What Does it Mean to Be a Man?
A Response to Ocean Vuong
Ocean Vuong's powerful statement in 2019 about American male identity resonates deeply with my own experience. I agree with it, even as I find it incomplete. In the following piece, I explore how his analysis of hegemonic masculinity and the problematic underpinnings of Anglo-American foundational myths holds significant truth—but it doesn't encompass the full spectrum of male identity forged in America. It’s a spectrum the poet Walt Whitman explored in Leaves of Grass, one that feels particularly relevant today. Vuong's critique captures perhaps half—the half aligned with the far-right authoritarian and nationalistic mindset currently weaving through the American psyche.
Vuong writes:
From the Founding Fathers to Manifest Destiny, America’s self-identity was fashioned out of the myth of the self-made revolutionary turned explorer and founder of a new, immaculate world of possible colonization. The avatar of the pioneer, the courageous and stoic seeker, ignores and erases the Native American genocide that made such a persona possible. The American paradox of hegemonic masculinity is also a paradox of identity. Because American life was founded on death, it had to make death a kind of praxis, it had to celebrate it. And because death was considered progress, its metaphors soon became the very measurement of life, of the growth of boys. You fucking killed it.
Vuong's assertion that “America’s self-identity was fashioned out of the myth of the self-made revolutionary turned explorer and founder of a new, immaculate world of possible colonization” strikes a deeply resonant, albeit uncomfortable, chord in the history of Anglo-American white men. His incisive critique of the “avatar of the pioneer” as a figure that “ignores and erases the Native American genocide” illuminates a crucial, often unacknowledged, darkness at the heart of a certain rugged individualist, disruptive, (and often xenophobic) American narrative, particularly among men on the far-right of the political spectrum.
Indeed, the notion that “American life was founded on death” and thus “had to make death a kind of praxis” offers a chilling yet compelling authoritarian lens through which to view a specific strain of American hyper-masculinity—one that disturbingly equates dominance, conquest, and even violence with progress and strength. This far-right authoritarian vision of manhood permeates Cormac McCarthy's landscapes, where men like Judge Holden and Anton Chigurh embody the (patho)logical extreme of “you fucking killed it” as masculine achievement. For many, this has been a pervasive cultural current shaping expectations of what it means to “be a man” in America.
But to suggest this “paradox of hegemonic masculinity” as the framework for American male identity—especially in the present—feels incomplete. There are, and have always been, a multitude of ways to be a man in America. While the historical forces Vuong names have shaped American culture, particularly on the destabilizing far-right, the lived experiences of American men are more varied and complex. Vuong himself is evidence of that.
Indeed, Vuong acknowledges this complexity elsewhere in his essay, expressing his desire to “trouble he-ness”and “complicate, expand, and change” masculinity from within, suggesting that what we've allowed masculinity to become in America is a construction that can be reimagined.
Power, strength, and leadership have long held the capacity to include qualities beyond physical or economic dominance.
I think of my own upbringing in Pittsburgh, shaped by a complicated white male figure who—though flawed and, I later learned, not my biological father—profoundly influenced my early sense of what it meant to be a man. I also had two brothers who liked being physical and aggressive to varying degrees. That history likely shaped my perspective on the multifaceted nature of masculinity and humanity, and helped me to imagine what being a man could mean.
I also think of Barack Obama, whose presidency embodied a different kind of power—rooted in intellect, empathy, and diplomatic engagement rather than aggressive assertion. His pragmatic leadership demonstrated that authority could be exercised through collaboration, humility, and respect for democratic institutions. Was he perfect? Of course not.
Similarly, the enduring legacy of Fred Rogers, or “Mister Rogers,” offers a powerful counter-narrative to the “celebration of death” that Vuong identifies. Rogers championed kindness, emotional intelligence, and radical acceptance, demonstrating that true strength lies not in conquest but in connection and genuine human understanding during a time when Richard Nixon and the far-right were ascending. And in the world of sports, the integrity and grace of Roberto Clemente offered me a model of heroism defined by skill, dedication, and a commitment to humanitarianism—a far cry from the ruthless, “you fucking killed it” muscular mentality more often seen on the far-right. But it was not exclusive to them.
These models of manhood offer what Vuong’s vision leaves out: a more expansive and humanistic masculinity. They suggest that American male identity doesn’t have to be rooted in death or domination. That tenderness, self-control, and service to others are not only possible but essential to a more complete and sustainable form of strength.
As Whitman wrote, “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes).” Vuong’s critique rightly excavates one of those multitudes—the violent, colonial, hyper-masculine strain. But it is not the only one. American masculinity is not a monolith. It is a landscape in flux, shaped by a thousand quiet acts of care, resistance, and redefinition.
Let’s not forget that creation, not just destruction, is a form of power. That building something with others—be it a family, a movement, a community, or a story—is just as courageous as going it alone. As we navigate the contradictions and legacies of American manhood, we might turn not only to critiques of what we’ve done wrong, but also to visions of what we might still become.
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