Allen Johnson: No man can give me what I need

Sometimes the hardest thing to say is what most needs to be said. This is one of those times. The subject has gnawed at me for a lifetime, its solution stubbornly elusive. But perhaps exploring it with you will kindle a candle in an otherwise darkened room. So here it is.

No man can give me what I need. And no woman dares. It is not their fault. It is the fault of culture, society and evolutionary biology. The men are burdened or blessed —depending upon your perspective — with an instinct to hunt, to compete and, in modern days, to be cool and sly and stoic. The women are imbued with an impulse to gather, to nurture and — all too often and not so different from their male counterparts — to cackle and snipe.

To be fair, I am not exempt from man’s primeval instincts. I, too, am a hunter, a competitor, a stoic. But my instincts seem to be directed toward an unreachable mirage. By temperament, I am compelled to hunt for intimacy, to compete for love, and to be cool enough, sly enough to get it. But I seldom do.

This imaginary conversation between Murray and me is a composite of my existential dilemma.

Murray: Hey, Allen. How ya doin’?

Allen: Murray, my friend. Funny you should ask. I’m feeling ... well, out of sorts. How do I say this? I’m disconnected, unfulfilled. I feel like something essential is missing.

Murray: Yeah, well that’s cool, man. So, did you see that Seahawks game last Sunday?

Allen: [A sigh of resignation.] Oh, yeah. That was a great game. I think we have a shot at the Super Bowl. What do you think?

Murray: Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.

Now imagine the same conversation with a fictional woman I’ll call Mabel.

Mabel: Allen, it’s so good to see you again. How are you anyway?

Allen: Frankly, not so well. But I’m not sure I want to burden you with it.

Mabel: [Drawing in closer.] Oh, it’s no burden. Tell me all.

Allen: [Filled with hope.] Well, I’m looking for a brother — a sort of soul mate. Someone with whom I could be real and nonjudgmental — and, of course, he with me. Someone who has the courage and interest to go beyond the weather or a baseball star’s batting average. Do you know what I mean?

Mabel: [Glancing at her cell phone.] Of course I do. I feel the same thing. The other day I told my best friend that I couldn’t find the right pair of jeans that everything made me look fat. And you know what she said?

Allen: I can’t imagine.

Mabel: She said that I was fat. I mean, really, who says that? I wouldn’t say that, not in a million years. Would you?

Allen: [Resorting to platitudes.] I’m afraid that’s above my pay grade.

I suspect there are some who are thinking right now, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Allen, man up.” But that is their throaty, primeval hunter voice speaking, and, frankly, I’m not interested. I don’t want to “man up.” If anything, I want to “man down.” I want to suppress the urge to be stoic or banal or even cerebral. I want to be real.

I’m reminded of Margery Williams (1881-1944). Her father, an English barrister and classical scholar, would read to her and tell her fantastic stories from his grand library of timeless literature. Those moments, curled up in the arms of her father, were magical for a little girl with a budding imagination.

Margery and her father deeply loved each other. Then, when the girl was seven, her father suddenly died. That event colored her world for the rest of her life — creating a tempered obsession with death and loss. That sentiment is never more pronounced than in her children’s classic, The Velveteen Rabbit (1922).

The story follows a small boy and his stuffed rabbit, which the youngster came to adore. But when the boy contracted scarlet fever, the doctor insisted that all of the boy’s toys must be burned.

While the toy rabbit was awaiting the funeral pyre, he cried a real tear, a translucent drop that transformed into a fairy.

“You were real to the boy because he loved you,” The fairy said to the velveteen rabbit. “Now you shall be real to everyone.”

Then the fairy held the rabbit in her arms and flew into the woods.

Later, the boy saw a rabbit scampering in the woods that looked like his old beloved bunny, never realizing that it was he, the boy, who had made the velveteen rabbit real.

That’s what I want: To love and to be loved so deeply, so routinely that I, and the people I encounter, become truly real. I want to experience profound friendships, characterized by poetic philosophy, transparency, curiosity and compassion. I have realized that wonderland with my wife who is always completely and consistently loving, but rarely, so rarely with others. So I continue my quest, to look deeply into the woods in the hope of finding a friend — or two — who are genuinely, unequivocally real. Ironically, momentously, the fact that the prize is so ephemeral, so just-out-of-reach incites an impulse to begin each new day in search for that shy and slippery soul mate. May the candle glow.

This story was originally published September 30, 2017 at 1:47 PM with the headline "Allen Johnson: No man can give me what I need."