All I’ve ever wanted in life is to grow up to be a real man, or at least die trying. But no, the universe has had this way of punishing me all through my childhood. Better at book work than football; more polite than strong; more useful in the kitchen than in the workshop; and sometimes I even cry.
“Men don’t cry,” He believes. Not even six year olds on their first day of school.
Hyper-masculinity is the way of the Jamaican man. The pungent overbearing mist of machismo threatening to soak up all your sun and watch while your individuality withers away. There is no resisting, you must conform. Else, as the unwritten rule would have it, your father, brother, uncle, or any male of your acquaintance for that matter, must ensure you do. There isn’t much time; it must be done quickly to save the young man in training from irreversible damage. You can hear the time ticking away; tick-tock-tick-tock-tick.