Depressed 6 years old child sitting on window in old staircase. The boy is crying hiding his head in arms.
Behind closed doors, my father was physically violent to me and my mother, regularly and without restraint (Picture: Getty Images)

It was my father, rather than my mother, who taught me to be a feminist. He was an example of how not to treat women.

From an early age, it was clear there was a gender imbalance in our house that replicated a wider problem in society.

There was my father; confident, aggressive and outgoing, but with not much else; and my mother, strong, bright and able, but with low confidence and self-esteem.

I watched this dynamic throughout my life, initially at home and later with men and women in countless workplaces, social circles and gatherings, I watched women make themselves smaller, as men made themselves bigger. 

My father was an alcoholic. Loud, brash and occasionally charming, he always spoke in a way that made people listen and pay attention, and with a degree of certainty that would lead you to doubt the evidence of your own eyes and ears.

I am loath to describe him as a great orator, as he would have loved it, but it’s true. People would listen to him talk for hours. I’m not sure people even cared what he was saying.

His character was intoxicating and I grew up watching people from all walks of life fall under his spell within minutes. His brand was deliberate and carefully maintained.

He was out of work for long stretches of our youth, so my mother, sister and I were told to say he was in ‘property development’. He had a large book collection, but in the 35 years we spoke I never once saw him reading. People knew he drank too much. He did absolutely nothing to hide it; it was all part of the charm.

Behind closed doors, my father was less charming. He was physically violent to me and my mother, regularly and without restraint. He had a knack for spotting weaknesses, and we had plenty.

On one occasion, I remember being tutored by him on how to explain my mother’s black eyes. ‘Tell them I was playing with the dog and the keys flew out of my hand and they hit her,’ he told me, calmly.

The next day my mother dropped my sister and I off at school, a pair of sunglasses failing miserably to cover what were clearly two black eyes and a cut nose.

‘What happened to your mum?’ the teacher asked me, in front of the rest of the class.

‘Dad was playing with the dog and his keys flew out of his hand and hit her,’ I said, hoping she’d ask me again after the lesson. She didn’t. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to tell the truth if she’d asked in private, but I have hoped so often.

Over the subsequent years, we were punched, thrown, spat at and choked more times than I can count. I later learned that there had been violence in our household since my mother was pregnant with me. He believed that she had an affair and that I wasn’t his son.

Still later, I learned this was a relatively common starting point for domestic violence. Studies have shown that 60% of survivors using domestic abuse services are mothers and one in 15 are pregnant women.

I’ve always seen machismo as cheap theatre, an act designed to convey strength, knowledge and competence in the absence of those things

It’s tempting to believe that when violence comes to light, a system of support automatically sweeps in. That it is only secrecy that keeps abuse hidden. Perhaps it is easier for us to believe that our silence is motivated by ignorance, rather than apathy and social awkwardness.

This positions intrafamilial violence as unusual, which it isn’t, and positions systems as working effectively, which they often don’t.

Like many, I was devastated to read about the case of Shana Grice, who called the police five times on her ex-partner and was fined for wasting police time – before he killed her.

People, for the most part, don’t like to make a fuss, even when the evidence is being brought to them, 

We allow the instances of bad behaviour in favour of staying within the comfortable boundaries of social convention.

While this social convention continues, there will always be violence and people will keep looking the other way.

As a result of this upbringing, my own relationship with masculinity has been complicated. I’ve always seen machismo as cheap theatre, an act designed to convey strength, knowledge and competence in the absence of those things (or perhaps because of the absence of those things).

Growing up, I attempted to destroy the image of ‘man’ in myself. I wore a thick layer of goth makeup before leaving the house. I started loudly and performatively hating sport – a shame, as I’d quite enjoyed it when I was younger.

Most of all, I developed a scowling hatred for ‘typical’ men, that I would perform whenever given the opportunity. For years, my best friends were women and I showed my allyship by joining in when they complained about men in an effort to be supportive.

For a bisexual man, it wasn’t a sustainable position. Though I didn’t come out properly until I was 35, I’m convinced my deep rooted dislike of masculinity played a role in this.

Being, fancying and hating men all at once was incredibly confusing. It still is, sometimes. 

As I’ve grown older, I have come to believe that masculinity needs to be set free rather than destroyed.

I have met many men who embody the great kindness and strength I have always sought.

Men who are decent and good and who would sooner duck out of the theatrics, but nonetheless feel compelled to join in with misogynistic jokes, or talk about how they ‘nearly hit some bloke’. It’s nonsense, but it’s what we do. 

I believe a majority of men despise violence, but violence is so ingrained in the culture of masculinity and survives by treating dissenters harshly. By the time a boy is five or six, they are already too aware of what is expected of them and the penalties for rejecting this paradigm.

As I found out, masculinity is heavily policed with homophobia and violence.

Now, as I work at a youth LGBTQ+ charity, I am constantly overawed by young people I meet who are increasingly forging their own masculinities in the face of ridicule and contempt from the usual voices. We should ask ourselves: what is it we are so afraid of?

My wish for the future is that we embrace the changes to the traditional male role and pursue a broad definition and acceptance of men for who we are, rather than for who we feel we have to be.

I hope, as always, that my own masculinity will include speaking up and putting my head above the parapet to protect the vulnerable. Actually, that sounds quite masculine, doesn’t it?

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk

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