts seems to determine whether men feel comfortable hugging: Andrew: I’m a big hugger, love a hug […] men and women, I give them a hug […] If you hold them in a protective hug it says, “I love you”. Brittany: Do you ever say that to your friends?

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Andrew: I say I love you to [my best friend], and he will say it back. I don’t say it to the boys from counselling. They’re a little more macho than I am, so I don’t say that, and I don’t really hug ‘em. We just shake hands, which is interesting. Brittany: What would the reaction be if you hugged them? Andrew: In a group it would be different to privately, I think privately it’d be alright. You’d think in private would be more threatening because maybe you’re making a pass on them or something, but no, I think people are more relaxed in private… there’s no external observer to say maybe you’re gay, or you’re both gay. Despite sharing a deep emotional connection, Andrew does not hug the men in this therapy group. This suggests that therapeutic discourse effectively broke down barriers to emotional intimacy but did not destabilise the homohysteric discourse that prevented physical intimacy among these men. It also highlights that men who have embraced queer-inclusion discourse might still passively adhere to homohysteric discourse in social contexts that it remains dominant. However, characterising this as complicity or the strategic integration of femininity oversimplifies Andrew’s gender practice and ignores the possibility that hugging these men in private may be an equally, if not more, effective means of destabilising their adherence to homohysteric discourse. If positive change in masculinities is to occur, it will likely be gradual and non-linear (Segal, 1990). So, while it is important to acknowledge the disciplinary function of homohysteric discourse within a particular group, this should not cancel out the socio-­ positive attitudes and practices of individuals within it. Despite the complexities around when and to whom the father participants would show platonic physical affection, when they have, it has made them feel closer to that person: Andrew:

It’s just nice if people know you care about them, if you hold them in a protective hug it says, ‘I love you’. Eduardo: With [my best friend], it used to be a little bit more distant. Now we’re hugging each other all the time. It feels like that level of closer intimacy, it’s become warmer. Rhett: [My son] was the hugger. We joke about it… he’ll come up and hug me and I’ll shy away [laughs]. But I’ll do the hug… It’s a stronger bond than my father was to me.

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I suppose it makes me feel a little bit closer to them… I find it alright, because it’s a man hug. It’s not like an embrace, it’s just a way of saying, ‘I appreciate your friendship’.

In stark contrast to the homohysteric discourse that was dominant in their younger years, hugging can now be considered a legitimate demonstration of platonic connection for some men; it now has instrumental value in that it brings friends closer. But this was not a straightforward transition. Rhett and his son use humour to overcome the lingering awkwardness that surrounds their physical affection, and other participants discursively masculinised their descriptions of homosocial intimacy by using phrases like “man hug” (Ron), or “blokey ‘how ya goin’ hug” (Stefano). In doing so, these participants recast these practices as appropriately masculine. However, for David—who has seemingly rejected masculinism in its entirety—there was no need to masculinise intimacy, or frame it as contingent on context or intent: Brittany: Are there any contexts in your life where [hugging] is more acceptable? David: Um, no, it’s very natural. It’s like a foundation of those relationships… the natural state is like being affectionate to one another and sharing that support. Whether the father participants embraced physical intimacy appeared to be contingent on the extent to which they had embraced queer-inclusion and feminist discourse themselves; the extent to which these discourses were embraced by the particular social groups or contexts they found themselves in; and/or whether cultural discourse preceded homohysteria in the first place. So, men can hug, but for the older men in my sample, it is still somewhat complicated.

Biographical Disruptions and Emotional Reflexivity Many of the father participants have experienced significant emotional trauma in their life, whether that be divorce, the death of a loved one or a serious illness. Those who were faced with these experiences in their early years described feeling completely isolated; “I had no support” (George). However, in the context of these discursive shifts, it appears these events

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now have the potential to trigger a period of emotional reflexivity and subsequent shift in men’s homosocial practices: David:

The different things that were going on in our lives, we deepened through that. He split up with his wife and I split up with my partner, so we were changing, and I think that opened up the friendship even more to be more supportive. Brittany: When did you start telling [your best friend] you love him? Brad: Before my dad’s death probably not as much… one of the things [his death] taught me was to tell people that I love them… to be able to verbalise it. George: I remember driving Tom home, and we walked in the house, and it was empty. His wife and the baby disappeared. He went to pieces after that. And that’s when we started talking about how we felt… trauma was creeping into our lives back then. Here, George emphasised the relationality of this process; once one of his friends experienced trauma, they all began talking about how they “felt”. Similarly, Derek attributed the closeness he shared with his best friends to the moments when “something significant happened in our lives, and we were able to share that together and reach a deeper connection”. Stefano, on the other hand, did not attribute his own emotional shift to one specific event, but instead to a series of smaller issues that culminated in a moment of individual reflection: Stefano: I think you hit a realisation that if you try to fix everything yourself, you’re not going to. Referring to these events as ‘biographical disruptions’, Charteris-Black and Seale (2013, p. 83) argue they can interfere ‘with the “normal” performance of social roles and often requir[e] a concomitant narrative reconstruction of the self’. Within poststructuralist terms, this aligns with Foucault’s notion of ‘limit-experience’. In an interview from 1978, Foucault (1978/2000) describes a limit-experience as one that ‘wrenches the subject from itself’, or as paraphrased by Heyes (2020, p. 46), ‘pulls me away from my habituated practices and customary inferences; it challenges and opens me to the new; it transforms my self’. Engaging with Foucault’s thinking, Butler (2002, p. 215) contends that ‘it is from this condition, the tear in the fabric of our epistemological web, that the

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practice of critique emerges, with the awareness that no discourse is adequate here or that our reigning discourses have produced an impasse’. Likewise, after a series of challenging experiences including a serious illness and difficulties in his marriage, the reigning discourse of manly selfreliance produced an impasse for Stefano, at which point he recognised the value in asking others for help or support. The likelihood that an individual will experience a biographical disruption or limit-experience such as this increases with age. Some scholars therefore argue that men’s same-gender friendships naturally become closer and more trusting over the life course (Radmacher & Azmitia, 2006). Likewise, some participants framed the deepening of their friendships as a result of getting older: “as we got older, the mucking around ceased and life became more serious… all of a sudden, we were faced with all this trauma, disappointment, depression” (George). However, these experiences did not have the same effect on the previous generation. The father participants described their own fathers as having conformed to masculinist discourses of stoicism, autonomy and emotional control regardless of the trauma they faced. For the participants, however, these disruptions occurred alongside the emergence of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-discourses, and the subsequent broadening of discursive possibilities available to men. That these men were able to acknowledge the value of emotional openness and communication speaks to the gains of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse, and the cultural re-valuing of previously disparaged feminised practices. The subsequent shift in how they enacted emotion and homosocial intimacy evidences not only a period of reflexivity but also a broadening of the discursive codes of masculinity. This complex interplay between discourse and individual experiences helps explain the differences within the father generation. For example, Ron acknowledged the broader shifts occurring in masculine norms, but said that in his own life he had still “put up a bit of a barrier” with his friends; “maybe I haven’t had that much controversy or whatever, so there’s not a lot to talk about”. Though it is not ideal that socio-positive change relies on personal tragedy, it is of analytic significance that with a broadened set of emotional responses now sanctioned by feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-discourses, the uncertainty and lack of control brought on by these experiences can lead men ‘to explore the potential of new identities’ (Charteris-Black & Seale, 2013, p. 84). After all, ‘discourses are not the sole sources of knowledge’ (Thorpe, 2008, p.  214). As noted by

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MacDonald (2003, p. 37), individuals ‘also arrive at knowledge through experience, through observation and through the evaluation of one discourse against another’.

Conclusion Within masculinist discourse, vulnerability, emotional expression and being a nurturer are considered wholly unmasculine—yet my data demonstrates how these have (to varying extents) been integrated into the father participants’ narrative of friendship. Across their lifetime, the idea that men don’t show emotion, talk about their feelings or hug has shifted such that men can show emotion, talk about their feelings and hug. Though there was still an emphasis on having shared activities or interests, these commonalities are nowadays considered the gateway to a deeper friendship, rather than the be all and end all of one. Here, I argue that these changes have come about due to the emergence and increasing potency of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-discourse and a subsequent broadening of the discursive possibilities for men’s behaviour. Crucially, I demonstrate that it is the convergence of these discourses that has created the conditions for genuine positive change. The extent to which these discourses are adopted in particular social contexts or social groups seemed to determine the nature and extent of this positive change. For example, therapeutic discourse was central to Andrew’s therapy group, which allowed them to show immense vulnerability and develop strong emotional bonds. However, a lack of engagement with queer-inclusion discourse in this space meant homohysteria went unchallenged and inhibited a corresponding engagement in physical intimacy. A feminist poststructuralist approach that applies a sustained critical discourse analysis therefore accounts for the impact of discursive tensions, and how this produces complexities and even contradictions in men’s behaviour. For example, I document a persistent discourse of autonomy, which produced contradictions in the dataset along the lines of, I would ask for help, but I’m a pretty independent person. Similarly, while men can hug, the acceptability of a hug is somewhat contingent on context and intent. Some scholars might utilise these contradictions and complexities to argue that men’s softening behaviour is an instrument of patriarchal reproduction (Bridges & Pascoe, 2014), or that despite positive shifts, ‘gender hegemony prevails’ (Messerschmidt, 2018, p.  121). I would

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instead argue that this lingering sense of risk and reluctance to engage in new forms of homosocial intimacy suggests that processes of emotional reflexivity cannot entirely undo decades of masculinist subjectivity. While the poststructuralist subject is fluid, dynamic and ever-becoming, individuals can become emotionally invested in particular discursive positions, and these investments are not overcome by the mere availability of alternative subject positions (Willig, 1999). Masculinist discourse was powerful and pervasive in the father participants’ adolescence and early adulthood, resulting in relentless gender policing. Nonetheless, they had, almost universally, become at least partially invested in feminist, queer-­inclusion and therapeutic constructions of friendship. A central aspect of this shift was their experience of biographical disruptions. With a broadened set of homosocial practices now sanctioned by feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic counter-discourses, my data suggests that experiences of grief or trauma now have the potential to trigger a period of emotional reflexivity and subsequent shift in men’s approach to friendship. In addition to this, the father participants described being more nurturing and affectionate to their sons than their fathers were to them. Likewise, the son participants’ engagement in socio-positive masculinities appeared to be at least partially informed by the manhood modelled by their fathers and, more crucially, to the increasing potency of counter-discourse. Building on the analysis presented thus far, the following chapter explores the discourses that shaped the son participants’ experience of friendship.

References Allen, L. (2003). Girls want sex, boys want love: resisting dominant discourses of (hetero) sexuality. Sexualities, 6(2), 215–236. Anderson, E. (2009). Inclusive masculinity: The changing nature of masculinities. Routledge. Anderson, E., & McCormack, M. (2015). Cuddling and spooning: Heteromasculinity and homosocial tactility among student-athletes. Men and Masculinities, 18(2), 214–230. Barrett, T. (2013). Friendships between men across sexual orientation: The importance of (others) being intolerant. The Journal of Men’s Studies, 21(1), 62–77. Berggren, K. (2014). Sticky masculinity: Post-structuralism, phenomenology and subjectivity in critical studies on men. Men and Masculinities, 17(3), 231–252. Bird, S. (1996). Welcome to the men’s club: Homosociality and the maintenance of hegemonic masculinity. Gender & Society, 10(2), 120–132.

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Bridges, T., & Pascoe, C. J. (2014). Hybrid masculinities: New directions in the sociology of men and masculinities. Sociology Compass, 8(3), 246–258. Butler, J. (2002). What is critique? An essay on Foucault’s virtue. In D. Ingram (Ed.), The political (pp. 212–226). Blackwell. Charteris-Black, J., & Seale, C. (2013). Men and emotion talk: Evidence from the experience of illness. Gender and Language, 3(1), 81–113. Collier, C. N., & Raney, T. (2018). Understanding sexism and sexual harassment in politics: A comparison of Westminster parliaments in Australia, the United Kingdom, and Canada. Social Politics: International Studies in Gender, State & Society, 25(3), 432–455. Elliott, K. (2020). Bringing in margin and centre: ‘Open’ and ‘closed’ as concepts for considering men and masculinities. Gender, Place & Culture, 27(12), 1723–1744. Elliott, K., Roberts, S., Ralph, B., Robards, B., & Savic, M. (2022). Understanding autonomy and relationality in men’s lives. The British Journal of Sociology, 73(3), 571–586. Foucault, M. (1978/2000). An interview with Michel Foucault. In J. D. Faubion (Ed.), Michel Foucault, power (pp. 239–297). (R. Hurley, Trans.). New Press. (Original work published 1978, Interview by D. Trombadori, late 1978). Giddens, A. (1991). The transformation of intimacy: Sexuality, love and eroticism in modern societies. Polity Press. Goedecke, K. (2022). Men’s friendships as feminist politics? Power, intimacy and change. Palgrave Macmillan. Heyes, C. J. (2020). Anaesthetics of existence: Essays on experience at the edge. Duke University Press. Hochschild, A.  R. (1979). Emotion work, feeling rules, and social structure. American Journal of Sociology, 85(3), 551–575. Kiesling, S. F. (2005). Homosocial desire in men’s talk: Balancing and re-creating cultural discourses of masculinity. Language in Society, 34(5), 695–726. MacArthur, H.  J., & Shields, S.  A. (2015). There’s no crying in baseball, or is there? Male athletes, tears, and masculinity in North America. Emotion Review, 7(1), 39–46. Macdonald, M. (2003). Exploring media discourse. Arnold. McCormack, M. (2012). The declining significance of homophobia: How teenage boys are redefining masculinity and heterosexuality. Oxford University Press. McCormack, M., Wignall, L., & Morris, M. (2016). Gay guys using gay language: Friendship, shared values and the intent-context-effect matrix. The British Journal of Sociology, 67(4), 747–767. McQueen, F. (2017). Male emotionality: “Boys don’t cry” versus “it’s good to talk”. NORMA, 12(3–4), 205–219. Messerschmidt, J. W. (2018). Hegemonic masculinity: Formulation, reformulation, and amplification. Rowman & Littlefield.

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Radmacher, K., & Azmitia, M. (2006). Are there gendered pathways to intimacy in early adolescents’ and emerging adults’ friendships? Journal of Adolescent Research, 21(4), 415–448. Ralph, B., & Roberts, S. (2020). One small step for man: Change and continuity in perceptions and enactments of homosocial intimacy among young Australian men. Men and Masculinities, 23(1), 83–103. Redman, P., Epstein, D., Kehily, M. J., & Mac an Ghaill, M. (2002). Boys bonding: Same-sex friendship, the unconscious and heterosexual discourse. Discourse: Studies in the Cultural Politics of Education, 23(2), 179–191. Roberts, S. (2018). Young working-class men in transition. Routledge. Robinson, S., Anderson, E., & White, A. (2018). The bromance: Undergraduate male friendships and the expansion of contemporary homosocial boundaries. Sex Roles, 78(1), 94–106. Rubin, L.  B. (1985). Just friends: The role of friendship in our lives (1st ed.). Harper & Row. Segal, L. (1990). Slow motion: Changing men, changing masculinities. Virago. Seidler, V.  J. (1991). The achilles heel reader: Men, sexual politics and socialism. Routledge. Thorpe, H. (2008). Foucault, technologies of self, and the media: Discourses of femininity in snowboarding culture. Journal of Sport and Social Issues, 32(2), 199–229. Walker, L. S., & Wright, P. H. (1976). Self-disclosure in friendship. Perceptual and Motor Skills, 42(3), 735–742. Whitehead, S. (2002). Men and masculinities: Key themes and new directions. Polity Press. Willig, C. (1999). Discourse analysis and sex education. In C. Willig (Ed.), Applied discourse analysis: Social and psychological interventions (pp.  110–124). Open University Press.

CHAPTER 5

Friendship in the Sons’ Lives

The son participants entered their twenties between the late 2000s and early 2010s, at which point public discourse around gender equality, gay rights and mental health was well established as a counter-discourse to masculinist notions of gender difference, heterosexism and emotional stoicism (Gough, 2006; Illouz, 2008). The previous chapter summarised how this counter-discourse manifested in less discriminatory legislation, more equal workplace participation rates across genders and increased health promotion surrounding men’s mental health. With the advent of social media, the presence of these counter-discourses was increasingly pervasive throughout the son participants’ formative years. The rise of social media has had an enormous impact on young Australians’ social and political lives. Putting aside debates as to whether new media technology enhances youth political participation or promotes ‘weak-tie and low-risk “slacktivism”’, it has without doubt provided a platform for everyday citizens to challenge dominant media narratives and political discourse (Fischer, 2016, p. 757). This benefits both sides of the political divide. Nicholas and Agius (2017, pp. 35–36) note the immense online presence of men’s rights advocates, antifeminist subcultures and the ‘Redpill right’, which ‘produce their own supremacist spaces, and interrupt and spread abuse in feminist spaces online’. Yet digital spaces have also played a key role in the widespread uptake of feminist, queer-­ inclusion and therapeutic discourse, particularly among younger generations. Moreover—as I will go on to argue in Chap. 6—the physical distance © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 B. Ralph, Destabilising Masculinism, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-39535-2_5

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afforded by online spaces has given young men the opportunity to experiment with homosocial practices that might otherwise be constrained by masculinist discourse. Thus, while the father participants witnessed first-­ hand the immense cultural shifts these counter-discourses brought about, the sons were born into this more complicated discursive terrain, and more frequently and comprehensively exposed to the oftentimes vitriolic dialogue it produces online. Yet when it comes to friendship, it appears that socio-positive counter-discourse has effectively destabilised masculinism. Twenty years ago, Coates (2003, p. 199) observed that while ‘men and boys have a lot of fun together, at the same time there is a sense of something missing emotionally’. But, as outlined in Chap. 1, a growing body of research challenges this fundamental claim, noting that young men are now more comfortable with physical affection, discussing sensitive issues and sharing deep, emotional connections with their men friends. Much of this research draws on Eric Anderson’s theorising of inclusive masculinity (IMT), arguing that these shifts have come about principally because of declining cultural homophobia. However, by over-emphasising the centrality of declining homophobia, IMT neglects the impact of other cultural discourses and is thus less equipped to explain the continuation of negative conventions of masculinity in contexts that are ostensibly not homophobic or the persistence of homophobia among men who embrace homosocial intimacy (see Ralph and Roberts (forthcoming)). Here, I offer an alternative framing of younger Australian men’s increasingly intimate friendships that highlights the equally important role of feminist and therapeutic discourse and can better account for complexities and contradictions in this socio-positive shift. Building on previous chapters, I highlight the discourses that shaped the son participants’ approach to friendship: that men should talk about their feelings, express emotions and ask for help, and that men hug and kiss (although context matters). Throughout these discussions, I position the son participants’ responses as evidence of men’s engagement in emotional reflexivity and highlight the role this reflexivity has played in bringing about shifts towards more open and communicative friendships.

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Men Should Talk (About Their Feelings) The younger men in this study were, for the most part, explicitly supportive of open communication and emotional intimacy in their friendships. Though they suggested there was some hesitancy during high school, as they enter early adulthood the dominant view is that men should talk about emotional topics and thereby ‘allow another into [their] inner life, into the thoughts and feelings that live there’ (Rubin, 1985, p. 74). The auxiliary function of should is important here, as it represents a distinction between ideals and enactments; while the son participants draw extensively on therapeutic discourse that promotes emotional disclosure, for some there remains a disconnect between discourse and practice. Here, I explore how this discourse plays out in their friendships such that emotional disclosure is more common, but for some, it remains an ideal rather than a consistent enactment. Having shared interests or activities was considered a key aspect of the son participants’ friendships. When asked what drew them to their close friends, James said, “Interests, 100% interests” and Nick said, “Certainly common interests”. But while they bond over traditionally masculine pursuits such as sport, drinking and playing computer games, these activities are considered a vessel for deeper forms of connection. Jacob: We like watch a movie at his house or like go out to a bar, play sport occasionally, maybe cook. Usually, the interaction is centred around just having a chat, so it’s not about the activity itself. It was rare for these younger men to describe having friendships that were solely activity-based. Though Gus sees his football friends three or four times a week during the season, he does not consider them close friends, citing the lack of a deeper compatibility: Gus:

I’m not super close with any of them… we play football together, drink together, go out together … [but] a lot of them aren’t really the type of people I’d just go hang out with.

