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 Who comes?

A boy of the People, N son of N,

that he may die to his boyhood

and be reborn a man.

Faces white with ash, the men come for the boy; but first, one final rite.

A wooden bowl in her lap, the boy's mother sits on a three-legged stool. The boy kneels at her feet.

Hands on his head, she bestows her blessing.

She gives him the milk. (So began his life as a boy; so also, now, it ends.) When he has drunk, she takes the bowl.

He rises, and turns to go. Never, as a boy, will he return.

From behind, she gives him a push between the shoulderblades.

So, you're becoming a man. Well, good for you: it's good to be a man.

Here's the thing to remember: there are many different ways to be one.

It took me a long time to discover this. Everything that I saw and heard said: This is how to be a man. That wasn't me, so I thought: Maybe I'm not a man.

But I was wrong.

It's work, becoming a man, hard work. That work now lies before you.

But your work is not to become my kind of man, or anyone else's kind of man. Your work is to become the man that you can be, and no one else can tell you what that is, but only you.

There are many ways to be a man, and each of us has to find his own.

In Which You, Dear Reader, Will Likely Learn More About Our Intrepid Blogger Than You Ever Really Wanted to Know

Contains frank discussion of body hair.

Among men of my family, our lack of body hair is something of a standing joke.

One morning, I'd let the pot of tea steep too long.

“That'll put hair on your chest,” said my father, taking his first sip.

“You mean I'll actually have sixteen?” I quipped.

“Quit bragging,” he quipped back.

For most of my adult life, I've tended to keep my body hair clipped pretty close. For a while—maybe still—being “smooth” was a gay “thing.”

But after some deep discussion with the warlocks about men's inner lives, and manhood generally, I began to wonder what this said about the ambivalence of my relationship with my own male body. I realized that it had been years since I'd actually seen my body with its full compliment of what the epic poets of old Eriu called “the manly hair.” So I set out to remedy that.

Call it prairie restoration.

Six fields, the lower four now given back to the wild. In time, they find their own cherished length, and stay there.

Humans are animals; our gods are animal gods. Hair is our inheritance.

In the frozen pit of a dark, cold winter, I dream one night of gazing down on my own naked body. Where pubic hair was, a thick clutch of crisp green leaves now springs.

I wake filled with a bright sense of vernal joy.