My Son is the Bear

He's an aware bear.

Unless you live Very Online like some of us (ahem) you might have missed the hot hot memetastic spectacular spectacular that is Man vs. Bear. If so, allow me:

The gig is such that on social media, women were asked a simple question: Would you rather be alone in the woods with a man or a bear?

Women overwhelmingly have chosen the bear. Shocked! (not shocked). 

Some of the reasons why?

• You know what to expect from a bear. 

• If a bear attacks you, people believe you.

• No one is going to ask me if I led the bear on.

• After the bear attacks you, you don’t still have to have Thanksgiving with the bear’s family. 

Granted, this is a cheeky hypothetical, but these reactions have made some men a bit … emotional. There are discussions all over the internet in which men take women to task for choosing such a dangerous wild animal, some have gone so far as to, let’s say, stalk their prey online.

I want to pump my fist and shout TEAM BEAR, because I too walk with my keys like Wolverine fists, and have two kinds of pepper spray (given to me by my mother) in my car and purse.

And yet. 

I am the mother of sons. 

So I know that not every man is a predator. And I have an actual glimmer of hope, because I gave birth to an actual bear. 

Not an actual bear, but a sugar-faced boy who has always been the biggest in his class. His kindergarten class gave him the nickname BTB (big teddy bear) because he was a squish of love and kindness. 

In second grade, this sturdy child was being hit with a shoe, by a kindergartner, every day on the bus. It vexed him deeply, but he knew the kid was smaller than him, weaker than him, so he dealt with it. In soccer, kids would run up and then bounce off him, and he’d get the whistle. Shrug, move on. 

By the time he was in fifth grade, people were telling him to join football. He wasn’t into it, he was into Bakugan, Airbending, and Good Mythical Morning. He told me: Mommy, I have the body of a brute, but the mind of a monk. 

It is my very favorite thing he has ever said. It is family legend and lore.

So instead he joined karate. It was part of his mission to understand and control this body which far outpaced the ones of his friends. He was taller, his shoulders were wider, he was heavier than anyone in his grade. He did fine in karate, but it couldn’t hold his interest because he had no friends in class. 

His friends kept asking him to join football, and he finally relented in seventh grade. He was red striped, which means they put a special tape on the helmets of the big kids which aren’t allowed to hit anyone. Friends, that was just fine with this boyo who would stop in the game to point out the flaming red leaves on the trees backing the field. 

The worse thing, for me, was this weird expectation of the parents on the sidelines. They wanted him to be on the field because he was big, and they wanted him to find a way to intimidate the other team, to, if not hit, then at least make them believe he might hit them. They counted on his BIG to mean FEAR. And when it didn’t, when he’d tap the shoulder of the guy whizzing by him, or immediately start saying “good play guys” to the other team, they got angry. Angry and disturbingly fine with ripping my child apart under their breath. He played two years, mostly as a way to find some connection with his increasingly drifting father, and then he was done. 

I say all this because I already knew who he was by the time we earnestly started talking about girls. He was a protector. And he was a leader. Despite not fitting into the American football hero stereotype of popularity, that kid was a charismatic fez-wearing icon of hospitality: he welcomed everyone into his fold. These two things, I told him, meant that he didn’t just have to do right, he had to stop wrong-doing if he saw it. That’s the gift and the curse. 

As he grew into his high school years, his bear side really came out. He reached 6’3” and 250lbs, grew his hair past his shoulders, and was the proud owner of a wiry, thick beard. A sophomore with a beard. He could have gone to college frat parties and never been carded. Instead, he rocked sea shanties in chamber choir, played a Tony-worthy Cowardly Lion in the high school Wizard of Oz, and took on organizing the school’s blood drives. Listen, he is not a saint, his toenails are disgusting. 

But one of his proudest moments in high school was when he was asked to play a special role at the Letters of Love year-end dinner. The event was held at a venue in the city, the club was mostly young women, and they asked him to walk everyone to their cars when they left. He felt so honored, so useful that night.

Because never for a second does that kid not know how he looks to the world. He looks like the man. 

And even as he increasingly tries to morph into that soft plush bear that can only be seen by fellow five year olds, he knows that in whatever form he takes, some women will see him as: danger. That’s why he’s an aware bear. It doesn’t make him angry, it doesn’t make him feel unfairly slighted by the world. It makes him want to be the best version of both man and bear. 

He told me he wears flip-flops on his college campus, not just to air out those horrendous toenails, but so that people will hear him as he’s walking. He whistles or hums when he leaves his radio station late at night so that no one will be surprised as he rounds a corner. He still walks everyone to their cars. 

Body of a brute.

Mind of a monk.