Unlike their fathers, the son participants did not construct ‘closeness’ as a function of shared activities. Rather, platonic compatibility was discursively aligned with shared experiences, similar personalities and emotional openness:

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Joshua: I tend to build friendships based more on emotional compatibility than mutual interest. Quinn: It’s much easier when there’s common interests, but… if your personalities kind of work in tandem, you don’t really need to have a favourite sports team or whatever. Jason: I don’t really get along with like bro-y dudes in general, I find them intimidating… most of my friends are more emotionally-­ open, artistically-inclined dudes. Julian: One interesting thing that we’ve both spoken about is that we’re both children of immigrant parents… So, we often found comfort and solace in each other’s different way of being raised… at the same time, we’re just very similar people in that we have calm attitudes and fuck around a lot and banter with each other. Masculinist discourses of gender difference and heterosexism are largely missing from these accounts of friendship, thus substantiating the increasingly widespread notion that men’s friendships are no longer principally activity-based. What has persisted, however, is the centrality of humour to homosocial bonds. The participants framed humour as a key way men connect. In high school, Nick and his friends bonded by “hanging shit on each other” (i.e., making jokes at each other’s expense), and when describing the traits he looks for in a friend, Gus said, “Someone that’s comfortable with getting roasted”. This speaks to the notion that ‘only real men can laugh at themselves’ (Collinson, 1988, p. 185). However, these young men also mentioned maturity and intelligence in these discussions, to perhaps distance themselves from the more problematic forms of humour that perpetuate harm against minority groups (see Kehily & Nayak, 1997). For example, Joel said he prefers people who are “a bit more mature” and who have a “more intellectually robust level of humour”, while Quinn more explicitly said he “wouldn’t be friends with someone who doesn’t respect people”. Scholarship around humour suggests it is ‘implicated in the protection and establishment of normative boundaries and also has the potential to liberate or challenge boundaries’ (Underwood & Olson, 2019, p.  8). Here, the latter appears to be true, because although these men bond through laughter, it is not at the expense of minority groups or a means of policing masculinist discourse. So, while there is continuity in the use of

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humorous insults, the intent is to strengthen homosocial bonds rather than reproduce hierarchy. Alongside this more socio-positive approach to humour, the son participants emphasised the importance of having an emotional connection with their friends. In line with therapeutic discourse that promotes emotional disclosure as ‘part of an individual’s emotional well-being and of good relationships’ (Jamieson, 1998, p. 7), there was widespread acceptance that men should seek emotional support from, and be able to comfortably provide it to, their men (and women) friends: Joel: Gus:

It’s definitely important to have someone you can open up to. …someone that you can go and talk to if you need to, if that’s how you’d categorise a best friend, I think it would be important to have a best friend.

Likewise, most son participants said they were comfortable seeking and providing support: Seb: Nick:

Probably most people that I’ve written down [on the friendship map]… I would be comfy talking to about stuff… [and] being emotional with them and telling them how I felt. Me and Darren had like a half an hour heart to heart literally just then, it was actually a good one, it was about how happy we are at the moment.

This data illustrates that gender difference discourse, which once relegated the need for and provision of emotional support to women, is no longer a dominant element of these participants’ masculine subjectivity, nor does it censor their help-seeking behaviours. On the contrary, when one participant embraced therapeutic discourse it encouraged his friends to do so too: Joshua: My experience with my psychologist has sponsored [my friend] to go to one himself. Julian: My cousin [said to us] ‘when I came into this group, there was just like suicide jokes and depression jokes all around, but now you guys are just like building each other up and like really wholesome and really there for each other and like that’s the type of fucking change that I live for’.

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The shift to more emotionally supportive friendships has thus been a relational process for the son participants and, as I will go on to demonstrate, not without complexities and contradictions. Nonetheless, these young men are now openly engaging in friendships characterised by ‘shared intrinsic revelation, nurturance and emotional support’, as women have for decades (Rubin, 1985, p. 61). While this deeper level of emotional connection has taken some getting used to, the son participants demonstrated a relatively sophisticated handle on therapeutic language: Quinn:

I think it can be uncomfortable. Especially because, like, empathy is really hard. If you don’t really know the situation but someone’s coming to you and wanting support, you… just need to listen. Connor: I’ll acknowledge [the issue], I’ll try and comfort them. If appropriate, I’ll try and make them laugh. But I think it’s just being there, giving someone your time and your attention, listening to them… I try not to reject their feelings, and I try not to minimise it… You’re just there to help them in this time of need, this time of vulnerability. And the thing is, with all of these people, I’ve been vulnerable at some stage or another. One could hardly characterise these young men as ‘hopeless at emotional forms of caring’—a tendency also critiqued by Holmes (2015, p. 177). Nor does this data align with Whitehead’s (2002, p. 174) previous contention that, ‘in seeking to control the uncertainty that might be generated by emotional intimacy, many men—consciously or otherwise— reach for conventional practice and behaviours of stereotypical masculinity’. While this is still partially true for some of the son participants, the overwhelming majority have embraced therapeutic discourse and described having trusting, emotionally intimate friendships. The following quotes exemplify what the son participants said ‘emotional intimacy’ looks like in their friendships: Quinn:

The ability to be open and give support as well as accept support. It can be easy to be closed off and try to have that image of like, “I’m doing okay, I’m strong”‘, but if you’re emotionally intimate you have to be vulnerable.

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I guess just being able to talk about serious topics, not just keeping it with all the light stuff and just talking shit… being honest with how you feel about things.

In line with therapeutic discourse, the participants recognise that vulnerability and emotional disclosure are central to strong friendships and emotional well-being: “I am trying to have that emotional intimacy with my friends more often… I think it makes the friendship stronger, it’s what people need” (Quinn). Indeed, most feel comfortable saying “I love you” to their friends: Mason: Connor:

I tell him I love him all the time… it’s just, like, a bromance. I’m pretty sure I’ve told Kyle that I love him… I probably would have said it to Aaron, but it was more light-hearted than anything else. Underlying, the love is probably there but it wasn’t a deep conversation, it was like, ‘I love you, man’. Brittany: Do you tell them you love them? Joel: Yeah… could be once a week. Especially when I miss them [laughs]. Brittany: Have you always felt comfortable doing that? Joel: More recently, very comfortable. Before? No. It takes a long time to get there, but I think it depends on your personality, and when you meet people who you obviously click with it’s not hard to get there. Despite coming from a variety of cultural and geographic backgrounds and being up to eight years apart in age, these men described a highly similar approach to verbal expressions of affection. Indeed, unlike Kiesling’s (2005, p. 720) participants, whose investment in a masculinist subject position required them to ‘find ratified indirect ways of taking up homosocial stances that are not homosexual stances’, most of the young men in this study seemed largely unconcerned about the prospect of being perceived as gay. Despite some disclaimers (“it’s just, like, a bromance”, and “it was more light-hearted”), the ease with which these participants express their homosocial love highlights the declining role of homohysteric discourse in constituting their friendship practices. This has been a relatively recent development in the son participants’ lives, in some cases triggered by alcohol and other recreational drugs (see Chap. 6) or a biographical disruption. Jacob only says it to one friend:

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“He started [saying it], so I reciprocated… just like after a Zoom chat, ‘see ya mate, love you’”. For Julian, it became normalised after a breakup: Julian:

After I broke up with my girlfriend, I was talking to them a lot more than I used to, and… whenever I’d chat on the phone to them, I’d always finish with like, ‘oh man, thanks, you’ve been a real good help, I love you’, and they’d be a little bit taken aback. But then slowly they’ve waned down, and now they’ll just be like ‘love you too, man’. It’s been this really nice change of like, ‘no, we’re not hiding our feelings’.

Here, there was no ulterior intent or extenuating circumstances, and no one was intoxicated; it was one man telling another man that he appreciates his support and loves him. This illustrates the extent to which some young men are rejecting heterosexist and homohysteric discourse, and instead embracing alternative subject positions constituted by queer-­ inclusion discourse. There were, however, some son participants who were less comfortable with explicit homosocial emotionality. Though Joshua described himself as an emotionally vulnerable person, his perspective on other men was still informed by a gender difference discourse: “in my experience… either men just don’t know how to handle that kind of information, or I just don’t think it interests them”. So, while he feels comfortable talking to women about his mental health, he is less inclined to do so with other men: Joshua:

I can say that I’m not having a good day, but I probably wouldn’t go into that much detail… because he is a man and not a particularly emotionally vulnerable person, I find it difficult to have emotional conversations with him, although I know that if I needed to talk about something specific he’d be there for me.

There appear to be two potential discursive tensions at play here. The first, between Joshua’s adoption of therapeutic and gender difference discourse, which led him to be less trusting of his friends who are men. The second, between Joshua’s adoption of therapeutic discourse and his friend’s persistent commitment to a more masculinist subject position. Either or both may be true, but what underpins it all is the understanding

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that Joshua’s struggles with mental health are a burden (explored further later in this chapter). Mason expressed a similar sentiment: Mason:

Over the years we’ve just been there for each other, gotten to know each other, have a laugh, talk to each other about stuff… nothing like personal-personal… I don’t really do that… I feel like I could talk to him, but it’s better to keep that to myself than put a burden on him.

In both cases, these participants felt that they could talk to their close friends but were still hesitant to do so. This was partly informed by their persistent commitment to a discourse of manly self-reliance (discussed later in this chapter) but also, again, illustrates McQueen’s (2017, p. 207) finding that when men discuss emotionality and intimacy, ‘the tension between the traditional and progressive discourses is tangible’. Yet for the most part it appears the convergence of feminist, therapeutic and queer-­ inclusion discourse constitutes friendships among younger men characterised by emotional disclosure and intimacy; the dominant sentiment was that men should talk to other men about how they feel.

Men Should Express Emotion The son participants almost universally rejected ‘boys don’t cry’ discourse in the interview setting. However, many said they hadn’t felt the need to express emotion to their friends before, or that they preferred to describe how they feel, rather than physically express it. This may signal the ‘embodied effects of the taboo against emotionality and vulnerability’ (Berggren, 2014, p. 245) that was present in their high school years. High school environments have long been considered ‘intricate masculinising agencies’ in which dominant (masculinist) discourses of gender are thoroughly embedded and, at times, violently policed (Mac an Ghaill, 1994, p. 31). Though the increasing influence of queer-inclusion discourse meant homosocial touch was discursively permissible (illustrated later in this chapter), the masculinist dichotomy of emotion and reason still appeared to be dominant. Nonetheless, within a few years of graduating the son participants transitioned into more emotionally expressive friendships:

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Seb:

Julian:

In high school I was a little bit more scared of, like, being weak, which I don’t think is really an issue anymore. I think if you have good friends, it might be a general adulthood thing that disappears, or maybe I’ve just been lucky. But yeah, I’m a bit more comfortable being vulnerable now… being able to open up about sad stuff. I definitely used to think that my emotions were a burden on people. I really don’t know when there was a change, but eventually… I was like ‘this isn’t a burden, just share it’… I really don’t know why I had the change in mindset, I obviously just learned better.

As these excerpts illustrate, the son participants attributed their behavioural shift to the natural progression of growing up, maturing and simply ‘learning better’. However, the language they employ demonstrates that this learning was constituted by feminist and therapeutic discourse. Among the son participants there was a relatively consistent belief that men should be able to show emotion: Mason:

Gus:

Men should be able to let it out, they should be able to show emotion. Like if they’re crying, they’re crying. If they need help, they need help… If you need to be sad, be sad. If you need a hug, get a hug. If you need to see someone about it just see someone. I think that’s the way society is going. So, I see it a lot online, about how it’s not manly to bottle up your emotions and stuff. I see a lot more of that and it’s like “men don’t have to be a strong all the time, men can break down”, that type of stuff… And there’s probably a lot of people who don’t think that and think like, “yeah, he’s a wimp, he’s a pussy”, whatever, but most people I think are a lot better. I think I’m pretty good at that as well.

As with the father participants, the sons’ acceptance of emotional expression was informed by the convergence of feminist and therapeutic discourse; that experiencing and expressing emotions is human, and that if someone needs help coping with their emotions, it is acceptable to seek it. However, again, when it came to their own emotional disposition, there

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was a varied range of responses. Some said they would feel comfortable expressing emotions to their friends: Brittany: Gus: Brittany: Matt: Brittany: Matt:

How comfortable do you feel expressing emotion in front of your friends? I would say comfortable, I’ve got no issue with it… If I was sad, I would be fine just saying, ‘I’m sad, I’m not feeling right, and I just want to be by myself’. Do you feel comfortable expressing emotions with these guys? Yeah, only to probably those overseas friends… they’re the friends that I’ve been closest to lately and they’re probably the friends that I’ll be closest to for the rest of my life. Would you ever cry in front of them? Probably would, depending on how bad it was.

Likewise, almost all son participants said they would be comfortable with their friends crying: Connor: Joel: Quinn:

I’d be more than happy for one of my male friends to come to me and cry. Yeah, if they did cry, it wouldn’t be a problem. It would be very supportive. I’ve seen a couple of them cry, but that’s only one on one. But I’d say we’re very open with how sad we are when we’re sad.

These responses reflect a rejection of the ‘boys don’t cry’ discourse that once censored men’s expression of vulnerable emotions within homosocial relationships. However, more significant forms of emotional expression like crying were discussed here as a matter of principle, rather than in relation to specific experiences: “I would be fine” (Gus), “I would be more than happy” (Connor), “if they did cry” (Joel). Indeed, despite describing themselves as “emotionally vulnerable” (Joshua) or a “big old sooky-la-la” (Connor), many of the son participants had a hard time providing an example of a time they had become outwardly emotional with their friends. One significant exception to this was Julian, who started a “sad club” with two of his close friends when they were all going through a difficult time:

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Julian:

We’d all go out to dinner and just fucking talk shit to each other. It was really nice… Jared would tell us that it’s hard and weird that his parents have separated. Gavesh would tell us about how his dad was going with the treatment [for a terminal illness]. And then I’d just be like, ‘I’m sad that she broke up with me’. Brittany: And everyone was comfortable with that? Julian: No, no one felt weird about it. No one was like, ‘oh man, it’s going to be an overshare. What are they going to do with this information?’ We were all just like, ‘fuck it man, shit happens, let’s just go through it together’. Like Andrew and his therapy group (see Chap. 4), Julian’s friendship with these men was constituted by therapeutic discourse that defines emotional disclosure as central to well-being. By creating a designated space for emotionality, they were able to feel safe when expressing how they felt. Other participants also emphasised the importance of being able to trust their friends and knowing they will not be judged. This might suggest that remnants of the fear and mistrust Way (2013) observed among adolescent boys lingers in these more contemporary homosocial friendships. However, like McQueen (2017), I would characterise this sense of vulnerability not as evidence of socio-negative continuity, but as stemming from the uncertainty of socio-positive change. Many of the son participants said they tended not to express vulnerable emotions in front of their friends: Nick:

Sadness, I don’t talk about it a whole heap. Not that I try and mask it, [but] I’m certainly someone that when I’m sad I just want to be alone, and I know I’ll sort it out myself, I’m not someone that needs to be overly comforted. Jacob: Usually you would just say if you’re sad or anxious or something like that, we like openly label how we’re feeling in my friendships because, at least for me, I’m not that expressive physically with my emotions. Joel: I would articulate [my feelings], but I’d never cry in front of them. If I did, I don’t think it would ever be an issue, but that’s just not the forum for that sort of thing.

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This was perhaps the most explicit contradiction evident in the son participants’ data; emotional expression was universally accepted and even encouraged, but rarely practiced. Here, this was constructed in relation to a sense of autonomy, individual emotional disposition or the atmosphere of the setting. Regardless of the reasoning, the outcome was largely the same; these young men will talk about how they feel and feel comfortable labelling it, but rarely express vulnerable emotions physically. In some ways, this aligns with Peltola and Phoenix’s (2022, p. 111) finding that: While the boys were willing to question masculine stereotypes and to embrace the multiplicity of masculinities at the level of discourses, when talking about their own practices and everyday lives, they were keen to avoid ‘feminine’ sharing and showing emotions.

However, I would not frame the tensions between discourse and practice as evidence of a persistent avoidance of femininity, as the young men in my study did practice emotional disclosure or sharing. Rather, it appeared to stem from the sense of vulnerability said to be characteristic of a shift in feeling rules (Hochschild, 1979). In her study of men’s emotionality in romantic relationships, McQueen (2017, p. 217) argues that ‘there has been a shift in accepted discourse within this context; men value emotional disclosure more, despite often finding this difficult to achieve’. She notes the tensions that emerge when the emotion work required of men shifts from suppression to admission, and the lingering sense of vulnerability this entails. My data substantiates and expands upon this work by highlighting a similar dynamic within men’s homosocial relationships. For the father participants, the disconnect between discourse and emotional practice appeared to stem from the embodied effects of a lifetime of abiding masculinist discourse. Perhaps this was true of the son participants, too, given they had to regulate their emotional expression during high school. However, what seems more likely is that these young men are experiencing what McQueen (2017, p. 216) describes as the ‘messy uncertainty of cultural change in regard to feeling rules’; despite embracing the shift from masculinist to therapeutic discourse surrounding emotionality, ‘a sense of vulnerability remains pervasive’. This messy uncertainty was evident when Jacob explained why he doesn’t cry in front of his friends:

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Jacob:

Brittany: Jacob:

I think I would be uncomfortable about it… I guess one part of it is, it’s a really vulnerable state. So, I guess I’d be worried about being judged for whatever I’m crying about, but it’s not a reflection of my friends, it’s just an expectation I have on myself. I think it’s to do with my own self-image. I think it would be incongruent in a sense, which is not a good reason, but yeah. So, I guess I would try to hold back the tears if I could. But do you still think that it will be received quite well? Yeah, definitely. As ridiculous as that sounds.

In this short exchange, Jacob contradicted himself, acknowledged the contradiction and then re-asserted his position despite labelling it “ridiculous”. In some ways, he made explicit what was implicit in other participants’ responses: a disconnect between discourse and practice. However, this does not render the son participants’ embrace of feminist and therapeutic discourse superficial. Instead, I would argue that it reflects the complex agentive process described by Waling (2019, p. 100), and reminiscent of how women and girls engage and find pleasure in practices of ‘perceived oppressive femininity, such as fashion and sexualisation’ despite being aware of this oppressive nature (see McGladrey, 2015). In this way, agency is not necessarily the absence of cultural influence, but a complex, relational process whereby individuals reflect on and negotiate a variety of systemic and cultural forces (see also Gill, 2007). Likewise, the son participants may understand the value of emotional expression (and the harm of emotional suppression) but feel that to maintain control and composure in certain contexts is more congruent with how they want to be perceived. This has material implications, given masculine privilege can stem from or be supported by certain emotional dispositions (see de Boise & Hearn, 2017). Yet the discursive decoupling of emotional expression from masculinity is an important step towards the practice of emotional expression. Indeed, there was an almost complete absence of gender difference discourse in how the son participants conveyed their understanding of emotion in the interview setting. Emotional expression was not feminised, nor did the participants attribute their own emotional disposition to their gender. In fact, at other points in the interview they explicitly rejected the rigidity of gender difference discourse: Nick:

There’s different types of men, there’s different meanings of being a man… men can have traits of a woman, and women can have traits of a man. I think it’s just like, traits of a fucking human.

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In addition to the widespread rejection of gender difference discourse, the fact that men like Julian who are more inclined towards the physical expression of emotion can do so in front of other men, represents an immense discursive shift across just one genealogical generation: Julian:

The fondest memory that comes to mind was when [a friend] and I were watching Gang of Youths at [a music festival]… I just started crying, like bawling my eyes out, and he took me in and hugged me. He’s just like, ‘it’s okay… I’ve got you’… Gang of Youths has a lot of sentimental value to me, and it was really nice to share it with someone.

Though it may not be the norm in practice, this excerpt highlights the extent to which masculinist ‘boys don’t cry’ discourse has been destabilised in the context of these young men’s friendships.

Men Should Ask for Help Less than two decades ago, Kiesling (2005, p. 720) stated that, ‘affiliation is often equated with dependence, so homosociality is almost by definition not masculine’. This, he argues, places men in a double bind; they must create solidarity with other men, but not love or dependency. The data presented thus far paints an immensely different picture. The son participants verbally express love, seek and provide emotional support and, in some cases, express vulnerable emotions. Yet for some there was still a hesitancy to be dependent on their friends, informed in part by a persistent discourse of manly self-reliance. This was certainly not a universal pattern in the dataset. Several participants described being entirely comfortable with help-seeking: Julian:

I’ve definitely gone to everyone on this list about… break ups, family troubles, and just like turmoil within myself. Connor: I think most people go through a stage of their lives where they’re trying to figure out, ‘do I tell someone about this, or can I deal with this by myself?’… but I never really withheld… I’ve always felt comfortable telling my close friends and family how I feel.

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For others, it’s something they are consciously trying to get comfortable with: Joel: Quinn:

I’ve consciously tried to [be more open] ‘cause it’s been a bit of a sticking point in some of my relationships, that I’ve been a bit closed off sometimes. I’m a lot better at listening to people’s problems than I am, like, putting my problems out. But I am trying to have that emotional intimacy with my friends more often.

