Esther McCarthy: Boys need to get the message — they are wonderful

I want them to lean into their capacity for decency. I want them to grow up brave and confident enough to be kind. Clued in enough to question the nonsense they’ll see online. 

Esther McCarthy: As a mother, I can’t just shake my head, switch off the wifi, and blame the big, bad internet — much as I’d like to. Picture: Emily Quinn

A friend shared a photo of her new jumper on one of the mum groups recently. It was baby pink with a slogan: ‘Boys will be boys.’

But the second ‘boys’ is struck through so it reads: ‘Boys will be wonderful humans’.

As the mum of three such gorgeous creatures, I’m becoming more aware of the messaging that surrounds young men. Sometimes it feels like it’s two extremes — on one end, there’s the hyper-misogynist, alpha male incel nonsense. 

“Women are property and only exist for our pleasure and we must dominate them. If you don’t agree with me, you’re GAY. Now, let us all disrobe and admire each other’s torsos.”

On the other hand, it’s finger-pointing and the weaponising of fear.

“You’re bad because you have balls. You scare all women because you have the power to hurt us. Hang your head in shame for your gender, you pervert.”

Forgive my hyperbole; both are exaggerations, but the comment sections of social media sites can be terrifying. 

The types of videos that are blithely shared are jaw-dropping, and narratives that seem outrageous and polarising feel like they’re being normalised, made mainstream. I’m worried there’s no middle ground.

But as a mother, I can’t just shake my head, switch off the wifi, and blame the big, bad internet — much as I’d like to.

I think about my teenage years, when passing a note in class was our social media.

“Guess whose LA Gears are fake? The sub is soooo booooring. Are you getting a sausage roll for lunch?” Scintillating stuff.

But we still had shitty behaviour back then, without being exposed to toxic online propaganda.

I grew up very privileged, with strong role models and sound people around me. But in the general course of going from girl to young woman, I had my drink spiked, twice.

I was lightly stalked the summer of my J1 in the US. Just a bit of following me about in his car, turning up at my work, and parking outside my apartment, that kind of thing. I felt sorry for him. Trying to keep track of me that summer was no mean feat.

I had a spate of dirty phone calls, always late at night — on the bloody land line — until I figured out who it was and said his name and he never rang again. He was gross, and even more unforgivable, so unimaginative. Just the same feverish scenarios grunted over and over. Sheesh.

I had a guy spit in my face in a disco once. I was 18, visiting a friend in Kenmare, and we went to the local disco. I was single, looking to mingle, and I’d heard good things about the Kerry fellas.

This guy asked me to dance, it was the first time I’d seen him all evening, but he wasn’t for me, and I said, ‘no thanks’, with a smile. He leaned back and spat right into my eyes. A proper, hateful big glob of salvia, his face distorted in rage.

“Fuck you,” he snarled, as I stood in shock. I felt disgusted and disgusting trying to wash my face after in the bathroom. And I felt furious at myself that I didn’t react, that he got away with it.

I got pounced on in Portugal one time on a girls’ holiday. I decided to go home early. (I say early, it was probably 2am. And I learned my lesson, stay the course, lightweight.) I was heading back to our apartment — a five-minute walk — when I noticed a guy following me. He mirrored my movements, crossing when I crossed, speeding up when I did.

Then when we got to the end of the strip where it wasn’t lit, he ran at me, got me on the ground, managed to pull my shorts down before I fought him off. I digged him and kicked him as hard as I could, fuming I was wearing flimsy shoes as I screamed my head off. He ran away, and I was like ... did that really happen?

But I also had friends who were boys when I was a teen. Gangs of them, trustworthy, funny, sound. Wonderful humans. 

Who helped, called crap out, demanded their friends — and strangers — be better. And I’m sure I didn’t behave perfectly towards some of the unsuspecting fellas during those learning years — never spat in anyone’s face though, to my credit.

And now, I have these three precious, gorgeous boys growing up before my eyes, and having to deal with so much more than the generation before them did. I want to wrap them in their old baby blankets like three fajitas, swaddle that in bubble wrap, top it off with crash helmets and a complete internet ban. 

I shall homeschool them and our own butter we shall churn. Simultaneously, when they’re squabbling over the good spot on the sofa with their big smelly GAA feet I want to funt them up the arse and abandon them at a busy roundabout.

Sigh. I really just want them to be OK, to lean into their capacity for decency. I want them to grow up brave and confident enough to be kind. Clued in enough to question the nonsense they’ll see online. 

I want them to know they’re not bad for being boys. They’re brilliant. And my job isn’t just to protect them from the world — it’s to help them to grow to be the sort of men who make it better. To be wonderful humans.