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 In this circle… A modern-day gathering of men By Daniel Shearer Princeton Packet Staff Writer Friday, March 12, 1999 The thought of going to a "men's group" made me a little queasy. One of my uncles, I remember vaguely, was into something like that — one of those new age groups where men hug each other and cry, talking to one another about how they had never been loved by their fathers. I scoffed at the idea. Ridiculous. A few days later, I gave it some second thoughts. If I was truly secure in my masculinity, I began to realize, then I should have no reason to fear a men's group. The name sounded reassuring and innocuous: A Gathering of Men: A Native American Drum Circle. The experience, I told myself, might even be enlightening, and it's right here in Princeton.  In conversation, I ran the idea past my closest male friend, only to be disheartened by his response. He looked at me strangely, raised an eyebrow and said, "I always wondered about you, pal." He was half joking, half serious.
His comment reaffirmed what I already knew. Most heterosexual men, when they get really honest with themselves, are downright homophobic. What's more, there's the deeply ingrained perception that men should not have physical contact with other men. We maintain a physical and emotional barricade around ourselves. We are taught not to touch or show much emotion around other men, especially strangers. A week passed after my initial decision to attend this gathering of men. Adding to my anxiety, the scheduled day for the circle turned out to be an especially trying day at work. I had knots up and down my back. I was in a foul mood and my body felt wretched. I almost didn't go. Then I remembered my previous thoughts about how the experience might be enlightening. That decision led to one of the more memorable experiences of my young life. The whole thing started out awkwardly. About nine men huddled together in the evening cold on the back porch of the Princeton Holistic Health Association office doing a "smudging ritual." The man who had brought us together, Bruce Yellin, put a mixture of sage and sweetgrass into a small clay bowl, which he then lit and began to waft over me. "Just breathe and relax, and let the smoke cover you," he said. "Inhale it a little. Fan the smoke gently with your hands." I started to clear my mind and tried to exhale the day's stresses. It was not the easiest thing to do. I was quite guarded at this point and didn't want to relax. I still carried a sort of inner sneer, in fact. I felt like laughing at the absurdity of it. The ritual, he told us, was of Native American origin and designed to cleanse us of any negative energies that we might bring into the circle. "Turn around," he said to me. "Oh no!" I thought, again feeling the urge to laugh. "They're gonna look at my butt or something. Oh, what the hell. Nothing to fear."
A few latecomers joined us, walking up from the dark backyard into this unusual scene, increasing our number to 14. I acknowledged each of them with a smile and a nod, only now my greetings started to feel a little more genuine. Inside, in a small, carpeted room, we sat on the floor in a relatively close circle using back-jacks, an interesting contraption that's actually quite comfortable. It's almost like a cloth director's chair with no legs. You sit on it, and your own body weight keeps you upright when you lean back. A few men shook hands and introduced themselves, first name only for some. Although there was no instruction to do so, we all took our shoes off. Most of the men looked like they were in their late 40s to early 50s, with a few in their mid 30s. One person looked like he was about my age. At 23, I was the youngest. Another glance, and I took note that all of us appeared to be Caucasian.  There was still a trace of a snicker on my lips, and I started to think that it would be nearly impossible to get someone like my father to come to something like this. He's the son of a Methodist minister, a retired school teacher and somewhat conservative. We've had our differences over the years, but he has always been a loving and dedicated father.
We settled in, and Mr. Yellin, who directed most of the activities that evening, asked us to close our eyes, breathe and silently release any feelings or thoughts that would prevent us from being "fully in the group." This was a comforting suggestion. I have always enjoyed meditation — getting the normal debris out of my head — but it was nice to be reminded of its soothing powers. We meditated together, with some men breathing audibly or murmuring. I tried to ignore this and focus on my own calm. After a minute or two, he asked us to make eye contact and silently acknowledge each member of the circle. Suddenly, I felt uncomfortable again and made an interesting observation: Men never stare into each others' eyes without saying anything. It just doesn't happen. I started to feel that inner scowl again and tried to dismiss it, reluctantly meeting each of pair of eyes. For one male, I'd glance and look away quickly. For another, I decided to stare intently. Now, I wanted to conduct an experiment: Who would break the stare first? So, we looked into each other's eyes in a way that, as I realized later, I had previously done only with women. There was a calm in his eyes, but beyond that, I couldn't see. He returned my look, seemingly aware of my intent. The moment stretched out, and I started to feel awkward. I blinked and looked away, trying to disguise the fact that I flinched. Later, I realized this was not about competition. This was intended as an acknowledgment of equals, and I had unconsciously violated the spirit of the gathering. A few minutes later, at Mr. Yellin's suggestion, we "checked in" with an introduction and a description of how we were feeling. He also asked us to bring the spirit of an important male in our lives into the group by describing who that male is, and why we wanted him to be present. Men shared a variety of feelings: awkwardness, calm, grief, anger