In either case, these son participants rejected manly self-reliance discourse and embraced therapeutic discourse that frames emotional disclosure and mutual dependence as central to well-being and healthy relationships. As these excerpts suggest, this was often described as a conscious shift that emerged from periods of emotional reflexivity. Connor framed this reflexivity as part of growing up and engaging in different types of relationships. However, he also said he hadn’t ever withheld his feelings to begin with; “I’ve always felt comfortable telling my close friends and family how I feel”. It is significant that he mentioned confiding in family, as his father is a psychologist who encouraged both affection and emotional disclosure: “My kids have seen me cry, my son cried”; “I still cuddle my son… give him a kiss” (George). Therapeutic discourse was thus present in Connor’s family environment, arguably equipping him to navigate the uncertainty that characterises a cultural shift away from masculinist discourse. On the other hand, Joel grew up in Country Victoria, which he described as a “classic toxic masculine environment”. The shift to therapeutic discourse was thus more turbulent: “you hate yourself for it, but it’s like a default because you’ve been conditioned for that… you do have to correct yourself”. The period of reflexivity Joel described was initially triggered by conversations with intimate partners, as his lack of disclosure and expression had been “a sticking point” in those relationships. This aligns with McQueen’s (2017, p. 217) finding that there is an ‘accepted value in disclosing emotion within intimate relationships that is recognised culturally’. However, this adoption of therapeutic discourse then broadened out into the realm of friendship when Joel moved interstate and began working in a government health department where “there’s a consciousness there about mental health and being supportive”. The combination of interpersonal conflict, a biographical disruption and a new social network

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that embraced therapeutic discourse culminated in a relatively holistic rejection of the masculinist discourse Joel was subjected to growing up. Now, he finds it difficult to live without these deeper forms of mutual dependency: Brittany: Joel:

Emotional intimacy could be opening up about how you’re feeling, telling your friends you love themYeah, I do that a lot. Not with the Melbourne crew, but with the Sydney blokes I do… Which is a frustration moving back, ‘cause I don’t have that level of friendship that I do with these blokes… I actually think it’s the hardest thing about being in Melbourne.

In this and the above excerpts, dependency was not framed as a weakness, but as a core element of close friendships. As Quinn aptly noted: “it makes the friendship stronger, also it’s like what people need”. However, other son participants had not embraced this dependency. Several son participants had adopted therapeutic discourse around the benefits of emotional disclosure and expression but maintained an either implicit or explicit commitment to manly self-reliance discourse. This produced a contradiction in their responses along the lines of, I would ask for help but I have not ever needed to: Brittany: Have you sought emotional support from your friends recently? Jason: Not recently, no, my life is pretty stable to be honest. Nick: I haven’t had many times of need that I couldn’t handle myself. Gus: It’s just never needed to happen… I guess things are pretty easy, we’re all pretty privileged, pretty well off, so we don’t have huge hardships. It might be different if we did. As noted by Peltola and Phoenix (2022, p. 116), presenting oneself ‘as never having problems … implicitly constructs [oneself] as strong and autonomous and so normatively masculine’. However, there is perhaps some truth to Gus’s reflection here; most of the son participants were middle-class, able-bodied, cis-gendered, white men and were thus not subjected to the everyday forms of stress and trauma that marginalised communities face. Indeed, these three participants did not describe experiencing a significant biographical disruption, unlike those quoted above

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who had experienced heartbreak, serious mental illness, or a death or serious illness among their close family members. Perhaps this is needed to move from discursively accepting dependency, to putting it into practice. Though by far the minority in the dataset, some son participants remained solidly invested in a discourse of manly self-reliance. For Mason this stemmed from his desire for privacy, and the understanding of his emotions as a burden on others: Mason: Brittany: Mason:

I don’t talk about my personal issues with people I know in real life, because then they’ll worry about me and always come to check up on me. I don’t want them to worry. You said before that you’re happy to check on people, why don’t you think people would be happy to check on you? I don’t know. I don’t like to worry people with my issues… I wouldn’t go to someone and say, like ‘dude, I need help’. Unless it’s really bad… like suicidal thoughts.

This was one of many contradictions that emerged in Mason’s interview and illustrated the disconnect between his espousal of more progressive discourse and the traditional discourse that constituted his actions. Mason previously argued that men “should be able to show emotion… if they need help, they need help”, but for him, help was only warranted as an absolute last resort, “like suicidal thoughts”. As will be explored in Chap. 6, Mason preferred to seek support from people online, but even then, there were risks involved: “if you tell someone, it could get into the wrong hands”. So, while Mason framed his self-reliance as altruistic (“I don’t really want them to have a worry”), it appeared to be underpinned by a lingering sense of vulnerability and distrust of other men. As someone who is familiar with feminist discourse and has sought counselling for depression for many years, Joshua was not necessarily concerned about vulnerability, but said he tends not to seek support because his problems are “inherently unsolvable”: Joshua:

I think my problems are genuinely a little bit bigger than just going out and talking to my mates about it… I live in [a remote town], it’s very isolated, I work a lot, I don’t have any friends in [this area]. But I’m not willing to change any of that, like I can’t, I was paying Dad’s mortgage and now I’m paying his rent, and I’m buying them food every week, so I

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can’t not work. And work is also the one thing that I’m ­actually good at, it’s the one thing that gives me satisfaction in my life, and it’s social too. So, all these things form an important component, I can’t stop one of them because then inevitably it makes it worse. It’s an inherently unsolvable problem. So, after you talk to people about that for a while and you just keep on getting the same answer, what’s the point of talking to other people about it? Brittany: Are the problems you’re talking about sort of logistical, like burnoutJoshua: Oh, and like incredible depression and suicidal ideation… I guess the reason I don’t like talking to more people about it is because it just creates more drama than it needs to and I don’t want people falling over me, I hate that… There’s no solution other than just continuing forward. Whilst Joshua’s adoption of therapeutic and feminist discourse meant he is willing to talk to people about his problems, doing so seems to be less about comfort or support, and more about the instrumental value of their advice. In fact, there appeared to be some resistance to comfort and support: “I don’t want people falling over me”. It is here that a masculinist discourse of self-reliance crept back into Joshua’s thinking. However, it is worth noting the severity of the challenges he has faced. As well as coping with treatment-resistant depression, his parents divorced when he was young and at high school he “didn’t have many friends… it wasn’t a fun time”. He lived out of home during Year 11 and 12 (out of necessity), and as an adult he has worked long hours to financially support his father who has been unemployed for many years. To frame Joshua’s self-reliance as masculinist and therefore inherently problematic would be both arrogant and reductionist, particularly given my own more stable and privileged upbringing. Rather, I would argue that while he does engage with feminist and therapeutic discourse, Joshua has also drawn on the typically masculinised traits of stoicism and self-reliance to overcome significant adversity. It is, however, of theoretical significance to note that emotional support is framed here as a practical endeavour—a matter of problem-solving, rather than comfort or care—and how this constitutes his particular approach to friendship. Jacob expressed a similar sentiment:

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Jacob:

I don’t see it as important to unload what’s happening in my life to my friends, I don’t think it’s actually that helpful to me. I think I just do it to be close with my friends and I see it as an act of trust or intimacy, to share what I’m thinking about or what’s happening in my life. […] Brittany: How do you usually deal with something like that? Jacob: I guess just by thinking about it a lot… but I tend to not rely on others as much for emotional support. One reason being that I think I’m in the best position to make judgements about my own life… But it is nice to be able to tell your friends and have them be like ‘are you alright?’ To see that they care, I guess, is what’s important. While Jacob’s responses suggest his friendship practices are partly constituted by feminist and therapeutic discourse around emotional support, this co-exists with his commitment to self-reliance. This is perhaps because his understanding of emotional support is largely limited to the provision of advice, which he views as unnecessary. However, Jacob did, in the end, concede there is some value in expressions of care and support. Thus, while feminist and therapeutic discourse has effectively destabilised ‘boys don’t cry’ and gender difference discourse, allowing men to talk about and express their emotions, they appear to have been less effective at challenging the discourse of manly self-reliance. This produced the above-mentioned contradiction of, I would ask for help but I have not ever needed to. This seems to be partly due to an understanding of emotional support as a practical endeavour—a way to access advice or solutions, rather than comfort and support. However, and crucially, the son participants who do value the latter aspects of emotional support are now able to access it within their friendships with other men, largely without fear of masculinist policing.

Men Hug and Kiss (But Context Matters) In line with the body of work cited at the outset of this book, the younger men in my study were considerably more comfortable with physical affection than previous generations have been. Yet there were limits and conditions to the acceptability of homosocial touch that are perhaps not fully

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acknowledged or theorised elsewhere in the literature. I attempt to make sense of this nuance here. The son participants said they were comfortable with leaning, hugging, nuzzling, hugging from behind, sharing a bed, kissing on the cheek and, in some contexts, even kissing their friends on the mouth. When discussing the kinds of physical intimacy they engage in with their friends, they said: Jacob: Julian: Seb: Quinn: Nick:

I think a hug is a pretty good way to convey your love. I’ve always been pretty comfy hugging them and like, if they’re sitting down at a table, like come up from behind and nuzzle their head. I give everyone hugs. I’ve got some cuddly friends… I’ll go up and lean on them if I’m tired or give them a hug from behind. […] He’s got a double bed and we all slept in that. So, [the three of us] had to do a spoon-train, which we were all fine with. We for sure hug. Um, there’s smooching, there’s some smooching. Certainly hugs… I’ve pecked [a friend] once when I was absolutely blind [drunk].

Here, hugging is described as an everyday practice. For this younger generation of men, queer-inclusion discourse had penetrated mainstream public and political spaces as early as their adolescence, so for some this physical intimacy began in high school: “it mostly spawned out of like Grade 11, Grade 12” (Julian), “last days of term it would be like a handshake and a… pretty long hug” (Nick). Indeed, for most of their adult life, affectionate homosocial touch has not been discursively associated with homosexuality or femininity, representing a profound shift across just one genealogical generation. Illustrating this, Seb is a bisexual man and his friends felt completely comfortable sharing a bed and ‘spooning’ with him. However, perhaps unsurprisingly, there are some limits to participants’ engagement in homosocial kissing. While these young men engage in the occasional platonic kiss with another man, it is only as a joke, a dare or in the context of heavy drinking:

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Seb: Gus: Nick: Quinn:

It happens every now and then… it usually is a humorous kiss. It’s not like a ‘kiss me so I feel something’, it’s like ‘yeah I’ll kiss Seb, come on’. I went out last Friday night and I just happened to see a bunch of my footy friends… I went up to say hi and they all got excited. One of them said ‘give me a kiss’, so I gave him a kiss. I’ve kissed most of them on the cheek, which is like, again, one of those ‘we’re all fucked up’, ‘bromance’, arm around him at the festival, ‘I love you man, mwah’. When we’re really, really drunk… [we play] a really stupid card game… if you pulled the joker and guessed the joker everyone else had to kiss each other… it happened twice… it was four of us and we put our heads together and tried to kiss.

This aligns with my previous research, in that exaggerated forms of intimacy were considered acceptable if the intent or context was discursively aligned with a suitably masculine endeavour such as banter, sport or heavy drinking (Ralph & Roberts, 2020). Arguably, then, they have been ‘adopted into the repertoire of ways men can perform masculinity’ (Ralph & Roberts, 2020, p.  98). Indeed, while these behaviours do ‘require a certain level of trust and closeness and may be underpinned by genuine and sincere affection’ (Ralph & Roberts, 2020, p.  91), they are not deployed solely as a means of communicating that affection. Joel: Quinn:

Maybe there’s something underlying there but you never really think about it all that much. There is a bit of like, ‘this is a cute friendship thing’, but it’s not [the same as] a genuine hug… like a hug, as in ‘guys, I need a hug’… it’s never been the same with kissing.

My data therefore refutes the notion that homosocial kissing (on the mouth while sober) is employed as a means of communicating genuine platonic love (cf Anderson et al., 2012). Yet, there was a profound absence of homohysteric discourse in these discussions. Previously, I documented ‘the deployment of a diluted but still present homohysteric discourse as means of policing [homosocial] intimacy’, as the participants ‘defined the boundaries of acceptable intimacy according to what is okay and what is gay’ (Ralph & Roberts, 2020, p. 98). Yet this dataset offers a slightly different perspective. Though the son participants

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occasionally made a connection between two men kissing and the prospect of homosexual intimacy, they described a distinct lack of concern about being perceived as gay: Seb: Nick:

It’s really nice that that’s shifted… there is that license because like we’re all comfy with each other. I think we’re all pretty cognisant of the fact that no one’s trying to fuck anyone. It doesn’t happen regularly, but no one’s homophobic, no one’s like ‘ew guys kissing’. At [a festival], two of the guys genuinely pashed… I was like to my mate, ‘is that happening?’… and he was like, ‘yeah, it’s happening’, and I’m like ‘oh, fair enough’.

Rather than representing diluted homohysteria, this data indicates that kissing on the mouth (while sober and for the sole purpose of expressing intimacy) is discursively associated with romantic love, in a way that applies to people of all genders. Brittany: Seb:

Would you ever do it to show affection? Not on the mouth. I kiss my friends in other places to show affection… like, the forehead or the top of the head or the cheek… that’s not like a ‘oh guys won’t kiss each other’ thing, we just don’t like kissing people on the mouth if they’re not ready for it.

It is thus not the masculinist impetus to reject homosexuality and femininity that informs the boundaries of acceptable homosocial kissing for these young men, but broader norms surrounding social etiquette and prescient sexual and/or romantic scripts. For these young men, queer-inclusion discourse appears to have effectively disrupted the discursive link between homosocial intimacy and homosexuality, such that—in line with IMT—homohysteric discourse no longer governs their engagement in genuine forms of platonic physical intimacy. However, it is important to clarify that the act of homosocial kissing does not necessarily preclude the persistence of homophobic discourse. The above data suggests kissing has become integrated into the repertoire of ways men can enact masculinity in certain contexts, so— while not evident in my data—men may engage in these behaviours to signal a masculine identity, while still holding homophobic views thereby

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appearing progressive while still occupying a masculinist subject position (Bridges & Pascoe, 2014). Yet here, and across multiple other studies (Adams, 2011; McCormack, 2012; Anderson,et  al., 2012; Anderson & McCormack, 2015), there is a definitive lack of both homohysteria and homophobia among men. In these cases, increased physical intimacy does signal genuine positive change, and a rejection of masculinist discourses of heterosexism and homohysteria. As I argue in more detail elsewhere (Ralph & Roberts, forthcoming), a feminist poststructuralist approach can achieve similar analytic outcomes to Anderson’s IMT, but better accounts for this co-existence of change and continuity.

Conclusion The discursive shift that has occurred between the father and son participants’ adolescence and early adulthood is immense—and according to my data—has been informed by feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse. Where masculinist discourse once relegated homosocial touch, emotional expression and disclosure strictly to the realm of the feminine, the son participants understood them as acceptable, if not desirable, aspects of men’s friendships. My data therefore sits in stark contrast to Kiesling’s (2005, p.  720) assertion that ‘to create a masculine identity along the lines of dominant cultural discourses of masculinity, a man must not create love, dependency or sexual desire with his “fellow” men, but at the same time he must create solidarity with them’. There was, however, some tension between discourse and practice evident across the son participants’ responses. For example, while they almost universally rejected ‘boys don’t cry’ discourse, some said they more often describe their emotions to their friends, rather than physically express them. In addition to this, a persistent discourse of manly self-reliance meant some son participants were hesitant to be dependent on their friends. This, I argue, was not inherently or entirely problematic. One son participant appeared to draw on masculinist traits of stoicism and self-reliance to overcome significant adversity. Yet his approach was underpinned by an understanding of emotional support as a practical, solution-oriented endeavour, rather than the provision of comfort or care. This aspect of masculinism has perhaps not been effectively destabilised by feminist and therapeutic discourse. Moreover, my data suggests that these complexities and tensions exist because the son participants are experiencing the ‘messy uncertainty of cultural change in regard to feeling rules’—and, arguably,

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homosocial intimacy more broadly (McQueen, 2017, p. 216). By employing a feminist poststructuralist lens, I am able to acknowledge and unpack these tensions while still highlighting the genuinely positive social change that is occurring over time and across generations of Australian men. Yet masculinism remains dominant across other contexts and relations. As the participants navigate this new and contentious discursive terrain there is still a risk that they may, in some contexts, be denigrated for their engagement with progressive counter-discourse. Thus far, I have illustrated the discursive complexities and contradictions this produced in the participants’ contemporary understanding and enactment of friendship. In Chap. 6, I delve further into the more practical, everyday strategies both the father and son participants employed (whether consciously or not) to overcome this sense of vulnerability and the barriers to more intimate friendship practices they initially faced.

References Adams, A. (2011). “Josh wears pink cleats”: Inclusive masculinity on the soccer field. Journal of Homosexuality, 58(5), 579–596. Anderson, E., Adams, A., & Rivers, I. (2012). “I kiss them because I love them”: The emergence of heterosexual men kissing in British institutes of education. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 41(2), 421–430. Anderson, E., & McCormack, M. (2015). Cuddling and spooning: Heteromasculinity and homosocial tactility among student-athletes. Men and Masculinities, 18(2), 214–230. Berggren, K. (2014). Sticky masculinity: Post-structuralism, phenomenology and subjectivity in critical studies on men. Men and Masculinities, 17(3), 231–252. Bridges, T., & Pascoe, C. J. (2014). Hybrid masculinities: New directions in the sociology of men and masculinities. Sociology compass, 8(3), 246–258. Coates, J. (2003). Men talk: Stories in the making of masculinities. Blackwell. Collinson, D. L. (1988). “Engineering humour”: Masculinity, joking and conflict in shop-floor relations. Organization Studies, 9(2), 181–199. de Boise, S., & Hearn, J. (2017). Are men getting more emotional? Critical sociological perspectives on men, masculinities and emotions. The Sociological Review, 65(4), 779–796. Fischer, M. (2016). #Free_CeCe: The material convergence of social media activism. Feminist Media Studies, 16(5), 755–771. Gill, R. (2007). Critical respect: The dilemmas of “choice” and agency for women’s studies. European Journal of Women’s Studies, 14, 69–80. Gough, B. (2006). Try to be healthy, but don’t forgo your masculinity: Deconstructing men’s health discourse in the media. Social Science & Medicine, 63(9), 2476–2488.

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Hochschild, A.  R. (1979). Emotion work, feeling rules, and social structure. American Journal of Sociology, 85(3), 551–575. Holmes, M. (2015). Men’s emotions: Heteromasculinity, emotional reflexivity, and intimate relationships. Men and Masculinities, 18(2), 176–192. Illouz, E. (2008). Saving the modern soul: Therapy, emotions, and the culture of self-­ help. University of California Press. Jamieson, L. (1998). Intimacy: Personal relationships in modern societies. Polity Press. Kehily, M. J., & Nayak, A. (1997). “Lads and Laughter”: Humour and the production of heterosexual hierarchies. Gender and Education, 9(1), 69–88. Kiesling, S. F. (2005). Homosocial desire in men’s talk: Balancing and re-creating cultural discourses of masculinity. Language in Society, 34(5), 695–726. Mac an Ghaill, M. (1994). The making of men: Masculinities, sexualities and schooling. Open University Press. McCormack, M. (2012). The declining significance of homophobia: How teenage boys are redefining masculinity and heterosexuality. Oxford University Press. McGladrey, M. L. (2015). Lolita is in the eye of the beholder: Amplifying preadolescent girls’ voices in conversations about sexualization, objectification, and performativity. Feminist Formations, 27(2), 165–190. McQueen, F. (2017). Male emotionality: “Boys don’t cry” versus “it’s good to talk”. NORMA, 12(3–4), 205–219. Nicholas, L., & Agius, N. (2017). The persistence of global masculinism: Discourse, gender and neo-colonial re-articulations of violence. Palgrave Macmillan. Peltola, M., & Phoenix, A. (2022). Nuancing young masculinities: Helsinki boys’ intersectional relationships in new times. Helsinki University Press. Ralph, B., & Roberts, S. (2020). One small step for man: Change and continuity in perceptions and enactments of homosocial intimacy among young Australian men. Men and Masculinities, 23(1), 83–103. Ralph, B., & Roberts, S. (forthcoming). Making sense of increasing physical touch in Australian men’s friendships: A feminist poststructuralist dialogue with inclusive masculinity theory. Journal of Bodies, Sexualities and Masculinities. Rubin, L.  B. (1985). Just friends: The role of friendship in our lives (1st ed.). Harper & Row. Underwood, M., & Olson, R. (2019). ‘Manly tears exploded from my eyes, lets feel together brahs’: Emotion and masculinity within an online body-building community. Journal of Sociology, 55(1), 90–107. Waling, A. (2019). Rethinking masculinity studies: Feminism, masculinity, and poststructural accounts of agency and emotional reflexivity. The Journal of Men’s Studies, 27(1), 89–107. Way, N. (2013). Boys’ friendships during adolescence: Intimacy, desire, and loss. Journal of Research on Adolescence, 23(2), 201–213. Whitehead, S. (2002). Men and masculinities: Key themes and new directions. Polity Press.

CHAPTER 6

Overcoming Barriers to Intimacy Through Humour, Alcohol and the Disembodied Nature of Online Spaces

Whitehead (2002, p.  214) writes that, ‘for the masculine subject to become a man, it must appropriate the “ideal” meanings of manhood circulating within that subject’s particular cultural setting and “communities”’. The data presented thus far suggests that, for the men in this study, contemporary notions of ‘ideal’ manhood now include greater acceptance of emotional vulnerability, expression and disclosure, and less aversion to physical affection. With a few exceptions, masculinist gender difference discourse around ‘being a sturdy oak’ and ‘no sissy stuff’ (David & Brannon, 1976) was largely absent from the discussions we had about friendship, and indeed their familial and romantic relationships. Yet, there was evidence of a persistent desire to be perceived as masculine according to some slightly less progressive standards. In noting the nuances of each participant’s account of friendship thus far, I have attempted to demonstrate that even among relatively homogenous, privileged groups of Australian men, processes of change are not straightforward or universal. In this chapter, I expand my lens slightly to explore complexities in the data that go beyond discursive tension and instead illustrate how the participants re-masculinise discussions of intimacy and leverage contextual or material circumstances to overcome initial barriers to intimate friendship practices. These strategies functioned to distance the participants from more ‘feminised’ notions of emotionality and care, but also allowed openness, communication and support to be aligned with or encapsulated within discourses of acceptable (even if not © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 B. Ralph, Destabilising Masculinism, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-39535-2_6

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traditionally ideal) manhood. As both the father and son participants’ data are included here, upon first mention their generation is denoted by an (F) or (S).

