By Scott Graber
When I was a “knob” at The Citadel — standing beaten, bald-headed, and sleep-deprived in an upperclassmen’s room — there was a prediction that went something like this;
“Gentlemen, look at the man to your left,” the cadet sergeant began.
“In four years only one of you will still be at this college. The face you are looking at tonight may be long gone, forgotten, because half of you will not graduate.
“But those of you who survive this system will become bonded, glued-forever friends.
“Fifty years from today the closest, most reliable friends you will have in your life-time; are standing right here, right now, in this goddamn room. …”
These long-ago words came to mind this morning as I read an article in the July 20 edition of the New Yorker titled “Only Connect” by Katy Waldman.
“Only Connect” is about friendships — male friendships in particular — and it does this by reviewing several recent books that examine all aspects of “bromance.”
The New Yorker begins by repeating the traditional tropes that many men are lonely, friendless, because of the gender-based “expectations of strength and silence.”
There are also the expected rationalizations.
“Life has been about achieving, when the majority of my friendships centered around work. When the work goals have been realized, the relationships … have tended to fade.”
My first adult friends were my Citadel classmates who, after graduation, dispersed to the four corners of the world — most to Vietnam.
Those friends, largely India Company classmates, have been reduced over the years to four or five aging men who I call on the telephone — or who call me — with some regularity. But, for the most part, these telephone conversations are too brief to have any depth most falling into the “Are your still alive?” category.
(My former roommate, Buff Stansbury, remains close and this relationship is enhanced by in-person visits, road trips, and the fact that Buff and my own son, Zach, have become close.)
When my wife and I arrived in Beaufort in 1970 we befriended another couple, our age, who were politically compatible in that time of Nixon and the Watergate break-in.
The Watergate hearings brought us together almost every night; and that provided conversational fodder that was enhanced by Dewar’s White Label Scotch. I was fond of my new friend’s beautiful wife, but I truly loved her husband and his efforts to succeed in a patriarchal, gossip-driven town where one was supposed to project success, strength and a love of raw oysters. However a reoccurring theme was our doubts about returning to the South after getting our post graduate educations in the North.
We had older, retired friend who urged us to leave Beaufort. He said we were “Wasting our lives in Beaufort” and needed to be someplace, like Atlanta, with a younger, edgier, energized population that was intellectually challenging.
Another topical chestnut was ever-present issue of race — a roiling, unsettled penumbra that seemed to attach itself to every aspect of life in the American South.
These conversations — supplemented by the prose of William Faulkner, Willie Lee Rose and Willie Morris — left me strangely energized.
My friend’s candor on personal issues triggered a similar candor on my part and extended to other topics like one’s relationships with one’s wife, siblings and parents.
I am smart enough to admit that I admired this man, and there was some self-projection on my part to be like him; but eventually he left town and now lives on a steep hillside overlooking a “wine dark sea.”
Since his departure my close friends tend to be women and the New Yorker piece makes it clear that “It wasn’t until the 19th century, … that friendships started shading female. Women with their tender relational instincts became seen as the custodians of the institution’s most precious and elevated forms. …”
But isn’t it more straightforward than that?
Isn’t it obvious that women understand that men love to talk?
Studies show men will listen, maybe 6 seconds, before they start formulating what they intend to say. Men have this amazing capacity to transmit; but, apparently, only a limited ability to receive.
Women also understand if one hopes for a “deep dive,” to get past the current foibles of Pete Hegseth, they have to wait, listen and maybe admit some uncertainty on the issue.
The goal here is a discussion and that means staying away from tropes, cliches, and the self-aggrandizing “ex-cathedra comments” that shut down meaningful give and take.
Women understand there is art to friendship; and that conversation is essential to that art form.
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.