I am a mother of five girls and one son, now eight years old, named Ayrton. It wasn’t until he was born that I got a glimpse of that secret male universe replete with a codified set of emotion-signifiers. Succinctly, it is a system of sounds and actions which men have devised to express emotion so that the need to articulate them can be dispensed with. This, henceforth, will be known as "manspeak."
Decoding manspeak may not be possible for non-mothers since access to this secret world is granted only by virtue of blood ties. Husbands and boyfriends are unable to grant a woman entry because these two categories of men come into women’s lives already full-grown and fully indoctrinated against the wiles of women and are, therefore, tamper-resistant. Mothers, by default, become privy to the workings of their sons’ underworld for the duration of their childhood and only until then. This privilege is forfeited in time, mostly around puberty.
Often we hear complaints from women like: "I just don’t get my partner, we’re coming from different tangents; we’ll never understand each other; what he says is Greek to me; he doesn’t say anything, he just sits there and stares; he walks out every time I tell him we need to talk." It’s a pity because we shun the behavior without truly identifying the root of the problem. Little boys are wired differently and are socialized differently from little girls; this is a given and this is universal. They are not immersed in the realm of emotions as readily and as thoroughly as girls are.
As a toddler, my son Ayrton was like a primitive caveman who grunted his way around the house. His entire vocabulary consisted of a single primal grunt, "Urgghh." It was a deep guttural sound, the meaning of which could be deciphered into hundreds of words by the variations in his tone, facial expression and delivery. Compared to all my girls who were speech-proficient at two years old, he continued to navigate through his toddlerhood via his "Ugga buggas."
I had to learn to associate his facial expressions with the various intonations of his grunts in order to decipher what it was he was trying to convey. Over time, recognizable patterns developed and I became adept at understanding this kind of language and later succeeded in decoding his behavior specific to a particular emotion, i.e. anger, delight, sadness, affection, anxiety, fear, et cetera.
Ayrton had formed the rudiments of a language at two and a half years old. It was, however, incomprehensible to everyone else but my husband. It was as if they shared an arcane language, which was exclusive to the brotherhood of their species. His speech was onomatopoeic. Although he could say several words perfectly, he opted to use the sound associated with a particular noun. He said "vroom" instead of car; "choo-choo," in rapid succession, instead of train; and "tuk-u-tuk-u-tuk-u-tuk" in short controlled bursts instead of helicopter.
He sometimes used sound effects to describe an object, action or idea. Whenever he was in a hurry, whether it was to use the bathroom or to rush into a toy store, he said "four-five, four-five" in a staccato manner (only Zeus and the rest of the gods at Mt. Olympus know why). My husband’s translation of this was: "Everybody on the double!" Every time we reminded him not to pick his nose he said, "I know, I know" in a sweet, singsong voice. Translation: "I know, but I can’t help it." Whenever we asked if he had seen something we were looking for, he said "We din know." Translation: "How did you know that I took it?" Whenever he was excited over a present or in anticipation of a trip he said, "ballscage" (etymology unknown), in a long, extended drawl. Translation: "Yipee!" For each time that someone committed a near-disaster blunder he said, "elabigation era" (again, etymology unknown). Translation: "Lagot!" Isn’t this very telling of why men give mono-syllabic answers to complicated questions? While we take the verbose and meandering path to express ourselves, men hope to get it done in one word.
Ayrton had several other quirks mostly related to sound emission, which I did not successfully classify into either the endearing or annoying categories for a considerable period of time. He farted unabashedly in THX Dolby surround sound. His burps sounded like a slap on a bass guitar. He snored in his sleep like a choked-up motorbike and involuntarily ground his teeth, which sounded like someone filing a lead pipe. His laughter, on the other hand, sounded like a million bells pealing during the ascension of Christ. All of these have been more or less tamed and tempered through the years, except for his laughter, which is the one sacred thing that must remain organic.
I took him recently to Bruno’s barbershop for a haircut because his father was indisposed and I felt like I had invaded the final bastion of manspeak. Men of all ages – geriatrics, baby boomers, hormone-rich teens, Game Boy-wielding youngsters and yaya-assisted toddlers–spoke the same language. I felt like a trespasser. I very quietly sat in one corner, paranoid that somehow, as absurd as it seems, I was going to be shot for breaking and entering. I didn’t move a muscle and just listened. There were one-syllable sounds in different tones and inflections coming from men in various states of relaxation and abandon. There were grunts of contentment from the men getting back massages; grunts of discomfort because of the heat of the face towel applied to a gentleman’s face getting a shave; there was a grunt of protest from an elderly grandpa getting an overzealous pedicure; there was a grunt of approval from a teenager who was delighted with his haircut; my son’s grunt was one of frustration because he failed to put one over the graphic hero on his Game Boy. All that grunting was intermittently interrupted by hand slaps and back claps from clients thanking their barbers for jobs well done. The entire barbershop was a-snap-crackle-popping with grunts, claps and slaps but hardly any spoken words broke through. When my son was done, he rose from the barber’s chair and automatically grunted his thanks to Mang Manny, his favorite barber, and slapped him a low five.
Now that Ayrton is eight years old I belabor the point of having him identify and own up to his emotions. The moment an "incident" crops up in my home and I find my son in the midst of it, I call him aside, red-faced and with smoke coming out of his nostrils, to process what he feels. I keep telling myself and everyone else who hears us that I am doing his future wife a favor, so I can die fulfilled knowing that I have made one woman happy. He thinks that this processing business is a waste of time. He would much rather play. He tells me he momentarily feels bad but will be okay again in a bit. He could be right.
John Gray, author of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, says that when men are upset they don’t like to discuss. They need to retreat into their "caves" (figurative or otherwise), and spend some time alone to control their emotions, to physically remove themselves from the battleground, to regroup or to cool off. After a long-winded sermonizing by their partners, men might hurriedly retreat into their "caves" for respite and women have to understand that unconditionally. We shouldn’t expect them to hold our hand and walk us through all our emotions because they haven’t been socialized into this emotion-processing hocus pocus. We have shrinks and counselors for that. Occasionally, and with some luck, we might get an "ugga bugga" from them just before they disappear. Consider that a favorable outcome because it makes for dialogue. He didn’t just walk out without a word. You got one out of him!
What about the reverse syndrome: men with turbo-charged, fuel-injected mouths who milk issues dry and who like to listen to themselves speak? If you are cursed with a man who exhibits symptoms like these, you must have been a serial killer in your past life. A woman who talks too much is annoying; a man who does is a tragedy. This kind of man, during arguments, will predictably mouth off until he’s blue in the face so steer clear and retreat into your own cave.
Ultimately, you’re still better off with the caveman who has little to say. So exert maximum effort to understand him, respect his privacy and give him space. Next time he says "ugga bugga" to you, respond by saying "mutatis mutandis" and do a little rain dance around the room while you’re at it, just to show him that you’re spirited enough to meet him on his own terms… some of the time.