Masculinising Emotion and Intimacy Within their relatively progressive accounts of homosocial intimacy, many of the participants mobilised a set of linguistic strategies to reframe this new/alternative subject position as sufficiently masculine. Some—most often the son participants—would swear regularly, others conceptualised intimate friendship practices in terms of competence, skill or rationality. Referring to his best friend, Quinn (S) said, “He’s a little shit, but… he tells me pretty straight up what he thinks, which is really good cause that’s sometimes what I need”. In some respects, employing the ‘tough love’ narrative appeared to signal exactly that: toughness. Likewise, ‘telling it like it is’ suggested an ability to shift an emotional conversation, to a rational one. Nick (S) demonstrated this when describing the traits he admires in his father, Stefano (F): Nick:

Dad’s willingness to talk and ability to… comfort, but also rationalise what’s going on with people, and sort through that and also expect a lot from people. He isn’t someone that takes a lot of bullshit… But yeah, certainly the ability to console people, get them in order.

Here, Nick framed the provision of emotional support as an act of problem-solving, as well as a form of caring. Consoling a friend is discursively paralleled with ‘get[ting] them in order’. Indeed, many participants emphasised advice as a core aspect of emotional support. David (F), for example, said “We both help each other. We offer a lot of good counsel for each other”. This is not to say that participants only emphasised this aspect of emotional support. In many cases, it was simply one dimension. When asked why he would approach a particular friend for support, Nick said: Nick:

I feel like (1) he’s been through it, (2) he gives good advice, so I know that going to him would be a good option in terms of what I get out of it, (3) I feel like he is comforting, he’s very calm to be around, and he’s a pretty emotional guy.

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Here again, we see the discursive coupling of the emotional and the rational, of comforting and problem-solving. Through this coupling, disclosure and support do not sit in tension with masculinity but can instead be aligned with masculinist discourse and therefore drawn on to signify a masculine identity. Likewise, many participants framed emotional intelligence and support as a skill or a form of expertise: Seb (S): A lot of my friends know that I’m there. Which is nice, that I’ve established myself in that sort of way. I think I’m pretty good at giving advice… and I think a lot of people talk to me for stuff like that… and they seem to value what I have to say. Several participants expressed pride in their openness, and this veritable emotional expertise. Quinn said, “I’m definitely happy that I’m open and that I want to share things with people. I feel like I’m supportive, always like to listen… I think I’m good at giving advice”; and Nick said he is proud that he is good at “noticing when people aren’t right and pulling them aside to chat”. Crucially, these participants were proud, not just because they possess these qualities, but because their friends have acknowledged it, too: Nick:

I think it’s been that way since primary school. There was a kid that I wasn’t even that close to, in Grade 3, who had the confidence to come and talk to me about how his parents are divorcing… I think at that point I realised that ‘oh, people do see me as someone that they can come and talk to’.

These expressions of pride may signal the valorising of expertise common in masculinist discourse (Schrock & Schwalbe, 2009). However, there is a discursive shift taking place. Indeed, some participants prided themselves on being “honest, caring [and] empathetic” (Joel (S)) or embracing “empathy and… compassion” (David), with emotions standing alone, not bound to a framing of skill or wisdom. Likewise, some participants were cognisant that offering advice is not always necessary: “…we don’t need to solve a problem, we can just articulate it and we can hear it, and that’s part of the solution right there” (Derek (F)). It is, however, theoretically significant that masculinist notions of rationality,

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expertise and toughness crept into, or were perhaps subconsciously employed to masculinise, discussions of emotional intimacy. Another common masculinising technique the participants used was swearing. Before exploring this, however, it is worth noting that whilst uninhibited swearing is associated with idealised Australian masculinities (Murrie, 1998), it is also a common and relatively innocuous practice within Australian vernacular, as compared to other Anglo English speech varieties. Briefly explaining why, linguist Cliff Goddard (2015, pp. 211–212) notes the ‘shared presumed ordinariness’ that characterises Anglo-Australian cultural scripts, and the ‘appreciation of “irreverence” and… distrust of eloquence and verbal technique’ within Australian public life. No better evidence of this is that when interviewing Australian men, I have developed a simple but effective rapport-building technique: the casual use of swear words. This visibly dissipates participants’ discomfort, signalling that while I am a middle-class academic, at heart I am just another ordinary Aussie (notably, this technique may not have been received as well had I appeared working-class, though that is a reflection for another publication). So, while the explicit language documented below might seem excessive, it felt entirely appropriate within the interview context, and was mirrored back in my own speech. Nonetheless, there is room to consider how it functioned to masculinise the participants’ discussion of emotion and intimacy. When talking about ‘sad club’, Julian (S) said, “We’d all go out to dinner and just fucking talk shit to each other”, to describe his friends talking about heartbreak, fear and anxiety over dinner. Similarly, Seb used the phrase “if they feel like shit” to describe a state of sadness, and Quinn affectionately described his aforementioned friend as “a little shit”. The father participants also swore occasionally. For example, Stefano (F) said, “There’s certainly been conversations around, um, ‘shit’s just really hard’”, and, as noted in Chap. 4, Andrew (F) said, “He would tell me basically that he was feeling shithouse and lonely, and I would tell him any bullshit that was going on in my life”. Andrew also used the phrase “off his tits” to describe the time he visited his best friend in a psychiatric hospital: Brittany: And what was that like? Andrew: Oh, confronting, yeah. It was really bad to see him on drugs where he was off his tits… He was just not there. And it was just all weird and institutionalised… it was scary.

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Here, Andrew’s use of ‘explicit’ language sat alongside his admission of feeling confronted and scared. Indeed, while men are said to use profanities to perform toughness (Coates, 2003), it is also said to indicate ‘frustration with a lack of adequate language for feelings’ (Underwood & Olson, 2019, p. 99). In each of the above examples, profanities replaced more emotive language around sadness, affection and deep conversations, and arguably did serve to masculinise the participants’ responses. However, at other points in the interviews these men demonstrated a diverse vocabulary around emotion and vulnerability. Thus, it would be reductive to frame the participants’ swearing as solely a performance of toughness, when it may simply indicate some residual discomfort with emotional language. Indeed, in many instances, swear words served a practical linguistic purpose outside of performing masculinity. Nick used the phrase “fucked up” to describe a general state of intoxication, and Andrew’s use of “off his tits” allowed him to casually describe his friend’s state of lithium-­ induced comatose. In some cases, then, swearing might be the most effective language available. Outside of the interview context, the participants also described using humour as a discursive strategy to defuse tension around difficult conversations or feelings of vulnerability. Here, again, it is worth flagging the role of humour or ‘banter’ in Australian culture. While considered characteristic of the ‘Aussie Larrikin’ trope, it is also used more broadly in Australian public life as a ‘solution to ambiguity, liminality, tension and social unease’ (Wise, 2016, p. 481). In this dataset, then, the use of humour may flag a sense of tension and social unease around emotional disclosure and/or expression. What is important, then, is the extent to which it either facilitates or is used to deflect meaningful intimacy between men who are friends (see also Kehler, 2007). For James (S) and Quinn—and many other participants—humour is a mechanism for keeping things light: James:

So, Lachlan is a registered nurse, working with people who die all the time… and his way of debriefing generally has a jocular tone, he jokes about it and stuff. And that’s fine. Quinn: We balance out the [emotional intimacy] with so much sarcasm, banter and stuff. We’re dicks to each other, but we’re still really nice to each other as well. Brittany: Is that a conscious thing, where you feel like you have to balance it? Quinn: I don’t think so. I think it’s just the way we are.

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Presumably, this “banter” and “jocular tone” renders the expression of emotion and affection slightly less meaningful (especially when it seems to apply across positive and negative emotions). However, as Underwood and Olson (2019, p. 13) point out, men’s tendency to shroud difficult or uncomfortable conversations in humour ‘does not mean the messages being conveyed can simply be dismissed’. Quinn’s mention of balance is important here, as it suggests that without the co-presence of banter and sarcasm, emotional openness might not be considered as acceptable. Indeed, participants would occasionally use humour to lighten the mood when they told traumatic stories or became visibly emotional in the interviews, but this did not undermine their emotional revelations. Illustrating this, Marcus (F) made a football-related joke to help compose himself after telling a story about his time working with unaccompanied minors at an asylum seeker facility: Marcus: So, I did share with [my wife] and Mark to get me through that tough period [pauses, tears well up in his eyes]. See, I told ya, sensitive. It was hard. Um, yeah, so Mark is a good bloke, a good fellow. Even though he goes for Collingwood [Football Club], that’s an issue [softly laughs]. Um, so you can see that um, yeah, I am a sensitive fellow and I can resort to tears quite quickly. One could characterise Marcus’ use of a typically masculine joke as recuperative, but he then described himself as a sensitive and emotionally expressive person, a description that wholly departs from the ideal disposition of men promoted within masculinist discourse. Thus, while humour can be used to masculinise emotional displays, it also ‘opens avenues of conversation that might not otherwise be socially possible’ (Underwood & Olson, 2019, p. 9). As mentioned in the previous chapter, Julian and his friends used to joke about their struggles through depression and suicide ‘memes’, but this eventually led to more meaningful emotional disclosures: Julian:

The sharing of the depression jokes and memes was beneficial because it put it out there that we’re all going through some emotional shit, right? So, then we were aware about it, and then… we were just like, ‘okay, we can make jokes about it, and we can be sad about it, but at the same time, it’s not very practical, so we should probably start doing something about this’.

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And that’s probably what effectively promoted the change between us to be like, ‘Oh, let’s talk about that a little bit more. Let’s let you be sad. We can be sad with you. We can also… like hang out with each other, spend time with each other’. And then from there, like, just this openness and this transparency has really built up our friendships and just made them more fulfilling and more wholesome. Beyond simply masking emotional expression or balancing out intimacy, humour thus appears to lessen the perceived ‘risk’ of disclosing one’s struggles and/or offering support (see also Sharp et al., 2023). It seems to comfort men in these moments of vulnerability, allowing them to test the waters and see whether other men also abide the belief that everyone should talk about their feelings. In clearer terms, it helps them take initial steps to challenge the boundaries of a masculinist subject position, beyond which point—as Julian and his friends have discovered—they are able to forge deeper, more fulfilling connections with one another.

Coded Intimacies Where the participants’ instinct to avoid vulnerability is slightly less productive for developing deeper friendships, is in their use of coded language. This refers to the—albeit very few—instances where participants described disclosing their feelings without explicitly stating how they feel. Peter (F), a 56-year-old man from England who works in IT, offered an extensive and highly insightful explanation of this: Peter:

I’ve got a few people I can talk to. I don’t know if this is men in general, or just the way I’ve been brought up—probably both, I certainly got it from Dad—but umm, talking in code. It’s sort of, um, leaving things unsaid, or saying things in a way which plainly understates the problem, you know? You might say, ‘I’ve not been too good lately’. Now, to say that you’ve ‘not been so good’, means that you’re not saying you’re ‘great’ or ‘absolutely fine’, so we’re already well into the negative. So, it can be assumed at this point that things are actually really quite bad, you know?

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So, without ever saying ‘things are really bad’, you just say ‘things are not so good’. And [they’ll respond with], ‘ahh, right, okay, is it anything in particular? Is there something that’s really bugging you?’ and you say, ‘well, work stuff’, ‘Ohh right, right, boss is it?’, ‘yeah, yeah’. So, without saying ‘I am almost suicidal because I work for a complete idiot’, you find a way of communicating that […]. A number of people that are in this [friendship map], including myself, have needed some form of mental or psychological help at some time, because life has been getting too much. And back when Tony was my best mate, 15 years ago, that wouldn’t be happening as much. That sort of landscape has changed an awful lot. So, you do get that help professionally, and you’re less bothered about talking about it. The funny thing is you probably still talk about it in the same kind of language, ‘Yeah I’ve needed a bit of help lately’, ‘Oh right, bit of anxiety, was it?’, ‘Yeah, feeling a bit anxious about things’, ‘Ohh okay’. And that may be as far as it goes. We’re not going to get into the ‘so what are you feeling anxious about?’ Brittany: Why not? Peter: Because we don’t know where it might go! Brittany: Where might it go? Peter: Well, imagine if it was something about the wife? Brittany: And that’s a no-go? Peter: Well, depending on the context, it might be… in the half-time chat you don’t sort of, well, if you do get into your marital problems, it’d generally be assumed that you’re completely on the rocks. To go to the extent of actually bringing it up in that context, it’s clearly bad. There is a lot to unpack in this excerpt, but I will start by clarifying that Peter’s passing mention of suicide came across as an exaggeration for comedic purposes, rather than a legitimate discussion of suicidal ideation. Nonetheless, the function of this exaggeration was to illustrate the extent to which he and his friends understate their issues—in this case, their issues at work—when communicating ‘in code’. By then making the comparison to discussions of mental health, Peter implies there might be a similar level of minimisation in these more serious conversations. Unlike swearing or humour which seem to occur alongside or even facilitate deep disclosure and emotional expression, speaking ‘in code’ is one discursive tactic that

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appears to have fewer benefits, and almost entirely deflects men’s need for connection and support. One useful take away, though, is that for Peter and his friends, exposure to therapeutic discourse through their engagement with mental health services has made them “less bothered about talking about” things like anxiety. This, for Peter, indicates that the discursive landscape of men’s friendships has “changed an awful lot”. Yet in this excerpt he suggests that the context in which these men catch up—usually to watch a rugby game at the pub—limits these interactions to quick, coded exchanges during the half-time break. Somewhat contradicting this, he said that “it’s important to have some people you can talk to, and it’s important that you can do that”, which he did in exceptional circumstances like the death of his son: Peter:

…at [my son’s] wake… I just took the brake’s off because I’d had to keep the lid on so much to that point. And I spent the afternoon basically completely off my head on Guinness, talking to [two of my friends].

For these men, exposure to therapeutic discourse has not been sufficient to alter the nature of their everyday friendship practices. Even here, Peter expressed himself through metaphor, avoiding more specific language to describe his grief. Nonetheless, as discussed in Chap. 4, the shifting discursive landscape has meant that in more significant moments of emotional turmoil, men feel increasingly comfortable seeking and providing emotional support in ways that might once have been frowned upon. Whilst this substantiates some of my core conceptual contentions, particularly around the influence of therapeutic discourse, Peter’s story first and foremost illustrates the limited benefits of speaking ‘in code’. For James, aversion to emotional disclosure and intimacy was slightly more complex. James is a 35-year-old member of the Australian Defence Force, who described himself as a “big nerd”. He met his main group of friends in high school, and said that when they hang out, they play “a lot of video games, a lot of tabletop games [and] card games”. Notably, James was the oldest son participant in the sample, which might go some way in explaining his unique method of communicating homosocial affection: Brittany: Do you say ‘I love you’ to your male friends? James: No, no, no. Brittany: Do you love them?

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James: Uh, look, probably yes. Brittany: So why the hesitation? James: I guess because socially we would find it a bit weird. And so we do that in other ways, mainly by threatening violence on each other… if they say something funny you might say, ‘that’s the first funny thing you’ve ever said, I’m going to bash the shit out of you’, which we all take as ‘that was really funny, well done, I appreciate you as a person’. Brittany: Okay, interesting. What if they were going through something, would you engage with them in a bit more of an emotional way? James: Yeah, definitely… If Tyson was talking to me about, you know, feeling useless or feeling bad about something, yeah, I’ll talk to him more seriously, but there will still be a jocular tone, a jovial tone. I guess that’s the way to keep it light and to maintain our in-jokes, to not be as emotional as I would be if I was talking to someone else who was having difficulties, like Sandra or Sally, who are, you know, just regular people. Brittany: Do you feel more comfortable being emotional with the women in your life? James: Yeah. You’re being as emotional, but just expressing it in a different way. To express their affection for one another, James and his friends use humour, profanities and—most notably—discursive masculinisation. Underwood and Olson (2019) speak about ‘masculinising’ as both the outcome of humour and swearing, but also as a separate discursive strategy that involves aligning emotion with traditionally masculine practices like going to the gym or, in this case, physical violence. While most people would not consider threatening violence an expression of love and affection, James simply described it as a “different lexicon for emotion”, saying, “you communicate the same stuff in different ways”. A generous analysis of this might suggest that coded language offers these men an acceptable means of expressing emotion and intimacy while conforming to a masculinist subject position. However, this emotional distance did have consequences for James’ friendships. A few years ago, James lost touch with one of his close friends and suspected he was suffering from depression:

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James: Brittany: James:

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I’ve messaged him since, I was like, ‘hey man, how are you doing?’ And he just never responded, so I was like, ‘well, cool, I’ll leave it at that’. Why do you think you haven’t asked [his brother] if he’s okay? I don’t really care. If Josh wants me to know how he is, he can tell me, it’s fine. Other than that, I don’t want to get in the road of his life. It’s all good.

Throughout the interview James often expressed how deeply he cared for his friends. However, the coded language he described using to express intimacy created an emotional distance that prevented or at least discouraged James from enacting care in contexts such as this. Like saying “I love you”, it “would be a bit weird” for James to check in with a friend that is struggling with depression. Interestingly, a few months after our interview James sent me a message on Facebook that said, “Since our interview I’ve been working on building healthier male relationships! I know that wasn’t the point, but it was pretty good”. As the oldest son participant, it makes sense that he had slightly different homosocial practices to the younger men. However, when given the space and stimulus to reflect on these patterns of behaviour, James quickly noticed that things could be different and decided to act on it. Such is the ease with which men can nowadays reflect on and—should they desire—begin to reject the constraints of a masculinist subject position in favour of more emotionally intimate friendships.

The Role of Recreational Substance Use Though my data suggests that masculinism has been destabilised in the context of these men’s friendships, it undoubtedly persists in other contexts and relations (see Nicholas & Agius, 2017). Diverging from a masculinist subject position can therefore still invoke a sense of risk and vulnerability. One way the participants appear to overcome this discomfort is through the recreational use of alcohol and illicit drugs. Alcohol consumption is said to be a crucial friendship-making practice for many people in Australia; ‘much of the pleasure of drinking alcohol for young people is about enjoying camaraderie with friends’ and in turn, alcohol consumption can generate deeper levels of intimacy (MacLean, 2016, p. 96). Likewise, for many participants, heavy alcohol consumption

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and the recreational use of illicit psychoactive substances facilitated the increasing physical and emotional closeness they have with their friends: Julian:

The more we hung out and the more we got drunk with each other, the more touchy feely we’d get and be like ‘I fucking love you’. Gus (S): We just get drunk and say, ‘you’re my best friend’ type of stuff. […] Brittany: Does the kissing happen when you’re drinking or? Gus: Yes, I would say exclusively. Derek: [In] my generation, guys get drunk and they say, ‘aw I love you’, you know, but it’s almost like a silly thing, they don’t really mean that they love them. Though the participants were understandably less likely to talk about recreational drug use, when they did, they described a similar effect: Jacob: Nick:

One time [we kissed was] when we were drinking and another time when we were not sober in other ways [MDMA]. It’s the same as with alcohol, the saying ‘a drunk mind speaks a sober heart’. I think there is those feelings there, it’s just, it takes people to pull down their barriers to realise that we all do feel the same, and that we can voice it. I think that [using party drugs is] what it takes to do that in that group.

This aligns with studies that document how alcohol and recreational drug use can lead men to engage in behaviours that transgress masculine norms including physical affection (Ralph & Roberts, 2020), and emotional forms of care and support (Duncan et  al., 2021; Wilkinson & Wilkinson, 2020; Emslie et  al., 2013). In particular, it substantiates Farrugia’s (2015, p.  248) finding that—rather than solely producing experiences of risk, harm and peer pressure—recreational substances can facilitate ‘profound enactments of communication and honesty that emphasise a desire to open up new and pleasurable forms of friendship and sociality’. In line with Darcy’s (2020) study of drug use among men in Ireland, this was described by the participants in two separate but interconnected ways. First, that substances relax an individuals’ barriers and can lead to intensified emotions and feelings of closeness:

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Quinn: I think it’s a lot easier to remove that barrier when you’re drunk… game on, smooch [kiss] me. Second, within leisure sites such as festivals, clubs and parties, conventional masculine norms are less policed and thus less strictly adhered to: Gus:

It just feels more acceptable, I guess. If I was just sitting there sober with my friend and I gave him a peck on the cheek, he’d be taken aback by it, it would be weird.