and, the demon I had been fighting that evening, fear. Each man had a chance to be heard and listen, with no real restriction on what was said. Into the group, they called the spirits of fathers, uncles, friends: an adventurer who flew solo across the Atlantic; a lost uncle who died of emphysema, handcuffed to a bed in prison. Later, Mr. Yellin explained that this was all part of something he calls "creating a safe space," where men can get in touch with their bodies and emotions. "Men are acculturated to be competitive," he said. "We live in a competitive society. Men are acculturated not only to compete, but also to put on a facade that they are impervious, that nobody's gonna hurt them and that they're gonna be tough. "Coming into a circle, and the fact of sitting in a circle and sitting down on a back-jack, is kind of a leveling experience. It's not competitive anymore, and it's scary not to have that control." The Men's Movement, as it is called by many who participate in such groups, got its start in the early 1980s. Known originally as "men's rap groups," they gave participants a chance to discuss issues like divorce, parenting and the search for more genuine friendships with other men. Although many men's rap groups still meet regularly, toward the late '80s, the movement began to evolve, bringing in a number of cross-cultural rituals — among them, yoga-like meditation and Native American rituals — that groups use to help participants examine manhood. For Mr. Yellin, a 51-year-old program manager for the state Division of Mental Health Services, his involvement with men's groups began nearly 20 years ago. "I have a passion about bringing men together and letting them open up and talk from the heart," he says. "What drew me to this work is that I was searching for years to have close and genuine male relationships, and never had that with males in my family, particularly my father. A lot of men that have been drawn to this work did not have that, or may even have had much more negative experiences where they were shamed or abused." The movement seeks to undo men's perception that they are somehow less worthy if they rely on other men for emotional support. The driving concept is when men become more conscious of their bodies and feelings, they enjoy better physical health, improved relationships with both the men and women in their lives and an improved outlook on life.  "I think men are longing to be in a relationship with other men and are at the same time scared of that," Mr. Yellin says. "And I have those fears too. Even now, and I've been doing men's groups for a long time, when I go into a large circle of men, I am full of fear, and I honor that. I honor men's fears because that means you're a real person if you've got those kinds of emotions."
After our meditation and "check in," the group looked ready to drum. This was, after all, the thing that most of us came here expecting to do. We stood up and each grabbed a percussion instrument. The men in the circle had brought more than enough to share: tambourines, claves, bongos, frame drums, a cow bell, South American rattles, Caribbean instruments — weird, exotic-looking things that begged to be played. After a minute of spontaneous show-and-tell — "What the heck is that?" "Oh, it's an African xylophone. Want to play it?" — somebody set a tempo with a bongo. The guy next to me brandished a huge frame drum and mallet and added its deep bass notes to the rhythm. I didn't bring an instrument of my own, so I grabbed an unused set of woodblocks. Before long, 14 men were drumming — a cacophony of sound. The tempo would stay steady, and then a new sound would emerge, setting the pace. Skill didn't seem to matter. The sound developed its own rhythm and pulled you into the joyous act of its creation. Ten minutes into it, someone started to get really enthusiastic and let loose a tribal yell. Another man answered, and the tempo became feverish as several started dancing. This went on for nearly an hour, as men traded instruments and made sounds. Then, for some reason, it trailed off, and we stood there for a moment, sweating and panting. Later, we formed another circle, relaxed for a minute or two, and began a mantra. We slowly chanted in unison, "Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo," which, I was told, meant in translation, "I am the infinite creative consciousness; I am the infinite divine wisdom." Two more rituals followed. First, we performed an exercise in which each man revealed an affirmation he needed to hear, which was then repeated by the group. Afterwards, we had a final "check out" where the men stated how they now felt after the experience and whether it had been satisfying for them. Then, standing arms on shoulders, once again in a circle, we released the spirits we had brought into the room with a ritual yell, said our goodbyes and departed. Somewhere along the way, the stress that I built up during that hellish workday had disappeared. I walked out of the meeting feeling an inexplicable giddiness. I felt truly happy for the first time in weeks, an observation that I shared with the same friend who had expressed skepticism earlier in the day. He laughed and looked at me suspiciously. "I'm not sure I want to hear about this," he said. "Yeah," I said, meeting his glance with a contented smile. "You're like most men out there." I probably wouldn't believe it if one of my friends had done it and told me about the experience. Honestly, I'm not sure what happened that night. Even now, I'm at a loss for words to describe that feeling, that bond, men can share under those circumstances. Perhaps I'll go back. Maybe some day, but probably not next week. Bruce Yellin's Holistic Men's Group meets at the Holistic Health Association of Princeton Office, 366 Nassau St., Princeton, every other Thursday at 7 p.m. There is a $5 suggested donation. The next drum circle, the event described in the article, is scheduled for April 8 at 7 p.m. For information, call (908) 996-3424. |
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