Nick & Nick and the men who love well & beautifully

Earlier this spring I listened to Nick Offerman reading his memoir, Where the Deer and the Antelope Play. These days, to even out many decades of reading almost exclusively books by white men, I tend to favor works by women and persons of color. So if I’m going to read a book by a fella, it’s gotta be good. It was.

My favorite part was when Offerman described his group text with his two best buds, George Saunders and Jeff Tweedy. He said something along these lines — and you have to hear this in Ron Swanson’s voice for maximum awesome:

“I know these men love me, because we often say things to each other like… I love you.”

I thought about this again yesterday when my son Eli texted me from a wedding in Wisconsin. His close friend Grace is marrying her Spaniard. Eli had visited them in Spain on his wandering return home after finishing his Peace Corps stint. They watched a 2016 presidential debate together, but Grace’s then-boyfriend went to bed early because there was too much yelling at the screen, and even with the captions on, he wasn’t able to suss out any meaning from the words of the man who was about to be (sort of) elected. As is often the case with weddings, it’s been a mini college reunion for Eli’s cohort. The other day he sent a photo with Ben and Gabe, his little trio. Such radiant faces.

(Offerman talks about this, too, about the dramatic and comedic or such like perfection of three.)

Eli and his chums graduated eight years ago, and I was delighted when he reported that they picked up right where they left off, as if all those years hadn’t happened. Lovely.

I met those boys when I flew out for Eli’s senior voice recital. They had another friend visiting that weekend, also a Nick. His mother was gravely ill with cancer, so he was on leave of absence that quarter. But he returned for a visit, possibly for the recital, although that might have been a happy accident.

This crew lived in a grand old Victorian mansion which had many splendid secret spaces, so there was plenty of room for me and Nick. I watched as these young men, my son and others, wrapped Nick up in care. They were constantly hugging and telling him they loved him. I distinctly recall Ben at the stove making dinner. A few times he casually touched Nick’s shoulder or gave him a squeeze.

(Note: They were also gross and teased and told revolting jokes. Also, side note, someone in the house made jello shots that weekend, which I’d never seen or tried before. My younger son still teases in a sing-song falsetto, “Are those jello shots?!”)

Maybe the boys I went to college with supported and loved on each other, back in the day. But I never witnessed that level of overt care or heard the words I love you spoken aloud by my cis male housemates and friends. Or queer friends, either. I remember some shoulder punches and shoves, but not hugs. Or, an occasional side hug? Which is probably why all that kindness for Nick made an enormous impression on me. Anyway. As I’ve gotten older, I have far less tolerance for the sarcasm and weird physicality that passed for affection among men when I was younger.

Until I read Offerman’s book—which, bluntly, somewhat renewed my faith in middle-aged cis white men—I thought perhaps it was a generational shift, that younger men were able to embrace and live into care and affection without fear. And maybe it is, but my data sample is small. Still. I wonder. Offerman and Tweedy are my age, and Saunders ten years older.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether these trios, Offerman’s and my son’s, are affection flukes. What matters is the love. More of that, please.