One might question, however, whether declarations of love and affection made under the influence of alcohol and drugs have any substantive impact on the depth of men’s friendships outside the party context. According to my data, the answer is complicated. Nick’s experiences with recreational drugs are a prime example of this complexity. MDMA did bring Nick closer to one of his high school friends: Nick:

I became extremely close to Dylan, purely because one of the nights everyone had gone back to the camp and me and Dylan were the ones left, and obviously everyone becomes a little bit lovey dovey, it becomes a bit romantic when everyone’s high… so from that point we’ve been a lot closer.

However, when it came to the broader friendship group, ‘party drugs’ had become so central to their performance of homosocial intimacy, that it was not occurring elsewhere: Nick:

That’s something we realised, we only really tell each other what we’re feeling and what’s going on in our lives when we’re fucked up.

Perhaps paradoxically, this led to an absence of more substantive platonic connection: Nick:

Of course, it’s fun to do every now and again, and it’s fun to talk about, but if that’s all that it’s about then (1) it gets old, (2) you hear the same fucking stories twenty times over, and in the setting where everyone is trying to one-up each other and show how big their dicks are [metaphorically], everyone is like ‘aw

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but I had this [drug] and I had this [drug]’ and ‘aw but I had twice as much of this and I was fine’, it’s all talk. My data therefore substantiates the contention that men’s engagement in heavy drinking and recreational drug use can relate to the ‘accomplishment of masculinities and a desire to prove their manliness’ (Darcy, 2020, p.  183). However, it was not competitive drug-taking to the extent described by Darcy (2020, p. 186), whose participants engaged in ‘verbal sparring and public subordination … with the intent of detracting from a competitor’s masculinity’. As Nick pointed out, care was central to their drug-taking practices: “everyone kind of looks out for each other as well, no one’s trying to force anyone to do too much”. So, whilst they might entail some competition or hierarchical struggle, drinking and drug-­taking events most often functioned as a site of sociality and bonding that enhanced the participants’ capacity to engage in intimate friendship practices, and emotional support (see also Duncan et al., 2021). However, as Nick alluded above, when this substance-induced closeness was not paired with a connection and relationship that existed outside of drinking and drug-taking, it did not genuinely strengthen the friendship. Nick:

I’ve become a bit more distant with the less that I’m interested in that stuff, just trying to run a business and go to uni and all the rest of it. I’m noticing that all [they] seem to get along about is planning when they’re gonna get fucked up next, which is partly the reason why I’m not really as close to any of those people now.

This might appear to support the contention that homosocial intimacy performed while under the influence of alcohol and other drugs is not genuine. But, on the contrary, my data suggests that young men simply expect more from their friendships than drunken declarations of love. The friends Nick gravitated towards were those that were mature, supportive, motivated and shared his interest in physical health and fitness, and while they did occasionally acknowledge this closeness when drunk, they were a source of love and support in his everyday life, as well. It would be remiss of me to discuss men’s use of alcohol and recreational drugs, without acknowledging the increased risk of violence that comes with it. Rhett (F) highlighted this as one of the core ways masculinity can manifest as an issue in Australian society:

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I can definitely see changes in masculinity, yes. But you’re out as a 20-something in the Valley [a nightclub district in Brisbane], you have probably have a different take on it, especially with the drugs and people liquoring up before they go out… there’s been a fair bit of that ‘one punch kills’ stuff, that just shocks me, that just saddens me so much. I don’t know what’s wrong with people.

Beyond the hypothetical discussion of physical violence, several participants shared experiences of being kissed non-consensually by other men in the context of heavy alcohol consumption: Jason (S):

Quinn:



I was out with a bunch of work friends and one of my managers was like ‘hey I’m gonna kiss you tonight, hahaha’ and I was like, ‘haha cool’ and it was very inappropriate… I was pretty drunk because I’d been pre-drinking, and yeah, that happened… he kisses everybody, that’s kind of his vibe um… I straight up didn’t want it to happen. So he is gay, and it wasn’t like a come on, but like, it was kind of a different vibe to like ‘teehee kiss your bro’… I don’t think we were that close or anything. [One friend has] kissed me twice and I didn’t really like it. One time he was like really drunk and we were having a weekend away with the whole crew, and he just sort of surprised me and stuck his tongue down my throat. Which wasn’t super great. Um, I wasn’t like ready for a tongue kiss, so I didn’t feel too great… I wasn’t like that drunk and there was still that barrier up of like ‘I don’t really want to tongue kiss any of my friends’. […] And then another time after that, his boyfriend was there as well. And so, I was just like, that’s fine that you’re kissing me, but it seems like your boyfriend could be a little bit uncomfortable with that. … they would have an understanding that it’s just like a ‘friends’ thing… but it just didn’t look like he was having a good time, his boyfriend.

Of note, here, is that in both instances it was a gay man who kissed the participants without consent. Previous studies have found that men evaluate the hypothetical prospect of platonic touch with gay men more

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negatively than they do with straight men (Muraco, 2005), perhaps partly indicating the paranoid maintenance of the boundary between homosocial and homoerotic desire (Barrett, 2013). The participants’ discomfort with these kisses could, therefore, be interpreted as evidence of this paranoia or of latent homophobia. Equally, though, it may reflect the perfectly reasonable discursive possibility that gay men may have sexual intentions (a possibility ruled out when a man is perceived as straight), meaning the kiss is perhaps subconsciously received as an unwanted sexual advance. However, both participants emphasise their understanding that the intent behind the kiss was not sexual or romantic, and do not attribute their discomfort to the men’s sexuality. They focus instead on the lack of sufficient closeness within the friendship, the forceful nature of the kiss and, crucially, a lack of consent flagged either by their being too drunk, or (in their terms) not drunk enough. To return, then, to the original point: while alcohol was largely described as facilitating deeper intimacies, it can also muddy the waters around intent and context, which were highlighted as central to the appropriateness of homosocial kissing. For the most part, however, the participants reflected on how alcohol and other substances function to lessen the perceived risk of diverging from a masculinist subject position and facilitate their engagement in intimate practices now socially sanctioned by feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse. Indeed, my data suggests, as has other research, that ‘reassembling and potentially disrupting hegemonic notions of masculinity is part of the pleasure of these events’ (Farrugia, 2015, p. 248). Crucially, once men overcome the initial discursive barriers to homosocial intimacy, it becomes easier to practice these behaviours in other contexts.

Online Intimacies While online spaces have been described as a breeding ground for problematic men’s groups like pick-up artists, incels and men’s rights activists, they also appear to offer a safe and more comfortable space for men to relate emotionally with their men friends. As Underwood and Olson (2019, p. 13) point out, ‘individuals may feel safer online because the risks entailed in expressing emotion and intimacy are lessened by the lack of physical co-presence’. Likewise, Das and Hodkinson (2019, p. 9) found that ‘mediated communications can offer [men] more accessible spaces for disclosure to close friends and loved ones, helping to enable difficulties to be addressed and relationships protected or enhanced’.

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Though to different degrees, several son participants described giving and receiving emotional support via all-men group chats, or via their headsets while playing video games. For example, while James and his friends rarely have emotional conversations in person, he said, “We talk online… when we’re playing video games, we’ll talk in a real way about [our relationships]”. Similarly, Quinn described a Facebook group chat that has “all the lads” from his high school: Quinn: [We’re] constantly communicating with each other about our plans and what’s going on in our life… For instance, my mate just broke up with his girlfriend and he told us in the chat… he just said, ‘heads up, we’ve broken up. I’m totally fine’. And then a couple of ‘aw, I’m sorry to hear that’, ‘we’re here for you if you want to talk’, and I’m seeing him tonight so I guess I’ll have a quick chat to him about that. […] It was more of a ‘just so you know’ [message]… but also it is comforting to have all your friends say, ‘Hey, are you okay?’ Though neither of these participants explicitly suggested that online spaces facilitate more emotional intimacy, Quinn pointed out that it does open avenues for face-to-face conversations. There are parallels, here, with Julian’s friendship group, for whom the sharing of depression memes helped to normalise emotional discourse. In this way, the disembodied nature of online spaces has facilitated ‘attempts to initiate new intimacies centred on support and disclosure’, which then translated into more open and intimate interactions in person (Das & Hodkinson, 2019, p.  9). However, Seb’s experience demonstrates that online spaces can, in and of themselves, also create the conditions for deep emotional sharing. Seb is a 21-year-old university graduate living in Melbourne and working as a bartender. His involvement in Super Smash Bros (SSB) tournaments (an event where people competitively play the Nintendo video game) means he has a lot of friends around Australia. Although he said he feels comfortable expressing emotion and intimacy with his friends, he acknowledged that this is not common for young men, and said he wanted to change that:

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When I created the ‘[feelings and frustrations]1’ chat on my Discord channel, it was to start normalising an emotional discourse for men, because it was already normalised for women, and I wanted to start stretching that out into masculinity as well.

Evidently, Seb’s creation of the group chat was heavily informed by feminist and therapeutic discourse. For those unfamiliar with Discord, it is an online voice and text chat application designed for the video gaming community. Seb used the platform to create a group chat with around 20 men from the SSB community, many of whom had never met: Seb:



I just told everyone that they could go in there and talk if they feel like shit or even if they’re happy about something or they just want to get something off their chest… it gets used really frequently. […] Someone’s brother killed himself last year and he found the body, and he was talking about it in there, and people were helping him through that… Another guy, from a super religious family who’s gay, he came out to his Mum a few months ago and he was talking about that. So, there’s some big deal stuff going on and everyone’s been amazing about it.

As many of the men in this chat live interstate, the friendship group “only really exists in that server”, and it was precisely because of this physical distance and relative anonymity, that it was so successful in breaking down emotional barriers: Seb:

If you don’t feel like talking to one specific person, it’s a bit of a void, but you’re still being heard. You don’t go to one specific person, like, ‘yeah I just found my brother’s body’, because that’s a lot to be giving to a person. But [the chat] distributes the emotional weight… you know you’re not the only person with the responsibility of responding… if someone said that to me one-on-one, I’d be like, ‘what the fuck, I am so out of my depth’. But in there, everyone is kind ofBrittany: Contributing?  Title anonymised to maintain participants’ confidentiality.

1

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Seb:

Yeah, and like reacting, and no one feels like ‘I’ve gotta say something!’ And you don’t have to say something. If you read that and you go, ‘nope!’, that’s fine… I think that is probably part of what makes it easy. You’re offloading into, kind of a void, but like, you’re still being heard. Brittany: A supportive void. Seb: Yeah! In this excerpt, Seb described the benefit of the Discord chat as twofold. First, it allowed these men to share their struggles without having to do so one-on-one, or face-to-face. It is well-established that the physical distance afforded by online spaces facilitates increased communication of sensitive emotions, especially for men who are less comfortable or experienced in this area (see Randell et al., 2016; Iacovides & Mekler, 2019). Likewise, as noted in the previous chapter, Mason prefers to seek emotional support online: “if something’s going on, I go to someone online that I’ve never met. I feel like it’s easier to talk to them”. However, what is unique about Seb’s group chat is that the presence of multiple men is somehow more conducive to emotional expression. Masculine posturing is thought to be at its peak in homosocial settings, due to the imperative to achieve ascendancy over subordinated others (Allen, 2005), or put differently, to demonstrate one’s abidance of masculinist discourse. Yet in this online space—where therapeutic and feminist discourse surrounding emotional disclosure is actively promoted—it appears the opposite is true; it creates what Seb described as a “void”, into which men can safely diverge from masculinist discourse and express their emotional vulnerability. Likewise, the second benefit is that the men in this group were not solely responsible for responding in the chat, because the online group setting “distributes the emotional weight” of the conversation. Like Julian’s “sad club” dinners, the “feelings and frustrations” chat is a designated space to talk about emotional topics. In both cases, the discursive permission to be vulnerable seemed to be key; coupled, of course, with a sense of trust and a reduced sense of risk. However, online messenger applications also allow physical distance and an ability to opt-­ out, and within these conditions Seb and his friends found it easier to share and easier to offer support. Despite these benefits, online spaces also introduce unique types of risk. Online platforms appear to offer men not only physical distance, but a level of control; an ability to curate a space in which they feel comfortable

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sharing their stories and expressing how they feel. However, even in online spaces there is a risk of humiliation. When engaging in online chat rooms, Mason highlighted that there is a chance that: Mason:

…if you tell someone, they’ll tell someone, and it could get into the wrong hands, and it could turn into blackmail. ‘Cause it’s online. It happens. Not everyone is friends, not everyone is nice… Like if you tell someone that you’re gonna commit suicide, they’ll tell someone and then they’ll be like ‘yeah you should just do it’. People are like that. Brittany: That’s horrific. It’s interesting that you’ve described the online space as a place where you can use anonymity to connect more, but that also introduces some risk. How do you navigate that? Mason: I just keep to myself, mostly. There’s like a line. If I’m feeling like I need to let it out, I’ll let it out to someone that I’ve known [online] for a while, like someone I’ve known for a year. As someone who is not involved in online gaming communities, this conversation was confronting. However, Mason spoke as if he was just stating the facts, verbalising what other participants only alluded to: that if you reveal your vulnerability, it could be weaponised against you. This corresponds with more traditional understandings of men’s homosocial interactions as characterised by relentless competition and an intense fear of failure or rejection. However, alongside his father Anthony and other father participants including Ron, Arthur and Peter, Mason was one of the few men whose friendship practices were, in some ways, an assertion of masculinist discourses relating to self-reliance and emotional stoicism. It is therefore less surprising that he still associated emotional disclosure with vulnerability as well as new forms of risk; indeed, his engagement with strangers in this seemingly toxic online space (where “people are like that”) has likely reinforced the protective function of abiding masculinist discourse. However, it is unlikely the dynamic he described here would exist in smaller, more closed social groups or settings. Other participants’ stories suggest that, where measures are taken to create safe, semi-private online spaces, men can feel comfortable sharing openly, and may even begin sharing more openly in person, too.

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The Persistent Role of Masculinism in Some Men’s Lives Despite the facilitative role of alcohol, online spaces and masculinising strategies in men’s uptake of counter-discourse, some participants’ friendship practices appeared to be more often, or at least partly, constituted by masculinist discourse. As previously discussed, Peter tended more towards coded expressions of intimacy, and while Mason’s views were constituted by counter-discourse, his distrust of men in online spaces reflected the persistent influence of ‘boys don’t cry’ and male dominance discourse. However, where masculinist discourse remained most potent, was in the views, lives and friendship practices of Ron and Marcus. For Ron, a 69-year-old retired IT consultant, a lingering commitment to masculinist discourse around homosociality has made it difficult for him to develop and maintain long-term friendships. Living in Brisbane with his wife, Ron spends his time playing golf and singing in a senior’s barbershop quartet. Like many other men in the study, he categorised his friendship network map according to his activities: Ron: So, I’ve got the quartet, which is still going, retired from the chorus, but I’ll still see people, and then I probably play [golf] every Wednesday and a few other times as well with [four friends]. At first, it seemed his involvement in these activities facilitated a very fulfilling social life, particularly given the difficulties many Australian men face maintaining social networks through their middle years (see Arbes et al., 2014). However, as the interview progressed it became clear that his masculinist subject position, and corresponding view of friendship as rooted in shared activities, has been an obstacle to developing deep, lifelong friendships: Ron: If we didn’t have the barbershop [quartet] to bring us together, we probably wouldn’t be friends. To survive this long, we’ve got to have a reasonable rapport, but we probably wouldn’t have the same interests. That’s what draws together your friendships, likeminded areas, a football team or a sporting event or whatever you have as a hobby.

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I guess the only regret I’ve got is probably Terry, uh, he was my mate. We used to ride our bikes. We lived near each other through our teenage years, and we’d do the cars, and all that sort of stuff. And I allowed that to drift away a bit after I got married. But we were all busy doing our own things. That’s probably the only long lifelong friendship I could have nurtured.

Without any consistent shared activities to anchor them, the close friends Ron made in his early life had drifted away from him. Expressing a similar sentiment, Marcus said: Marcus: [Sporting clubs provide] the connection and the leverage… to form strong friendships. I don’t really draw people in close to me, but there’s that respect at a distance, and that, well it’s companionship. Unlike Ron, however, Marcus went on to describe several relatively intimate friendships with other men, a contradiction I attribute to his adoption of both masculinist and liberal Catholic subject positions. The former seemed to shape his more guarded posturing at the outset of the interview, at which point he focused on the importance of his wife and family, his role as a School Principal, and sport as a space where he made social connections: Marcus: The centre of my life has been my wife… [and our] four beautiful children. […] I don’t have a need for network outside my work cause I’m getting it there… What I really enjoy is to go home for a weekend and just have my own time. […] The local sporting club… that’s your life, that’s where I’d have to say that my friendships have come from. He maintained this masculinist posturing throughout my initial set of questions about emotional support, and explained that, growing up in a conservative rural area, he tended to be more emotionally guarded around other men, particularly at the football club:

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Marcus: You’d probably share more of your male concerns… I wouldn’t let my guard down there in regards to sharing sensitive stuff. Brittany: What’s ‘sensitive stuff’? Marcus: Aw, it might be relationship stuff, might be sexual stuff. I’d share things like general life, work pressures, people challenges, those sorts of things. But some of those more sensitive things you keep to yourself. Here, Marcus made a clear distinction between “male concerns” and “sensitive stuff”, one that aligns with masculinist dichotomies of public versus private and rational versus emotional. However, as the interview went on, we established a little more rapport and his demeanour shifted: “This is a good interview, it’s making me think, I’m quite reflective here”. He started to describe several relatively intimate friendships with other men. In relation to one friend, he said, “He’s a bloke I could ring, but I don’t ring on a regular basis… he’s been supportive for me through my struggles at different times”, and in relation to another he said: Marcus:

Now you’re making me think, Brittany… There is someone else, and I haven’t mentioned him. He’s a doctor, and he rings me or I ring him on a weekly basis… we talk horses, we talk football and I’d be able to talk to him as much as I’d be able to talk to [my wife]… Uh, well probably not quite to that extent, but he’s a really, really strong, good colleague. It’s a humorous connection, but there’s a seriousness about it as well. Brittany: Have there been instances where you’ve had more emotional conversations? Marcus: Yeah, I suppose when I was [going through a hard time] he would ring me, to see how I was going. And so [paused, began to cry], and so would [my wife]. So that pulled me through. At this point in the interview, Marcus let his guard down and his responses became more reflective of a liberal Catholic subject position. He began referring to himself as “quite an emotional, sensitive person”, and discussed the “mission”, “understanding” and “cohesiveness” he and his colleagues share: “We’re doing more than educating children, we’re

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actually providing some pastoral social support to some people… you do wear your heart on your sleeve a bit to support these little ones”. Yet even above, while he tearfully reflected on the support his wife and close friend provided him, he referred to his friend as a “colleague”, a term that does not apply in the occupational sense. Though Marcus described clear boundaries between who he was at the local football club (capable, private and guarded) and who he was around his family and work colleagues (sensitive, expressive and progressive), the boundaries were not so clear in the data. Nonetheless, Marcus appears to have reached a relatively stable footing within his contradictory subject positions. He still draws masculine capital from his role as a principal and his history as a local football hero, yet he has been able to develop emotionally supportive friendships outside of this context. Unfortunately, Ron has not achieved such a balance. Throughout Ron’s interview, there were glimmers of progressive discourse. When I asked what it means to be a man these days he said, “I mean, obviously there is strength, but there is also vulnerability, which I think is broken down a lot from fifty years ago”. Oddly enough, this recognition of social change existed alongside the view that masculinity is deeply tied to men’s biology: “It’s part of our nature that we find it hard to share our emotions and that’s why we bottle it up inside”. Yet he also acknowledged the role of biographical disruptions: Ron:

I guess if I had of went through life and had broken relationships and all that, I’d be more inclined to talk about it to people. But I don’t have a broken relationship, so I don’t like to share. If there’s any issues, I’d rather keep that in the family… I think that’s the issue with men, they don’t have that emotional gene that makes it easier for women to communicate, so they bottle it up inside and they get aggressive. Brittany: Well, hopefully things will start to change, and I think they are. Ron: I think they are, certainly. Again, we see conflicting standpoints; a masculinist notion of biological determinism on the one hand, and an optimistic view of social change informed by feminist discourse, on the other. Unlike Marcus, however, Ron’s commitment to the former has had tangible impacts on his friendships with other men:

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Ron: Looking back at it—and I have thought about this a couple of times actually—I do regret not having a mate like Terry, who I’ve known for forty years, that I could tell everything to, and he could tell everything to me. I guess I missed that. But you can’t turn back time, that’s the way it is. I don’t moan about it or anything. I don’t know whether it would have changed anything in my life really. I’m lucky that I’ve got these other interests that really keep me busy, y’know? But yeah, I guess when I think about it, it would have been nice to have a mate that, or a friend that I could just be totally honest with about everything. But then, I don’t know, then what do you do? He’s not part of the family, he’s just a good friend, so do I share my darkest secrets? Or if I have concerns about my relationship or my son, that [my wife] and I talk privately about, do I really share that with a friend? I don’t think I would… because that’s very private between meself [sic] and [my wife]… I mean, it all comes down to trust, I guess. And I guess if I had been close to Terry, like really close, seeing him every couple of weeks over that forty years, well then okay, you might build up that trust. But at the end of the day, he’s not family. In this fascinating moment, Ron was working through a discursive conflict in real time. On the one hand, he acknowledged an emptiness in his social life, that he had “missed out” on having more emotionally connected friendships. On the other hand, he recognised and was still somewhat invested in the reason he had not actively created this kind of deep connection with other men: privacy. Just as he began to entertain a discursive position that allows men to engage in emotional connection, he quickly reverted back to a masculinist subject position that relegates emotion and intimacy to the family home, the realm of the feminine. Perhaps taking up this new subject position created too much discomfort. After all, for Ron, it offers little more than the realisation that even though he followed all the ‘rules’ defined by masculinist discourse, his life is now somehow lacking. As he points out, “you can’t turn back time”. All he could do in that moment was remain (at least partially) invested in the masculinist discourse that got him into this mess in the first place. Much of this is speculation, of course, but what is clear is that there was a discursive

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conflict and that ultimately Ron landed somewhere in the middle: “it all comes down to trust, I guess… but at the end of the day, he’s not family”. Despite Ron’s complex and at times contradictory narrative around friendship, he did not stigmatise or homosexualise men who do speak about their feelings to other men, in fact none of the men in this study did. Indeed, as noted in Chap. 4, his exposure to queer-inclusion discourse within the choir space led to a lessened aversion to hugging other men, including his son. So, even where masculinism remained the dominant discourse of friendship in a participants’ life, there was evidence of the positive effect—however minor or incremental—of counter-discourse.

