I think I once read that girls notice boys before boys notice girls. I don’t know if that observation is backed up by any statistical studies, but I do believe that it is valid based on my own childhood. Perhaps it has to do with the “code.”
My cousins, Robert and Edward, and I spent a lot of time making forts and devising rough-and-tumble games that discouraged female participation. Our forts always had a sign that said “Members Only” or “No Girls.” Not that we were all that sure of what a “member” was or just why girls weren’t allowed in. But that seemed the thing to do based on many hours of seeing Little Rascals movies. And we often went to extraordinary, even unnecessary lengths to keep girls at an arm’s distance. This behavior was all part of the “code.” I now think that an unfettered allegiance to the “code” would have seen the three of us spend the remainder of our days as members of Peter Pan’s gang. This probably explains why some men never grow up.
As boys we could belch, break wind, swagger, spit, scratch, sweat, cuss (provided no grownups were in sight), fight, go hunting, and get a paper route. We could chew Tootsie Rolls and pretend we were spitting tobacco juice. We could “smoke” candy cigarettes and talk about fast cars and loose women—not that we had any idea what a “loose” woman was or did. Girls didn’t do any of those things, especially sweat. And girls did not have dogs. They had cats. All of this was in the “code.” Had to be, because that’s the way things were.
It was a curious thing, but I recall that any member of the “club” or “fort” was a “man,” and not in the sense of maturity or age. For example, when playing cowboys and Indians (currently a politically incorrect game), we would often shout, “Come on, men!” I pause here to note that somewhere along the way I stopped thinking of fellow males as “men,” and started calling them “boys,” as in a “night out with the boys.” I have also noticed that my wife doesn’t go out with “the women,” but “with the girls.” This was a transition I missed and still don’t understand how or why it happens to all of us. But I know that it is in the “code.” Has to be. Doesn’t it?
The worst thing that would happen to us (Robert, Edward, and me) would be a rainy or bitterly cold day where indoor activity was forced upon us. The girls won. They, or some adult, would force us to “play school” or “play house.” That meant we had to pretend to like being “taught” by them or, worse, had to play with dolls, have pretend tea, and act civilized! It is a sad part of my youth that I rarely mention, and not part of the “code” that real men ever bring up voluntarily.
For whatever reason, our “code” dictated that mothers, grandmothers, and aunts didn’t count as “girls.” They were “women.” They were indecipherable, compassionate, and often emotional. They were our nurses, disciplinarians, cooks, and enforcers of manners. They always checked to see if we had washed behind our ears. If the backs of our ears were dirty, we were as dirty as the worst sinner in church on Sunday and headed straight down the road to perdition—wherever that was. And if our fingernails were dirty—well, there was just no hope for us to amount to anything. On the other hand, we noticed that girls always seemed to stay clean. Dirt didn’t stick to them any better than grease to Teflon. I’m still mystified by this apparent inequality hidden deep within the “code.” It should be changed, particularly in this day of equality between the sexes.
Somewhere along the line the “code” took a back seat to hormones and hickies. Then society started to change and today the “code” has been ignored, misplaced, or declared outright illegal. Too bad, because as a result, I see men wear hats indoors (bad manners), cry at movies (like a girl), love cats (ugh), and generally ignore everything I learned growing up. Now I can’t find a club just for men, can’t find a college that’s all male, and can’t go to a pool hall that isn’t co-ed. But, I still have some remnants of the “code” within me. I still open doors for my wife, and I still find women (particularly my wife and daughters) indecipherable, so some parts of the “code” still survive—I guess. Doesn’t it?
J. D. Thompson 