Recently the ABC premiered Man Up, a three-part factual program aiming to 'kick-start a national conversation about Aussie male suicide'. The series cites that suicide is the leading cause of death among Australians aged 15 to 44, with three Australian men dying by suicide for every one woman.
Presented by radio personality Gus Worland, Man Up challenges the 'Aussie bloke' propensity to avoid expressing emotion, which has been denigrated culturally as a sign of weakness. This tendency is ultimately unhealthy: spoken about or not, mental illness can brew amid reticence — a saddening reality, when reaching out to loved ones can help address men's problems.
Even the historically glorified trait of independence can be destructive: Professor Jane Pirkis has found that 'self-reliant' men are 34 per cent more likely to experience suicidal ideation.
The series has already been written about authoritatively — by a psychiatrist and a queer journalist, no less — so I won't cover the same ground. Instead, responding to the showrunners' suggestion that 'tackling male suicide mean[s] having to change what it means to be a man', I'm delving into the origins, expressions and possible transformations of the concept.
Interestingly, the existence of 'hegemonic masculinity' — the societally idealised masculine identity which men are (usually oppressively) measured against — was posited in the 1980s by researchers studying inequality in Australian schools and men in Australian politics. It seems Australia has always been a hotbed for examinations of masculinity, machismo and how both manifest.
Yet Western masculinity as a whole is rooted in Enlightenment ideas regarding rationality's superiority over emotion, an ostensibly feminine aspect of human psychology tied to Mother (note the terminology) Nature. This schema, in turn, is descended from the two pillars of Western civilisation: Ancient Greek philosophy, which espouses the 'taming' of so-called animal drives; and Judeo-Christianity, which preaches humanity's 'dominion' over the natural world.
In the early 20th century, the Frankfurt School — building on the work of sociologists Georg Simmel and Max Weber — explored the West's alignment of manhood with labour. Along with the institutionalisation of men as 'breadwinners' came large-scale shifts whereby many men identified themselves, not by what they thought and felt, but rather what they could do.
This sort of instrumentalist thinking persists, channelled in the widespread Australian response to psychological problems: 'man up and get over it', as though the production of capital should take priority over the welfare of those who work for it.
"For millennia, we've associated 'masculine' with 'strong'. Now, we must also start celebrating men for the strength involved in opening up and unlearning destructive ideas that have become culturally ingrained."
Indeed, Man Up reveals that construction workers are six times more likely to die from suicide than from work-related accidents. And a 2016 study discovered that young Indigenous Australian men are globally the most vulnerable to suicide, with 'hopelessness' (in part due to systemic difficulties finding employment) cited as a key catalyst. Elsewhere, this is perhaps reflected in how affluent, industrialised nations like South Korea, Japan and Finland have some of the highest suicide rates globally.
What's often disregarded, of course, is emotional labour. I'm not just referring to the problematic gendering of the term or partners bearing the load of reticent men's unspoken problems; it's also about the work required to confront mental health issues in the first place. In a compelling essay built around contemporary neuropsychology's 'attachment theory', cultural theorist Nora Samaran advocates for a 'nurturance culture' in which men are encouraged to embrace vulnerability and our instinctual need for connection. This process hinges on men becoming unshackled from the 'codes of masculinity' that overvalue 'nonemotionality, strength, independence' — something Man Up also espouses.
Samaran's call-to-arms is potent; the pitfalls of misplaced masculinity are everywhere. Last year, I dated a guy who, after failing university, pretended to still be attending class for two whole semesters in fear of telling his parents the truth. A male friend also recently recounted that, in Australia, he found it much easier to meet men for hook-ups than to make friends.
My own experiences align with this, too. After sending me to live in Australia, my father tasked my then brother-in-law (a true-blue, sport-playing, Holden-driving 'bloke') with teaching me to 'be a man'. He failed, but here was evidence of hegemonic masculinity's perpetuation. My father and I were born into a masculine culture that, unlike Australia's stoicism, is characterised by braggadocious chest-puffing (see, by way of example, current president Rodrigo Duterte). Nevertheless, underpinning both Australia's and the Philippines' conceptions of masculinity is the masking of vulnerability: emotions hide behind silence and bravado.
Fortunately, hegemony is inherently in constant contestation. Masculinity may currently prize reticence and independence, but we also have the ability to redefine what it means to 'be a man'. Such a process entails continually envisaging how things could be better — Pirkis' research has revealed that shows like Man Up have demonstrable impact (71 per cent of the men she studied reported more comfort seeking help after viewing). The work of real-world initiatives like the Black Dog Institute, beyondblue, Mates4Mates and Movember significantly reinforces this. Lifeline has even proposed a national summit to combat the issue of suicide.
For millennia, we've associated 'masculine' with 'strong'. Now, we must also start celebrating men for the strength involved in opening up and unlearning destructive ideas that have become culturally ingrained.
Adolfo Aranjuez is the editor of Metro, Australia's oldest film and media periodical. He is also the subeditor of Screen Education, a columnist for Right Now, and a freelance writer and speaker.
Original artwork by Chris Johnston