Conclusion Even when men embrace the shift from masculinist to feminist, queer-­ inclusion and therapeutic discourse surrounding men’s friendship, navigating this new discursive terrain can, understandably, still invoke a sense of vulnerability and risk. In this chapter, I explored some of the strategies the participants’ employed to overcome this initial trepidation, and the extent to which these strategies either facilitated or undermined the development of more meaningful connections with their men friends. Whether consciously or not, men from both generations employed masculinising strategies while describing their engagement in emotional expression and homosocial intimacy. Many swore regularly throughout the interview, some drew on discourses of ‘expertise’ to describe their care practices, and others said they use coded language and humour to express intimacy with their friends. Though these strategies could be viewed as an attempt to de-feminise emotionality or to simply appear emotionally in-­ touch, framing them as such negates the role they can play in bringing about more open and communicative—or in Julian’s words, “fulfilling” and “wholesome”—friendships between men. For example, while humour can be used to deflect the need for meaningful intimacy, my data demonstrates that it can also ‘open avenues of conversation that might not otherwise be socially possible’ (Olson & Underwood, 2019, p. 9). Similarly, the son participants described engaging in homosocial practices otherwise constrained by masculinism in contexts that were deemed less risky. Drinking and drug-taking events facilitated more open expressions of both physical and emotional intimacy. Though one might question the authenticity of homosocial intimacy enacted in these conditions,

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my data highlights that when paired with a connection and relationship that existed outside of these consumption events, it can genuinely strengthen the friendship. Similarly, the physical distance afforded by online spaces offers a safe and, in some ways, more comfortable space for men (like Seb and Mason) to relate emotionally with their men friends and normalise, for example, discussions of depression. Such contexts proved to lessen the perceived risk of diverging from masculinist discourse and allowed the son participants to experiment with intimate practices now socially sanctioned by feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse. Once these initial discursive barriers to homosocial intimacy have been overcome, it appears to be easier for men to expand these behaviours into their day-to-day interactions. But these complexities beg the question: if change is conditional or contextual, can it still be considered meaningful? While the image of men dramatically casting off the yolk of masculinity in its entirety might be a tempting standard to hold them to, it is deeply unrealistic. After all, achieving the goals of feminism does not require that women wholly rid themselves of a feminine disposition or the joy that can come from feeling and being perceived as feminine. Men’s desire to be perceived as masculine and the discursive strategies they employ to achieve this should not, therefore, be considered problematic in and of itself. I would argue that it is the manifestation and outcome of these strategies, whether they represent an assertion of masculinist discourse and/or perpetuate harm, that should shape our critique. If swearing or telling recuperative jokes creates space for genuine emotional disclosure and expression (without perpetuating harm), then these masculinising strategies are, arguably, productive. If expressing oneself in online spaces or in the context of intoxication helps to ease the fear associated with vulnerability (again, without perpetuating harm), it too can be considered a productive step towards deeper intimacy. Equally, though, given the use of coded language appeared to limit opportunities for more meaningful disclosure and connection, I consider it largely prohibitive. Then there are participants like Ron, whose persistent commitment to discourses of gender difference and manly self-reliance has prevented the disclosure and intimacy necessary to nurture close, long-term friendships. He did not seem overly discontented with this reality, seemingly having only reflected on his lack of lifelong friends in the interview setting. However, his experiences do illustrate the kind of platonic connection masculinist discourse can rob men of, and what this might mean as they enter older age and face an increased likelihood of social isolation and

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widowhood. So, if men masculinise discussions of intimacy or leverage contextual circumstances to overcome their trepidation about engaging in more genuinely intimate friendship practices, perhaps in practice, that is still a win.

References Allen, L. (2005). Managing masculinity: Young men’s identity work in focus groups. Qualitative Research, 5(1), 35–57. Arbes, V., Coulton, C., & Boekel, C. (2014). Men’s social connectedness: Report for the Movember Foundation. Hall & Partners and Open Mind. Barrett, T. (2013). Friendships between men across sexual orientation: The importance of (others) being intolerant. The Journal of Men’s Studies, 21(1), 62–77. Coates, J. (2003). Men talk: Stories in the making of masculinities. Blackwell. Darcy, C. (2020). A psychoactive paradox of masculinities: cohesive and competitive relations between drug taking Irish men. Gender, Place & Culture, 27(2), 175–195. Das, R., & Hodkinson, P. (2019). Tapestries of intimacy: Networked intimacies and new fathers’ emotional self-disclosure of mental health struggles. Social Media + Society, 5(2), 1–10. David, D., & Brannon, R. (1976). The forty-nine percent majority: The male sex role. Addison-Wesley Publishing Company. Duncan, T., Roberts, S., Elliott, K., Ralph, B., Savic, M., & Robards, B. (2021). “Looking after yourself is self-respect”: The limits and possibilities of men’s care on a night out. Contemporary Drug Problems. Advance online publication, 49(1), 46–63. https://doi.org/10.1177/00914509211057294 Emslie, C., Hunt, K., & Lyons, A. (2013). The role of alcohol in forging and maintaining friendships amongst Scottish men in midlife. Health Psychology, 32(1), 33–41. Farrugia, A. (2015). “You can’t just give your best mate a massive hug every day”: Young men, play and MDMA. Contemporary Drug Problems, 42(3), 240–256. Goddard, C. (2015). “Swear words” and “curse words” in Australian (and American) English. At the crossroads of pragmatics, semantics and sociolinguistics. Intercultural Pragmatics, 12(2), 189–218. Iacovides, I., & Mekler, E.  D. (2019). The role of gaming during difficult life experiences. In Proceedings of the 2019 CHI conference on human factors in computing systems (pp. 1–13). Association for Computing Machinery. https:// doi.org/10.1145/3290605.3300453 Kehler, M. D. (2007). Hallway fears and high school friendships: The complications of young men (re) negotiating heterosexualized identities. Discourse: Studies in the Cultural Politics of Education, 28(2), 259–277.

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MacLean, S. (2016). Alcohol and the constitution of friendship for young adults. Sociology, 50(1), 93–108. Muraco, A. (2005). Heterosexual evaluations of hypothetical friendship behavior based on sex and sexual orientation. Journal of Social and Personal Relationships, 22(5), 587–605. Murrie, L. (1998). The Australian legend: Writing Australian masculinity/writing ‘Australian’ masculine. Journal of Australian Studies, 22(56), 68–77. Nicholas, L., & Agius, N. (2017). The persistence of global masculinism: Discourse, gender and neo-colonial re-articulations of violence. Palgrave Macmillan. Ralph, B., & Roberts, S. (2020). One small step for man: Change and continuity in perceptions and enactments of homosocial intimacy among young Australian men. Men and Masculinities, 23(1), 83–103. Randell, E., Jerdén, L., Öhman, A., Starrin, B., & Flacking, R. (2016). Tough, sensitive and sincere: How adolescent boys manage masculinities and emotions. International Journal of Adolescence and Youth, 21(4), 486–498. Schrock, D., & Schwalbe, M. (2009). Men, masculinity, and manhood acts. Annual Review of Sociology, 35, 277–295. Sharp, P., Oliffe, J. L., Bottorff, J. L., Rice, S. M., Schulenkorf, N., & Caperchione, C.  M. (2023). Connecting Australian masculinities and culture to mental health: Men’s perspectives and experiences. Men and Masculinities. Advance online publication, 26(1), 112–133. https://doi.org/10.117 7/1097184X221149985 Underwood, M., & Olson, R. (2019). ‘Manly tears exploded from my eyes, lets feel together brahs’: Emotion and masculinity within an online body-building community. Journal of Sociology, 55(1), 90–107. Whitehead, S. (2002). Men and masculinities: Key themes and new directions. Polity Press. Wilkinson, S., & Wilkinson, C. (2020). Young men’s alcohol consumption experiences and performances of masculinity. International Journal of Drug Policy, 81, 1–8. Wise, A. (2016). Convivial labour and the ‘joking relationship’: Humour and everyday multiculturalism at work. Journal of Intercultural Studies, 37(5), 481–500.

CHAPTER 7

Towards a Feminist Poststructuralist Account of Change in Men’s Friendships

In recent years, some men have begun to engage in more emotionally and physically intimate friendships with one another, seemingly relinquishing their commitment to a tough, stoic, unwaveringly carefree and thus typically masculine disposition. CSMM scholars have responded to this phenomenon—evident here in Australia, and across the globe—by rethinking older concepts or introducing new ones altogether. Yet there remain significant gaps and tensions, particularly when it comes to theorising the role of men’s agency and reflexivity in producing and navigating social change in masculinities. Through this book, I join Whitehead (2002), Waling (2019) and others in demonstrating the utility of a feminist poststructuralist approach. Rather than viewing gender hierarchy as a hegemonic structure that will exist until it does not, feminist poststructuralism allows a consideration of incremental discursive shifts—of change as gradual, complex and even contradictory, but still valid. It acknowledges the potential for masculine subjects to be both aware of and opposed to the problematic elements of masculinist discourse, yet (still) motivated by a desire to be perceived as a man within these terms. By sharing the stories of 14 pairs of fathers and sons, I illustrate the empirical intricacies of this gradual social change, and how it has been experienced over time and across generations. I begin with the father participants’ adolescence and early adulthood, when masculinist discourse framed emotion as something to be controlled and concealed, and ultimately prevented men from confiding in or © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 B. Ralph, Destabilising Masculinism, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-39535-2_7

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expressing their platonic affection for other men. While they felt deeply bonded to their friends and provided one another with companionship and loyalty, their interactions were almost entirely activity-based. Some father participants vaguely framed this as a generational phenomenon, but most struggled to give a clear reason why men did not engage in homosocial intimacy: “you just didn’t” (Brad). This, I argue, illustrates the truth effects of masculinist discourse, and the extent to which it once regulated the possibilities for men’s homosocial interactions (Whitehead, 2002). But, over time, this shifted. The forms of intimacy, disclosure and support once deemed impossible by masculinist discourse were described as a valued aspect of the father participants’ friendships with other men in later life. I note, though, that overcoming the embodied effects of this masculinist subject position has not been straightforward. There was a lingering sense of risk and fear of judgement about expressing emotion, some discomfort with verbally expressing platonic affection and a tendency to oscillate between traditional (masculinist) and progressive (counter-)discourse in their descriptions of these new, more intimate homosocial practices. This may be because masculinist discourse is still present and indeed dominant in some social contexts, creating a sense of uncertainty for participants who now principally engage with and deploy (and thus whose subjectivity is produced in relation to) counter-discourses. Indeed, my data suggests that processes of emotional reflexivity cannot entirely undo decades of masculinist subjectification. While the poststructuralist subject is fluid and ever-becoming, individuals can become emotionally invested in particular subject positions and these investments are not overcome by the mere availability of alternative discourses (Willig, 1999). Despite these complexities, the father participants’ more contemporary reflections on friendship were underpinned by a divergence from, and even resistance to, masculinist discourse. Crucially, too, this shift challenges the notion that generational discourses crystallise during the youth phase (Corsten, 1999; see also France & Roberts, 2015) and instead highlights that men have the capacity to reconstruct their identities by drawing on new and more socio-­ positive counter-discourse. The son participants, on the other hand, were explicitly supportive of open communication, vulnerability and intimacy in their same-gender friendships. Though to varying degrees, the son participants said they were comfortable seeking and providing emotional support, hugging and saying ‘I love you’ to their same-gender friends. My data, in this sense, corresponds with research by proponents of IMT, which illustrates that

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young men now have the capacity to develop friendships that offer ‘a deep sense of unburdened disclosure and emotionality based on trust and love’ (Robinson et al., 2018, p. 8). However, navigating discursive tensions surrounding emotion and friendship also invoked a sense of risk and vulnerability among the younger men in my sample, evident in the occasional disconnect between discourse and practice. For example, while they almost universally rejected ‘boys don’t cry’ discourse, some said they more often describe their emotions to their friends, rather than physically express them. In addition to this, a persistent discourse of manly self-reliance meant some son participants were slightly hesitant to be dependent on their friends. By employing a feminist poststructuralist lens, I am able to acknowledge and unpack these tensions while still highlighting the genuinely positive social change that is occurring over time and across generations of Australian men. Indeed, my data illustrates that when given the space and the motivation to reflect on these patterns of behaviour, these young men are capable of rethinking and—should they desire—rejecting the constraints of a masculinist subject position in favour of more intimate friendship practices. As alluded to in this summary, I attribute this increase in homosocial intimacy to two social mechanisms. First, that men’s friendships are a space in which feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse have converged and effectively destabilised—but not totally eradicated—masculinist discourse, opening up the prospects for alternative subject positions. Second, that while the mere availability of alternative subject positions may not entirely undo masculinist subjectification, the uncertainty and lack of control brought on by experiences of trauma can trigger periods of reflexivity and lead men to explore the potential of different subject positions (Charteris-Black & Seale, 2013; Foucault, 1978/2000). I note, too, that amid broader discursive shifts, recreational substance use, social media and masculinising strategies such as swearing and humour, have all played a key role in promoting and/or facilitating men’s uptake of socio-positive discourses surrounding men’s friendships. In this chapter, I position these empirical insights within broader theoretical debates in the CSMM field and demonstrate why and how a full explanation of my data requires moving beyond prevailing theory. I then recap the theoretical contribution of the book: that the convergence of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse has destabilised masculinist discourse in the context of men’s friendships, offering men a viable alternative subject position that allows for care, expressiveness and

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intimacy. In doing so, I demonstrate that, by applying a feminist poststructuralist lens, CSMM scholars can better account for the emergence of socio-positive change alongside the continuance of negative conventions of masculinity. I conclude by discussing the limitations of my research and offering practical recommendations for individuals and organisations seeking to promote more socio-positive behaviours among men and boys.

Situating This Research in Current Debates Hegemonic Masculinity and the Uptake of Gender-Equitable Attitudes The contribution of hegemonic masculinity to the CSMM field cannot be overstated and is reflected throughout this book in the participants’ acute awareness of what is and is not culturally valorised as ‘manly’, and the risks associated with deviating from this definition. However, while Connell and Messerschmidt (2005) accept that a more egalitarian form of masculinity may ascend to hegemonic dominance, this understanding does not capture the complex dynamics of change and continuity I document here, nor does it provide analytic tools to account for men’s agency (Roberts, 2018; Waling, 2019; Ralph & Roberts, 2020). As Connell (2022) herself concedes, CSMM scholars tend to ‘over-emphasise structural determination’ and, when it comes to conceptualising change, there is a need for ‘more emphasis on flexibility in the definition and practice of masculinities’. Yet, Messerschmidt (2018) claims his most recent reformulation of hegemonic masculinity more effectively grapples with the issue of social change. Here, I engage with this reformulation in more detail. As I summarise in Chap. 2, Messerschmidt (2018, p.  127) acknowledges the existence of positive masculinities—‘those that legitimate an egalitarian relationship between men and women’—but clarifies that they are ‘constructed exterior to gender hegemonic relational and discursive structures’. Any action that supports unequal gender relations, regardless of how fleeting or situational, is considered evidence that gender hegemony prevails. In other words, gender hegemony will exist until it does not. This reformulated framework offers little to researchers seeking to understand what happens between hegemony and—to use Anderson’s phrasing—inclusivity, and proved to be of minimal use for conceptualising the change evident in my dataset. Nonetheless, to quell any concern that my data documents masculinities ‘that appear positive at first glance [but]

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are not entirely positive on deeper examination’ (Lomas et al., 2016 cited in Messerschmidt, 2018, p. 141), it is worthwhile highlighting that the participants universally espoused a genuine desire for egalitarian gender relations. Across my dataset, there were some statements that could be framed as adherent to masculinist discourse, and thus either explicitly or implicitly supportive of unequal gender relations. For example, one father participant inadvertently feminised verbal expressions of platonic love (“You don’t have to get down on your knees and say ‘I love you’ all the time”, Rhett), and another framed stoicism as inherent to male-sexed bodies (“it’s part of our nature that we find it hard to share our emotions”, Ron). However, I make the case throughout this book that such statements more often represent remnants of masculinist discourse, rather than an ongoing investment in it. The more dominant theme is a shift away from masculinist discourse and, in particular, a rejection of gender difference and male dominance discourse. Importantly, participants spoke about how this emerged in the context of their friendships, as well as their interactions with people of all genders in educational institutions, the workplace and their romantic relationships. For example, in the father participants’ adolescence, establishing dominance through physical violence was a normalised aspect of homosocial peer interactions and of discipline within the home and at school. Derek, who attended a Catholic all boys school in Victoria, said: Derek: Power in the school yard was all about violence, so you’re either a perpetrator or receiver of violence and you understand your place in the hierarchy… And the only lesson that we ever learned [from] the brothers and the teachers was that if we stepped out of line, they would hit us… and that says, “If I’m the most powerful person in the room and you don’t do something that I want, I’ll hit you to make you do it.” What sort of lesson is that? Yet in their more contemporary reflections, the participants rejected the masculinist notion that men must be dominant—and distanced themselves from the “stupid and macho and crazy” (Andrew) men that ascribed to it: Ron:

Unfortunately, there is still a certain percentage of men that feel it’s their right to dominate women and that’s unfortunate. And I don’t know how we can change that.

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David:

I can’t get along with arrogant men [the arrogance that comes along with, you know, ‘I know more than you’ or ‘I’m the one that should be in control’1] … I’m such the opposite where I’m going ‘why are you trying to compete? There’s no need to compete, we’ll just be who we are’.

Instead, the men in my study emphasised the importance of acknowledging gender inequality, listening to women and, in some cases, directly calling out sexism and the objectification of women. Connor:

[There are] two reasons I don’t play footy… the culture is horrendous, and then injuries… there’s probably a history of it and then it makes it a norm, but just like objectifying women… I never really engaged in those conversations… [I spoke up] maybe a few times here and there… hearing details about someone and their sexual relationship… and I’m just like “I don’t really want to hear that”.

Similarly, despite having grown up with the clear expectation that men are providers, the father participants said that nowadays they understand this as providing emotionally as well as financially: Eduardo: I think that in this day and age, manhood is in transition. It’s no longer just the breadwinner, it’s no longer the figure that needs to be the beacon of society… There is an expectation of being the provider, but I think that it’s also evolving into, not only the provider of the physical needs, but also of the emotional needs and I feel that men are becoming more attune to that. And I see that in my sons, how emotionally connected they are with their male friends. Taking this further, the son participants expressed that men should contribute equally in all areas of the private sphere and described behaviours that explicitly challenged male solidarity discourse. Given the scope of this project, I cannot substantiate these egalitarian attitudes with data from beyond the interview context. However, when 1  This quote was taken from elsewhere in David’s transcript and inserted here to clarify his meaning.

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taken at face value (as is occasionally required when balancing generosity and critique (Elliott & Roberts, 2020)), their responses demonstrate that the socio-positive shifts in their homosocial relationships were paired with more socio-positive relations with the women in their lives too. One might therefore argue that these men embody positive masculinities that have been ‘constructed exterior to gender hegemonic relational and discursive structures’ (Messerschmidt, 2018, p.  127). In practice, however, it is unclear how labelling the participants’ gender practice as such explicates how or why they have adopted more socio-positive masculinities. Indeed, there appear to be some inherent flaws in Messerschmidt’s conceptualisation of what exterior to gender hegemonic relational and discursive structures means. To illustrate the idea, Messerschmidt cites Filteau’s (2014) study of oil rig workers who, when subjected to stricter safety policies, rejected the previously hegemonic form of masculinity in their workplace (that promoted bravery, toughness and recklessness) in favour of a new positive masculinity that valued the collective performance of safety. This, he argues, demonstrates how positive masculinities can emerge in institutional contexts due to policy change. Yet Messerschmidt (2018, p. 152, emphasis in original) also notes that, ‘every participant in the study expressed to Filteau that being a man meant providing economically for his family and, therefore, men must practice safety at work’. This seemingly undermines the contention that this positive counter-­hegemonic masculinity was constructed exterior to gender hegemonic relational and discursive structures, given it stemmed directly from the participants’ support for unequal gender relations in the home. However, for Messerschmidt (2018, p. 151), it illustrates that ‘boys and men can participate in hegemonic masculinities within certain contexts, but these same boys and men distance themselves from hegemonic masculinity in other situations and construct positive egalitarian masculinities’. Though the participants in my study did describe altering their behaviour slightly across contexts, to reduce the broad-sweeping discursive shifts I document in this book to the embodiment of context-specific ‘positive masculinities’ does not do justice to the reflexivity and agency of the men who experienced and enacted them. As I have attempted to demonstrate across this book, a feminist poststructuralist approach offers more, and more useful, analytic tools for examining the complex and at times contradictory nature of socio-positive change occurring in masculinities, and how men are reflexively and agentically navigating this new and contentious discursive terrain.

