A Letter to the Modern Midwest Man

After hundreds of hours listening to you, here are some things I’ve learned.

Dear Modern Midwest Man,

I've been meaning to write to you.

After years of sitting across from you, certain patterns have become impossible for me to ignore.

One of my first observations is that you often apologize before saying something vulnerable.

Sometimes you preface with a joke or a nervous laugh.

Other times, your vulnerability begins with, "This probably sounds stupid," or "I don't know if this makes any sense but..."

Then you go on to speak with transparent clarity.

I've also noticed how often you tell me that you are “a simple man.”

"I don't need much."

"I'm pretty easy, ya know?”

Maybe that's true when you're ordering lunch.

But it has never been true once we start talking.

You remember things most people would have forgotten years ago.

The song that was playing when you drove around with friends during your first joyride.

You recite movie quotes that somehow help you feel more alive.

You randomly recall a compliment an attractive stranger gave you in your twenties.

And a large majority of you strangely refer to yourselves as a “late bloomer,” despite being completely on-time when compared to most other men and sex.

Simple men don't remember life that way.

But, you do.

Yet you continue to tell yourself that you're simple.

I've listened to many of you spend twenty minutes explaining why the garage should be organized a certain way. Then apologize to me for crying three minutes later.

As if the garage deserved my attention more than your sadness.

I've learned that when you suddenly change the subject, that means we've wandered too close to something tender.

When your sentence trails off, you're often checking to see if I'm still listening.

I always am. And I've noticed something else.

You build your life around places that don't ask much from you.

Your neighborhood bar.

The golf course where everyone knows your name but very little else.

The local gym where you feel comfortable enough to just exist.

I used to think those places were your habits.

Now I know that they're refuge.

Someone nods when you walk in. Someone remembers your order.

For a little while, you don't have to explain yourself.

Sometimes that's enough for you, sometimes it’s not.

The loneliness you carry rarely announces itself.

You and I have learned that instead, your loneliness settles in quietly.

Many of you first notice it after one close friend moves away.

Another friend gets married.

Eventually the group chat doesn’t ping as frequently.

Your parents begin needing more from you.

One day you look around and realize the people who truly know how you're doing could fit around a small kitchen table.

If that.

People often say men don't know how to talk.

Nonsense.

I've listened to you spend 22-minutes explaining home repairs, the Bears' offensive line, why charcoal tastes better than propane, and exactly how you feel about receiving gifts.

The words aren't missing.

The Modern Midwest Man loves a solid “Man-xplain” moment and will be the first to call himself out.

I've also watched your entire face change when you begin talking about the woman you love.

Your jaw relaxes.

Your shoulders drop and words seem lighter between us.

I've heard you describe your wife's laugh or her eyes with the precision of someone who doesn't realize he's speaking poetry.

But you don't always call it love.

Sometimes you say,

"She just gets me."

Or,

"People just feel better when she's around."

But I know what I'm hearing. That’s what love sounds like.

I've also noticed the pressure you carry - that automatically comes attached to your love - the bills.

The furnace.

The dog poop in the backyard.

You move through life anticipating the next problem as if it’s waiting around the corner to jump you.

So when life finally becomes peaceful...

The quiet can feel uneasy because it is unfamiliar.

Here's what I hope you know.

The people who love you aren't waiting for a better version of you.

They aren't grading your usefulness or keeping score every time you say the awkward thing.

Most of them are simply wondering what it's like to live inside your mind.

They're hoping you'll let them in before life teaches them to stop asking.

I join the rest of the culture crowd for just a moment when I say that your definition of masculinity has become far too narrow.

Strength can be working overtime or fixing the problem for her.

But strength can also sound like,

"I need thirty minutes of quiet after work so that the noise in my head can quiet enough to hear you."

Or,

"I miss the way we used to desire each other."

Or,

"I'm having a hard time making friends, and I don't really know what to do about it."

Those sentences require much more bravery than you like to admit.

The more men I meet, the less interested I become in defining you.

Because you're too paradoxical.

The Modern Midwest Man is practical but extremely sentimental.

You are often funny, but you take yourself way too seriously.

Most of you have great advice and yet you wait to be immediately dismissed.

The Modern Midwest Man wants to be perfect but his humanity makes him incredibly forgiving.

So, if we ever meet, there's a good chance you'll begin by telling me that you're simple.

I'll probably smile and nod.

Because by then I'll already know something about you.

You remember more than you say, and you carry more than you show.

You love more fiercely than you typically can say aloud.

And underneath the life you've built, I suspect there's one hope that's survived every disappointment you've lived through.

That someone will find your inner world worth knowing. And perhaps she already does.

— Jess

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