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Hybrid Masculinity and the Tension Between Discourse and Practice Throughout this book, I also highlight aspects of the participants’ reflections that could be characterised as evidence of hybrid masculinity. In particular, I note the occasional disconnect between discourse and practice that may suggest a shift in the style but not the substance of men’s gender practice. In and of itself, the argument that some men ‘appropriate’ elements of subordinated masculinities is not problematic. As highlighted by Duncanson (2015), transitioning away from hegemonic structures would likely require an initial phase in which previously disparaged feminine traits are incorporated into softer masculinities. However, like Duncanson, I take issue with the implication that this is always or inevitably an attempt to mask the retention of power, on the basis that scholars who operate from this assumption are: …excused having to engage in any deep analysis of the actual practices of men, it being taken as given that dominant patterns of masculinity exist and thus contribute in some ‘knowing way’ to a larger project of domination by men over women. (Whitehead, 2002, p. 91)

The continuance of negative conventions of masculinity does not necessarily negate instances of socio-positive change or the shifts in attitude (or discourse) that must precede it. Likewise, the complex, contradictory and at times problematic attitudes and practices described by the participants in my study did not appear to stem from an innate concern for the taking or holding of power but rather from the embodied effects of masculinism and the uncertainty that comes with navigating new and contentious discursive terrain. By conceptualising men’s gender practice as a product of dominant and competing discourse, rather than hegemonic structures, I present these complexities and contradictions in a way that neither overstates nor undermines the socio-positive change documented in this study. For example, I argue that the disconnect between the son participants’ belief that men should cry and their hesitancy to do so in front of other men did not necessarily render their adoption of feminist and therapeutic discourse insignificant or superficial. Instead, I posit that it reflects the complex agentive process described by Waling (2019, p.  100) and is reminiscent of how women and girls engage and find pleasure in practices of ‘perceived

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oppressive femininity, such as fashion and sexualisation’ despite being aware of this oppressive nature (see also McGladrey, 2015). Likewise, young men may understand and accept the value of emotional expression (and the harm of emotional suppression) but feel that to maintain control and composure in public is more congruent with their self-image and how they want to be perceived as men. There is space to examine the regimes of power these individuals locate themselves within when they draw on this masculinist discourse to establish a socially and self-validated identity. Equally, as we saw with the father participants, the shift to greater emotional expression might come when they experience a biographical disruption that interrupts or overpowers this concern for self-image. In any case, not one man in this study expressed disapproval at the idea of a same-­ gender friend crying in front of them, and those that were more comfortable with crying described doing so largely without fear of masculinist policing. This represents a significant shift away from ‘boys don’t cry’ discourse that was once dominant, even if a disconnect between discourse and practice among individual men persisted. Characterising this and other instances of complexity or contradiction as evidence of hybridity does not do justice to the socio-positive outcomes they can produce, nor to the complex process of social change of which they are constitutive. Nonetheless, it is important to think through the broader context and implications of change in men’s friendships. Messner (1997) offers a useful framework to this end, contending that to be effective social movements, seeking to promote change in masculinities should (1) dismantle male privilege, (2) counteract the negative impact masculinities can have on men, and (3) address inequalities that exist among men. According to this line of thinking, failure to accomplish any one of these might render the change a movement induces largely stylistic, beneficial only to some men, or inconsequential to broader systems of disadvantage—gendered and otherwise—and thus might indicate some level of hybridity (Goedecke, 2022). Whilst intended for social movements, this is useful for discussing social change, more broadly. Clearly, shifts towards more intimate homosocial relationships do counteract the negative impacts that traditional masculine norms have had on men, particularly in relation to mental health and feelings of belonging. However, the question of whether men’s increasingly intimate friendships dismantle male privilege and hierarchies among men is a bit of a chicken-or-egg dilemma. This change has, in line with my theoretical contention, been driven by progressive discourse that challenges the basis for heterosexual men’s

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dominant position in society (i.e., masculinist discourse). In this sense, feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse work to dismantle male privilege and homophobia (a key source of hierarchy among men) and, in doing so, also promote socio-positive change in men’s friendships. Equally, when men more openly express vulnerability and affection with their friends, they are enacting a form of resistance that further undermines the gendered assumptions that promote male privilege and maintain hierarchies among men. But this does not preclude the espousal of, for example, classist or racist views. In Chap. 4, I illustrate how the assertion of a progressive subject position sometimes relied on or was expressed through the denigration of working-class tastes and temperaments. But, rather than assuming that any or all manifestations of hierarchy indicate hegemony, I argue this illustrates the need for a more widespread uptake of counter-discourse that reveals both the subtle and overt ways everyday Australians deride and demean the working class. That is, change in men’s friendships is illustrative of the increasing cultural traction of progressive discourse and it is these discourses that achieve the outcomes outlined by Messner; feminist discourse works to dismantle male privilege, therapeutic discourse can counteract some of the ways masculinity harms men, and queer-inclusion addresses some of the hierarchies among men. In taking up these discourses and the subject positions they produce, the participants are (albeit indirectly) furthering these outcomes. However, counter-­ discourse that mitigates other intersectional forms of disadvantage among men such as classism, racism and ableism will, of course, also play a key role in bringing about greater progress. Inclusive Masculinity and the Complicated Case of Homosocial Kissing Empirically, my data corresponds with much of the socio-positive change that proponents of IMT document among men in Australia and other parts of the West. The men in my study described engaging in both emotionally and physically intimate friendships, largely without fear of social ridicule and in ways once censored by masculinist discourse. However, my data does not align with Anderson, Adams and Rivers’ (2012) empirical contention that homosocial kissing (on the mouth) is employed as a means of communicating genuine platonic love between men, nor does it align with the broader characterisation of homosocial kissing as a beacon of social change in masculinities. In line with my previous research (Ralph &

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Roberts, 2020), many of the son participants said they had engaged in a platonic kiss with another man but only as a joke, a celebratory gesture or in the context of heavy drinking. For them, kissing on the mouth (while sober and for the sole purpose of expressing intimacy) was not considered an acceptable expression of friendship as it was discursively associated with romantic love, as applies to people of all genders. Rather than always or necessarily being underpinned by socio-positive discourse, my data suggests that homosocial kissing has been adopted into the repertoire of ways men can access masculine capital, and as such may be enacted by men who still occupy a masculinist subject position. While it is a compelling social phenomenon, relying too heavily on homosocial kissing as evidence of change in masculinities may overlook these complexities and by extension undermine the forms of change that clearly illustrate an uptake of socio-­ positive discourse. More crucially, my analysis does not align with Anderson’s contention that socio-positive change in men’s friendships is principally attributable to a decline in cultural homophobia. The participants’ engagement in platonic physical affection with men (across their lives and across generations) largely supports this aspect of IMT, as it illustrates how homohysteric discourse operates to prevent homosocial touch. Likewise, it demonstrates that men whose culturally specific discursive resources precede homohysteric discourse tend to view homosocial touch as an acceptable expression of friendship. However, when it came to emotional expression and disclosure and a willingness to be dependent on other men, feminist and therapeutic discourse proved to be equally—if not slightly more—instrumental in the participants’ socio-positive behaviours. These three counter-­ discourses are complementary and interconnected, and one could certainly argue that increasingly intimate friendships between Australian men would not be possible if not for queer-inclusion discourse. However, my data indicates that the same is true of feminism and discourse that de-­ stigmatises mental health. As such, I attribute the change I document in this book to the convergence of feminist, therapeutic and queer-inclusion discourse. Thus far, I have focused on how my analysis departs from prevailing CSMM theory to demonstrate the value of a feminist poststructuralist approach. Yet key theoretical contributions from each framework are encapsulated by this approach. Rearticulating masculine hierarchies as the product of masculinist discourse rather than hegemonic structures maintains a view of masculinities as multiple, as constructed largely in

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opposition to femininities and as normative and disciplinary but rarely achievable. Equally, exploring tensions between discourse and practice, as well as men’s selective adoption of counter-discourse amid broader social change, could account for instances of superficial change or hybridity. Finally, the role of queer-inclusion discourse encapsulates Anderson’s writing around the relationship between homosocial intimacy, homophobia and homohysteria, and as such his work is central to my conceptualisation of change in men’s friendships. In this way, a feminist poststructuralist approach departs from, but also builds upon and fortifies some of the central ideas put forth by CSMM scholars, in a way that better accounts for the complexities and contradictions of social change.

A Feminist Poststructuralist Account of Socio-positive Change Across this book, I offer an alternative to the conceptualisation of change in Australian men’s friendships as either (a) a superficial behavioural shift that is largely inconsequential to the gender order or (b) representative of a holistic disintegration of hegemonic structures. Rather, I contend that the emergence and increasing potency of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse in recent decades has destabilised masculinist discourse in relation to homosociality, resulting in more intimate friendships but not entirely eradicating masculinism across other relations and/or social contexts. On their own, these three complementary counter-discourses may not produce holistic social change. However, my data suggests that in the context of men’s friendships, they have converged in a way that has effectively destabilised masculinism. Specifically, I argue that: 1. the mainstreaming of queer-inclusion discourse in Western societies challenges the homohysteric discourse that once prevented platonic physical intimacy between men, 2. feminist discourse problematises discourses of male dominance and gender difference, lessening the imperative for men to be competitive, inexpressive and aggressive, and 3. therapeutic discourse challenges the gendering of emotional expression and disclosure and undermines the feeling rules associated with and discursively inflicted upon people with male-sexed bodies.

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By challenging each of these separate but interconnected aspects of masculinist discourse (as it applies to homosociality), the convergence of feminist, queer-inclusion and therapeutic discourse offers men a viable alternative subject position that allows for care, expressiveness and intimacy within their homosocial relationships. Crucially, a feminist poststructuralist framework does not require that this shift be absolute in order for it to be valid or notable. Instead, it allows for an understanding of social change as incremental, complex and at times contradictory, both at a cultural level and within the lives of individual masculine subjects. Rather than framing the tensions between discourse and practice as evidence of a superficial investment in counter-discourse, there is space to explore how contending discourses of emotion can produce uncertainty around how one should feel (Hochschild, 1979). Similarly, the persistence of masculine autonomy need not negate the participants’ understanding that disclosure and dependency are acceptable, but might instead indicate that feminism and therapeutic culture have not served as potent counter-discourses to the notion that men are self-reliant. Alternatively, there may be room to explore why certain individuals can more easily embrace (inter)dependency. For example, I was able to explore how Joshua’s experience of economic hardship and mental illness led to a more rigid investment in manly self-reliance than other son participants, despite his quite sophisticated handle on feminist and therapeutic discourse. The data I collected for this study did not allow for a more in-depth analysis of how social characteristics such as class, cultural background or sexuality might either promote or restrict the uptake of progressive counter-discourse. Nonetheless, it demonstrates that within a feminist poststructuralist framework, there is space to explore how discourses operate and interact at the macro cultural level, as well as how this translates into change at the micro level according to a subject’s individual circumstances and experiences. My analysis also demonstrates how the feminist poststructuralist notion of subjectivity can better account for men’s agency and reflexivity. Specifically, I adopt Gill’s (2007) understanding of agency not as the absence of cultural influence but as a complex, relational process whereby individuals reflect on and negotiate a variety of systemic and cultural forces (Waling, 2019). Likewise, the broadened set of homosocial practices now sanctioned by these counter-discourses allowed the participants greater ‘capacity for agentive and emotionally reflective choices’ about how they interact with their male friends (Waling, 2019, p. 102). This did not always

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or necessarily result in a widespread uptake of alternative subject positions or socio-positive practices. For example, I note that Jacob accepted the value of emotional expression (and the harm of emotional suppression) but said that to maintain control and composure in public was more congruent with how he wanted to be perceived. In this way, I illustrate that masculine subjects can be both aware of and opposed to the problematic elements of masculinist discourse, yet (still) motivated by a desire to be perceived as a man in accordance with this discourse. After all, to define agency ‘as that which runs against existing structural patterns or the political status quo … risks obscuring the ways in which structural and political inequalities are reproduced by [individuals] themselves’ (Coffey & Farrugia, 2014, p. 468). As noted above, the options have expanded; there is still space for socio-negative attitudes and behaviours, but there is now also socially sanctioned space for socio-positive practices. Through this framework scholars are better equipped to explore how men navigate this new and contentious discursive terrain, rather than whether their practices fit neatly within a particular typology. But, as noted by Thorpe (2008, p. 214), ‘discourses are not the sole sources of knowledge’. Rather, individuals ‘arrive at knowledge through experience, through observation and through the evaluation of one discourse against another’ (MacDonald, 2003, p. 37). Likewise, my data suggests that with a broadened set of emotional responses now sanctioned by progressive counter-discourse, biographical disruptions (Charteris-Black & Seale, 2013) or limit-experiences (Foucault, 1978/2000) can (though may not always) trigger a period of reflexivity, and subsequent shift in men’s investment in masculinist discourse. Following experiences of death, divorce and illness, many of the participants described a shift towards greater emotional expression and self-disclosure in their same-gender friendships. As aptly summarised by Stefano, “You hit a realisation that if you try to fix everything yourself, you’re not going to”. I also highlight more everyday instances of reflexivity, in which participants acknowledged and acted on their own and others’ emotions, in order to navigate shifting discourses surrounding emotion (Holmes, 2015). For example, Brad based his intimate practices on his friends’ emotional needs (“It means something to him, he needs to hear that, [Damian] doesn’t”), and Quinn described consciously shifting his approach to strengthen his friendships (“I am trying to have that emotional intimacy with my friends… it makes the friendship stronger, it’s what people need”). As per Waling (2019), my data thus offers insight into how men engage with discourses relating to

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masculinity and friendship across time and space, and the extent to which this is shaped by their capacity for agency and emotional reflexivity.

Limitations My study has two main limitations: (1) the sample’s relative homogeneity, resulting in a lack of participants who are queer or gender diverse, currently occupy a working-class social position and/or are Indigenous Australians or people of colour and (2) a dataset that is limited in its scope to explore the material impact positive change in men’s friendships has on gender relations more broadly. Both limitations could be taken up as productive areas of future research. CSMM scholars tend to characterise positive change in masculinities as unique to privileged groups of men, based on the view that ‘men who enjoy privileged status and embody traditional markers of masculine success … can more easily engage in traditionally feminised practices without having their masculinity diminished’ (Gough, 2018, p. 10). However, this perspective risks reifying the assumption that men from marginalised backgrounds are less likely to enact productive social change through socio-­ positive masculinities, and ignores evidence to the contrary (Roberts, Elliott & Ralph, 2021). A key limitation of my study is that the participants represent a relatively homogenous cross-section of Australian men, therefore I am not able to engage meaningfully with these debates. While I did not aim to achieve a representative sample, I did endeavour to recruit a relatively diverse cohort of men. However, given the complexity of recruiting multiple family members (Reczek, 2014), I had to rely heavily on my personal and professional networks, which reflect my own position as a white, middle-class, cis-gendered, straight-passing woman. Though several participants were first- or second-generation migrants (from El Salvador, Argentina, Cyprus, Indonesia and Italy), the majority were Anglo-Australian, and none were of Middle Eastern, African or Indigenous descent. All participants were cis-gendered men, and all but one self-­ identified as heterosexual. A number of the participants grew up in working-­class families; however, at the time of the interviews, almost all participants would have been considered middle or upper middle class. Finally, while efforts were made to contact networks of trans men, no volunteers eventuated, meaning my study does not capture the experiences of gender non-conforming men, whose diverse range of subject positions are invaluable to the study of men and masculinities (Aboim, 2016).

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Where possible, I have explored points of difference including cultural background and economic circumstances, and in these cases men of colour and men who grew up in working-class families were not uniformly more or less likely to adopt progressive subject positions. I illustrate, for example, how participants from cultures that do not homosexualise physical touch between men described kissing and hugging friends and family without fear of appearing gay or unmanly, even decades ago when homohysteric discourse was rife in Australia. Despite representing opposing sentiments, a similar tone echoed through the two subject positions: when they were younger the Anglo-Australian fathers would never have thought to hug or kiss a man, whereas those with culturally discursive resources that precede homohysteric discourse, would not have thought twice. However, this is not in itself more or less progressive. Men in both scenarios might be invested in homophobic discourse, it is simply that those from culturally diverse backgrounds drew on discursive resources that defined physical touch as an acceptable expression of fraternal love and respect between heterosexual men. Likewise, when it comes to class, there was no uniform difference between men like George, Rhett and David who were raised working-class, and their middle-class counterparts Stefano and Peter. Even age did not produce uniform differences in the data; while Ron was the oldest participant in the sample (aged 69) and the most emotionally stoic, George was only one year younger (aged 68) and was among the most expressive and care-oriented fathers in the study. That is not to say differences across social groups do not exist. Rather, that what mattered was exposure to progressive counter-discourse, and motivation to engage with it. This may, of course, differ according to an individual’s circumstances. Men in male-dominated corporate workplaces might be less exposed to or less motivated to take up feminist discourse given the privilege and success masculinist discourse has afforded them. Men with disability might be exposed to therapeutic discourse earlier in life, and thus more quickly begin to question the utility of masculinist discourses of stoicism and self-reliance. While I present evidence of progress among a relatively privileged group of men, I do not frame progressive discourse as solely available to these men, nor a refusal to take it up as solely apparent among marginalised groups. Nonetheless, future research that explores how masculine subjects with a more diverse set of discursive resources navigate the tensions between dominant and counter-discourse relating to friendship could more meaningfully engage with the above-­ mentioned debates, and further nuance the contributions of this book.

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A central aspect of studying positive change in masculinities is understanding the extent to which it subverts or reinforces long-standing gender inequalities (Renold, 2004; Brooks & Hodkinson, 2020). As noted above, the participants almost universally espoused positive attitudes towards gender equality and described both romantic and platonic relationships with women that substantiate their rejection of gender difference and male dominance discourse. Like Anderson and McCormack (2018, p. 554), I note a distinct ‘absence of overt misogyny in the male peer group cultures studied’. However, the second limitation of this study is that I do not have data from beyond the interview context to substantiate—or in Messerschmidt’s (2018) words, empirically demonstrate—this finding. In a broader sense, then, my data can only minimally speak to the question of whether positive change in men’s friendships translates into material change in gendered power structures. Presumably, the revaluing of traditionally feminised traits would lead to a reduction in stigmatisation of femininity more broadly. Indeed, in his conceptualisation of IMT, Anderson (2009) posits that when hierarchies among men disintegrate, men’s attitudes towards women improve. However, while my data illustrates the role feminism has played in promoting more intimate and/or inclusive homosocial relationships, future research could explore whether this in turn promotes more egalitarian relations across the genders by, for example, examining mixed gender friendships and friendship groups. Despite these limitations, this research contributes to the CSMM literature by offering empirical insights into change in men’s friendship across the life course and across generations, and theoretical insights into the prospect for meaningful socio-positive change in masculinities more broadly.

Implications for Practice Critics of poststructuralism often characterise it as vague, inaccessible and largely incapable of producing useful insights about society. Bevir (2011, pp. 10–11) claims that poststructuralists’ ‘emphasis on language as constitutive of all subjectivity undermines any appeal to agency as a source of social change’. I, of course, disagree and have endeavoured to demonstrate quite the opposite. I instead contend that, beyond the academic sphere, my findings have clear, practical implications for health promotion organisations and other institutions seeking to promote more

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socio-positive behaviours among men and boys. Here, I distil this into three key recommendations. 1. Identify key cultural discourses that underpin the problem At the most basic level, my research demonstrates the importance of identifying the dominant cultural discourses that underpin a problematic social practice. In my study, this meant moving beyond masculinity as a broad concept, and instead operationalising masculinism into a set of specific and relevant discursive components (e.g., discourses of gender difference, homohysteria and manly emotion, see Chap. 2). To illustrate the utility of this approach, I will apply it to the issue of sexual violence (please note, to simplify this hypothetical, I refer only to sexual violence enacted by cis men against cis women, as it is the most common). Public health promotion surrounding sexual violence has long focused on not causing harm and, more recently, on consent. Both are, of course, crucial to addressing most instances of sexual violence. However, some men cause sexual harm, not because of a ‘conscious’ desire to do so, but because of an investment in male sexual needs discourse, which values men’s pleasure over (and often at the expense of) women’s (for more on this discourse see Gavey, 1989). Anti-violence discourse might therefore seem irrelevant to these men, and efforts to promote consent could fall on deaf ears, given women’s pleasure is inherently devalued in their sexual interactions and they feel entitled to prioritise their own needs. What is needed, then, is counter-discourse that effectively destabilises male sexual needs discourse, by promoting the equal value of women’s pleasure. Presumably, when both (or all) participants’ pleasure holds equal weight in a sexual encounter, it is less likely that either (or any) will engage in practices that cause themselves or others discomfort or pain. This is not a new idea, sexologists and other sexual health experts have long called for the inclusion of ‘pleasure’ in sex education curriculum. In support of these experts, my research illustrates how a deeper analysis of the cultural discourses that underpin social issues can inform more thorough and effective public health responses. 2. Design solutions that address all relevant cultural discourses My central theoretical contention is that positive change in men’s friendships emerges from the convergence of multiple counter-discourses that

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challenge each of the relevant discursive components of masculinism. Beyond the realm of friendship, the notion of discursive convergence may be useful for understanding why harmful masculine norms persist in contexts where concerted efforts are being made to eradicate them. For example, while a range of industries and organisations in Australia are embracing therapeutic discourse pertaining to men’s mental health, the lack of a concomitant promotion of queer-inclusion and feminist discourse may allow masculinist discourses of gender difference and heterosexism to persist. This could explain why, despite actively promoting mental health initiatives and embracing a culture of vulnerability, the Richmond Football Club2 still find themselves embroiled in scandals relating to non-consensual groping in the change rooms (Young, 2020), brawls outside strip clubs (Weston, 2020) and head coaches verbally abusing opposition players (ABC, 2022). Likewise, gender-transformative programs aimed at men and boys that are designed to establish buy-in for gender equality by drawing principally on mental health (or therapeutic) discourse may only be minimally effective at addressing high rates of homophobia and gender-based violence in the Australian community. To return to the example of sexual violence, this underscores that counter-­discourse promoting women’s pleasure is crucial but should not overtake discussions of consent or anti-violence. Instead, they should each be viewed as playing a crucial and complementary role in mitigating experiences of discomfort, pain and trauma in the context of sex. In the broadest sense, my conceptualisation of change thus illustrates that failure to address one of the key cultural discourses that underpin a social issue might not produce wholly socio-positive outcomes. 3. Embrace complexity and imperfection As I note in Chap. 6, the image of men dramatically casting off the yolk of problematic masculinity in its entirety is a tempting but deeply unrealistic standard to hold them to. I return to a quote by Andrea Waling (2019, p. 102) that has deeply shaped this work: ‘It is not just about their engagement with masculinity itself, but… how men reconcile their engagement with masculinity amid increased awareness of systemic and structural 2  An Australian Rules Football club based in Melbourne, that plays in the Australian Football League (AFL). Mentions of ‘footy’ made throughout this book refer to this code of football.

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inequalities produced by relations of gender’. Social change is not linear or necessarily consistent, and my data illustrates that even with the best of intentions, neither is the change enacted by individuals. As subjects navigate shifting discursive landscapes, they might encounter contexts where their commitment to espousing and enacting progressive discourse is trumped by a desire to be perceived as acceptably ‘masculine’ according to the terms of more traditional discourse. Andrew, for example, strongly believed in the personal and political value of hugging other men but avoided doing so in his therapy group meetings, because he felt it might result in homophobic policing. While prevailing theoretical frameworks emphasise the negative implications of the latter, a poststructuralist approach gives weight to the potential benefits of the former. As practitioners, adopting this approach means acknowledging these complexities both privately and with participants. Acknowledging that, with society still largely governed by binary ideas about gender, participants may still have a desire to be perceived as acceptably masculine or feminine. That despite the progressive strides made within gender-­ transformative programs, participants might leave the room and take a few small steps backward. The gap between exposure to progressive discourse (that challenges our worldview and lays bare the extent of our privilege), and the point where we allow that discourse to wholly alter our biases and the practices they produce, might be substantial. Patience with oneself and others—except in situations where direct harm is being caused—is part of a productive way forward. So, too, is distinguishing between those who have been exposed to progressive discourse and are open to or on the path towards change (and giving up their privilege in the process), and those who are not. It shows us how far we have come, and where our energy is best spent moving forward.

Concluding Remarks In summary, the data presented in this book suggests that, yes, shedding outdated tropes of stoicism and self-reliance does seem to sap cultural weight from the beloved trope of a ‘true blue’ Aussie bloke. But, as the participants’ stories have revealed, it draws Aussie men closer to something far more fulfilling. A version of mateship that is not modelled on— or thought to be exclusive to—the friendships of men. Still built on foundations of loyalty, integrity and resilience, but deepened and fortified,

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now, by truer expressions of trust, vulnerability and affection. One that offers possibilities rather than limitations. After all, masculinism is pervasive and persistent but it is not permanent. Through the convergence of multiple counter-discourses that each challenge the multiple and intersecting facets of masculinism in a given context, it can be destabilised. One need only look at the transformation occurring in Australian men’s friendships to see evidence that positive change is not only possible, but already taking place. This perspective does not ignore or undermine the prolific and violent ways masculinist discourse continues to manifest in Australia, and across the globe. It is merely a nod to change, alongside the many examples of continuity and even regression in contemporary masculinities. While insufficient progress in and of itself, this change should not be dismissed or taken for granted. Rather, we must continue to interrogate, promote and normalise it—and other such developments—in pursuit of a fairer, safer and more inclusive society.

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Index1

A Ability, 32 able-bodied, 16, 129 disability, 184 Aboim, Sofia, 12, 32, 39, 183 Affect, 43, 44 Age, 9, 15, 59, 119, 184 aging, 2, 6, 108, 165 Agency, 12, 14, 39–42, 50, 126, 172, 175, 176, 181, 183, 185 structure versus, 42 Aggression, 31, 48, 49, 58, 162, 180 Agius, Christine, 45, 46, 113, 149 Allen, Louisa, 14, 20, 45, 88, 89, 157 Anderson, Eric, 5, 9–11, 15, 35–37, 39, 46, 47, 50, 71, 73, 75, 84, 88, 101, 102, 104, 114, 134, 136, 171, 172, 178–180, 185 Anger, 5, 67, 96 Australia, 1, 7, 9, 11, 14–16, 19, 35, 47–49, 57, 58, 73, 74, 83, 87, 91, 104, 149, 169, 178, 184, 187 Autonomy, see Self-reliance

B Banter, 8, 116, 134, 143, 144 Beasley, Christine, 14, 42, 47 Belonging, 6, 66, 177 Biographical disruption, 108, 119, 128, 129, 177 Biphobia, 49 Bird, Sharon R, 5, 58, 59, 87 Bodies female-sexed, 48 male-sexed, 45, 48, 96, 173, 180 Bonding, distinct from intimacy, 5, 6, 62, 91, 116, 152, 170 Boys don’t cry discourse, 46, 66, 84, 121, 123, 127, 132, 159, 171, 177 Bridges, Tristan, 10, 32, 33, 37, 47, 136 Brittan, Arthur, 44, 58, 69 Bromance, 9, 119, 134 Butler, Judith, 5, 42, 107

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

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INDEX

C Charteris-Black, Jonathon, 41, 43, 84, 107, 108, 171 Cheek, physical (kissing on the cheek), 7, 73, 78, 133–135, 151 Childhood, 59, 60 Class, 15, 16, 18, 32, 48, 58, 59, 87, 181 middle-, 16, 18, 33, 37, 57, 129, 142, 183, 184 working-, 16, 18, 57, 64, 70, 86, 87, 103, 142, 178, 183, 184 Classism, 21, 86, 87, 178 Coded language, 145–149, 164, 165 Competition, 4, 5, 7, 8, 31, 48, 58, 64, 65, 75, 84, 95, 152, 174, 180 Connell, Raewyn, 10, 11, 30–32, 35, 40, 42, 48, 75, 87, 172 Crying, 8, 67, 68, 89, 95–97, 122–128, 161, 176, 177 Cultural background, 7, 15, 19, 73, 181, 184 D Darcy, Clay, 150, 152 Das, Ranjana, 41, 154, 155 Demetriou, Demetrakis, 10, 14, 32 Disclosure, emotions or experiences, 9, 32, 48, 49, 62, 68, 88, 91, 95, 99, 115, 117, 119, 121, 124, 125, 128, 129, 141, 143, 146, 147, 154, 155, 157, 158, 165, 171, 179–182 Discourse, 42 analysis, 13, 109 competing, 13, 42, 99, 102 contestation of, 14, 47 destabilisation of, 31, 47, 48, 50, 58, 75, 92, 105 dominant, 44, 45, 58, 75–78, 164 Division of labour, 30, 45, 57, 58, 83

Divorce, 6, 41, 84, 99, 106, 182 Dominance, over other men, 5 Duncanson, Claire, 33, 37, 38, 176 E Elliott, Karla, 18, 37, 40, 71, 86, 98, 100, 103, 175, 183 Embodiment, 32, 41, 43, 44, 75, 97, 121, 125, 170, 176 Emotion, 3, 30, 43, 46, 49, 58, 67–69, 84, 92, 95–98, 108, 121–128, 130, 142–144, 148, 154, 155, 163, 171, 181, 182 expression of, 8, 9, 32, 36, 48, 49, 68, 92, 95, 100, 109, 122, 123, 125, 126, 145, 146, 157, 177, 179, 180, 182 lack of expression, 4, 6, 8, 9, 46, 48, 58, 66, 67, 84, 108, 180 Emotional support, 60, 62, 65, 70, 76, 88, 89, 91, 98, 100, 117, 118, 127, 129, 131, 132, 140, 147, 152, 155, 157, 160, 170 as an act of problem-solving, 90, 131, 136, 140, 141 Emotion work, 41, 125 F Farrugia, David, 150 Fatherhood, 2, 7 Feeling rules, 96 Femininity, 2, 5, 30, 32, 34–36, 38, 40, 48, 58, 60, 71, 74, 75, 88, 89, 95, 101, 105, 125, 126, 133, 135, 163, 165, 176, 177, 185, 188 Feminism, 3, 30, 41, 42, 45, 46, 48, 50, 95, 100, 165, 179, 181, 185 anti-, 3, 44 pro-feminist men, 6 second-wave, 57

 INDEX 

Feminist discourse, 2, 14, 31, 33, 47, 48, 50, 75, 77, 83, 84, 95, 99, 104, 106, 108, 113, 121, 122, 126, 130–132, 154, 156, 157, 162, 171, 176, 178–181, 184, 187 Foucault, Michel, 43, 107, 171, 182 Friendship, activity-based, 6, 59–61, 85, 88, 115, 159, 160, 170 G Gavey, Nicola, 13, 14, 42, 45, 46, 75, 76 Gay men, violent policing of, 49 Gay rights, 49, 58, 113 Gender, 20, 30, 42, 43, 45 difference discourse, 44, 46, 48, 61, 62, 84, 85, 89, 95, 113, 116, 117, 120, 126, 127, 132, 139, 165, 173, 180, 185–187 inequality, 45, 174 Gender-transformative programmes, 49, 187, 188 Generations, 3, 11, 15, 93, 101, 113, 132, 164, 170 Goedecke, Karla, 9, 33, 87, 177 H Health help-seeking, 6, 46, 99, 100, 117, 127 mental health, 2, 6, 9, 18, 39, 41, 49, 70, 83, 92, 93, 95, 108, 113, 117, 120, 121, 128, 130, 131, 144, 146–149, 155, 156, 158, 165, 177, 179, 187 physical health, 2 Hegemonic masculinity, 10, 13, 21, 31–36, 39, 40, 44, 47, 69, 70, 75, 87, 104, 154, 172, 175, 176, 179, 180

195

Heteronormativity, 37, 49, 50, 75 Heterosexism, 21, 37, 39, 46, 47, 49, 113, 116, 136, 187 Heterosexuality, 5, 8, 10, 16, 30, 32, 35–37, 41, 44, 46, 50, 71, 72, 177, 183, 184 Hodkinson, Paul, 38, 41, 154, 155, 185 Holmes, Mary, 41, 64, 76, 78, 118, 182 Homohysteria, 5, 35, 71, 73, 75, 102, 106, 135, 136, 180, 186 Homohysteric discourse, 44, 46, 47, 74, 75, 84, 93, 102, 105, 106, 119, 120, 134, 135, 179, 180, 184 Homophobia, 4–7, 9, 10, 15, 16, 35–37, 39, 49, 74, 83, 84, 103, 104, 114, 135, 136, 154, 178–180, 184, 187, 188 Homosexuality, 5, 7, 19, 32, 35, 47, 57, 58, 71, 73–75, 101, 104, 119, 133, 135 Homosocial double bind, 6, 7 homosociality, 12, 35, 46–48, 83, 127, 180, 181 masculinity as, 5 Humour, 2, 8, 10, 18, 20, 38, 94, 103, 105, 106, 116, 117, 133, 143–146, 148, 164, 165, 171, 179 Hybrid masculinity, 10, 31–33, 37, 38, 46, 103, 176, 177, 180 Hysteria, 35 I Inclusion parameters, 15 Inclusive masculinity theory, 10, 11, 31, 35–38, 47, 114, 135, 136, 170, 178, 179, 185 Independence, see Self-reliance Indigenous, Australians, 57 Intent-context-effect matrix, 94, 101–103, 106, 109, 120, 134, 154

196 

INDEX

Intimacy as distinct from bonding, 6 emotional intimacy, 8, 90, 94, 105, 115, 118, 119, 128, 142, 143, 155, 182 physical (general), 9, 10, 32, 38, 44, 71–74, 94, 102, 103, 105, 106, 114, 121, 132, 133, 150, 153, 179, 184 physical (hugging), 2, 5, 7, 10, 32, 38, 58, 71–75, 84, 101–106, 109, 122, 132–136, 164, 170, 184, 188 physical (kissing), 7, 9, 10, 37, 38, 59, 72–74, 128, 132–136, 150, 151, 153, 154, 178–180, 184 verbal, 5, 8, 10, 38, 59, 60, 93, 94, 104, 105, 119, 120, 134, 147, 149, 150, 170, 173 Isolation, see Social isolation J Judgement, fear of, 90, 91, 124, 126 K Kiesling, Scott F., 6, 7, 42, 45, 46, 93, 119, 127, 136 L Lesbianism, 49 Life course, 7, 11, 108, 185 M MacArthur, Heather J., 8, 46, 63, 66, 97 Male dominance discourse, 46, 48, 65, 84, 104, 159, 173, 180, 185 Male sexual needs discourse, 46, 186 Male solidarity discourse, 46, 61, 65, 174

Manly emotion, 8, 44 discourse of, 46, 63, 97, 186 Manly self-reliance discourse, 46, 100 Masculine capital, 162, 179 Masculine subject, 14, 44, 50, 139 Masculinising strategies, 8, 20, 38, 159, 164, 165, 171 Masculinism, 44–47 -ist subject position, 64, 65, 74–76, 78, 96, 98, 100, 119, 120, 136, 145, 148, 149, 154, 159, 163, 170, 171, 179 Masculinist discourse, 44–47 Masculinity crisis of, 3 homosocial policing of, 5, 7, 9, 10, 32, 36, 38, 45, 49, 67, 74, 77, 98, 104, 110, 116, 132, 134, 151, 177, 188 Mateship, 1, 6, 188 McCormack, Mark, 9, 15, 35–37, 101, 102, 136, 185 McQueen, Fiona, 41, 46, 48, 49, 84, 95, 97, 121, 124, 125, 128, 137 Media, 4, 9 Men’s liberationist, 4 Men’s rights activism, 44 Men’s studies, 48 Messerschmidt, James W., 2, 10, 14, 32–34, 172, 173, 175, 185 Methodology, 4, 12 Migration, 7, 116, 183 N Nicholas, Lucy, 45, 46, 113, 149 O Olson, Rebecca, 8, 20, 66, 116, 143, 144, 148, 154, 164 Online spaces, 8, 114, 154, 155, 157–159, 165

 INDEX 

P Pascoe, C. J., 10, 32, 33, 37, 47, 136 Patriarchy, 14, 19, 30–32, 34, 39, 45, 48, 57 Permission, transgress masculinist discourse, 92, 94, 157 Positionality, 16, 18–20 Poststructuralism, 13, 47 Poststructuralist subject, 13, 91, 110, 170 Power, 5, 13, 20, 30–35, 37, 38, 42, 45, 103, 176, 177, 185 as discursive, 44, 45 Privilege, 10, 16, 18, 19, 21, 29, 30, 32, 37, 41, 87, 126, 129, 131, 139, 177, 178, 183, 184, 188 Profanities, use of, see Swearing Q Queer-inclusion discourse, 14, 31, 47, 49, 50, 75, 83, 84, 93, 103–106, 108, 113, 120, 121, 133, 135, 154, 164, 171, 178–181, 187 R Race, 19, 32, 48, 58, 87 Racism, 19, 21, 178 Ralph, Brittany, 2, 10, 37, 38, 47, 94, 101, 134, 136, 150, 178, 183 Rationality, 8, 29, 31, 49, 58, 66, 84, 140, 141, 161 Reflexivity, 12, 19, 39–42, 44, 64, 70, 76–78, 91, 106–110, 128, 170, 171, 175, 181, 182 Religion, 59, 68, 70, 73, 156, 160, 161, 173 Resistance, discursive, 42, 131, 170, 178 Risk, 2, 90, 91, 98, 110, 145, 149, 150, 152, 154, 157, 158, 165, 170, 171

197

Roberts, Steven, 2, 9–11, 18, 32, 33, 37, 38, 47, 86, 94, 101, 103, 134, 136, 150, 175, 179, 183 Robinson, Stefan, 9, 101, 171 Romantic love, 135, 179 Rubin, Lillian, 6, 59, 60, 62, 63, 85, 88, 115, 118 S Sample, 15–16 School, 7, 61–63, 65, 68, 70, 71, 83, 115, 116, 121, 122, 125, 131, 133, 141, 147, 151, 155, 173 Seale, Clive, 41, 43, 84, 107, 108, 171 Segal, Lynne, 38, 39, 105 Seidler, Victor J., 5 Self-reliance, 2, 4, 9, 65, 69–72, 84, 95, 98–100, 109, 121, 125, 127–132, 158, 165, 171, 181, 184, 188 Sexism, 35, 85, 87 Sex role theory, 30 Sexual orientation, 12, 15, 16, 20, 35, 39, 47, 58, 73, 74, 104, 154, 181 Shields, Stephanie A., 8, 46, 63, 66, 97 Socialisation by family, 7, 12, 59, 60, 66, 67, 72, 77, 96 by parents, 7, 60 by peers, 7, 36, 60, 150, 173, 185 Social isolation, 2, 6, 76, 106, 130, 165 Social media, 8, 9, 15, 113, 149, 155, 156, 171 Sociology of emotion, 6, 43 Sociology of masculinity, 6 Sport, 6, 8, 9, 59, 61, 64, 71, 72, 75, 83, 85, 86, 98, 103, 115, 134, 144, 159–162, 187n2

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INDEX

Stoicism, 9, 29–31, 64–68, 72, 75, 76, 95, 96, 98, 108, 113, 131, 158, 173, 184, 188 Substance use, 2, 6, 10, 33, 63, 94, 115, 119, 133, 134, 149–154, 159, 179 Swearing, 8, 20, 142, 143, 146, 148, 165, 171 T Therapeutic discourse, 14, 31, 47–50, 70, 75–77, 83, 84, 90, 92, 93, 95, 97, 99, 100, 105, 108, 113, 115, 117–122, 124–126, 128, 129, 131, 132, 147, 154, 156, 157, 171, 176, 178–181, 184, 187 Toughness, 2, 20, 140, 142, 143, 175 Transphobia, 49 Trust, 1, 9, 10, 85, 90–92, 94, 124, 132, 134, 157, 163, 164, 171, 189 Typology/ies, of masculinity, 50, 182 U Uncertainty, 92, 97, 108, 118, 124, 125, 128, 136, 170, 171, 176, 181 Underwood, Mair, 8, 20, 66, 116, 143, 144, 148, 154, 164

V Video games, 6, 147, 155 Violence, 2, 6, 30, 39, 49, 83, 103, 148, 152, 153, 173, 186, 187 gender-based, 46 Vulnerability, 5, 6, 8, 20, 30, 41, 46, 63, 66, 69, 71, 89, 92, 95, 97–99, 109, 118–127, 130, 143, 145, 149, 157, 158, 162, 165, 170, 178, 187, 189 W Waling, Andrea, 12, 31, 40, 42, 50, 126, 176, 181, 182, 187 Weakness, 5, 95, 129 Whitehead, Stephen M., 3, 29, 31, 33, 39, 40, 42, 44–46, 48, 58, 60, 66, 92, 118, 139, 176 Whiteness, 15, 16, 19, 33, 37, 48, 57, 129, 183 Women, 5, 19, 29–31, 33, 34, 36, 38–40, 44, 46, 48, 57, 58, 61, 63, 65, 66, 69, 83, 85, 87, 89, 91, 100, 104, 117, 118, 120, 126, 148, 156, 162, 165, 172–176, 185–187 friendships between, 4, 59, 60, 62 Workplace, 7, 83, 87, 184