On Gentlemen & Caballeros

by Yitz Miller

When my mother graduated from Stanford University in 1969, her graduating class was governed by a female student quota of 40%, established by co-founder Jane Stanford in 1899 after her husband’s death out of fear that the newly-founded Stanford University’s commitment to co-education would relegate it to becoming “a women’s university” (like Radcliffe to Harvard).

I was born 2 years later, a committed Northern California feminist who happens to have a Y chromosome (well, ok, it might have taken a few years for the indoctrination to really gel).

I remind myself regularly of the world I was born into.  It would be 20 years (1992) until John Gray dared to publish Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.  Five years later (1997) David Deida published The Way of the Superior Man.  Robert Glover rounded out the decade publishing No More Mr. Nice Guy in 2000.

Clearly I’m not the only middle-aged, heterosexual American Male who struggles to advocate wholeheartedly for feminist equality without engaging in self-castration.  I was 40 when, in a ManKind Project iGroup, I “came out of the closet as a straight, white, male”… the one label it was NOT socially-acceptable to embrace in Santa Cruz CA.

As Mónica (Sanchez Verduzco of Sínaloa Mexico) and I started dating and traveling in 2024, I was flummoxed to regularly hear her say “Thank God for Men” when we would see some astonishing work of engineering.  More than once I asked her why she was making such sexist statements.  More than once she answered “because I want to spend the rest of my life being a woman, so would you please take care of the being a man side of things?”

Thank God for Women who love men who love being men—and even demand it.

A few months ago Mónica asked me to do something for her.  I was already in bed, feeling overwhelmed by a bunch of other stuff, and said something I’m proud to have trained my son: “I’m happy to help, but could you please try it yourself first?”  Her response floored me: “Of course I can do it, but I like it when My Man does those sort of things for me.”  Note to self—correct indoctrination for son, incorrect demand for wife.

For the record, the above story has NOTHING to do with Mónica’s abilities.  She has degrees in chemistry and biology, and is the strongest, most spiritually-connected woman I’ve ever been with.  I’ve long said my dream partner is embodied in the following lyrics (Cake)—and that the lyrics are prioritized well:

I want a girl with a mind like a diamond
I want a girl who knows what’s best
I want a girl with shoes that cut
And eyes that burn like cigarettes
I want a girl with the right allocations
Who’s fast and thorough
And sharp as a tack
Who uses a machete to cut through red tape
With fingernails that shine like justice
She’s playing with her jewelry
She’s putting up her hair
She’s touring the facility
And picking up slack

I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnng jacket……

In April, Mónica and I found ourselves in Argentina, at a beginning Tango class.  “Damas y Caballeros”… and it occurred to me:  Gentleman and Caballero may be synonyms in modern parlance, but their etymology (Gentle-man vs Horse-rider) gives a staggeringly different undercurrent.  Would-be president Alexander Hamilton died because he presumed then-vice-president Aaron Burr—in that now-musically-famous duel in 1804—would intentionally shoot over his head…LIKE A GENTLEMAN.  I laughed out loud as the image came to my mind of two Argentinian Gauchos, two Spanish Cavaliers, two Knights of Charlemagne, or two Sonoran Cowboys (all synonyms for Caballero) intentionally missing a shot out of “properness.”

No More Mr. Nice Guy, indeed.

The last self-help book I read before meeting Mónica was Bryan Reeves Choose Her Every Day (or Leave Her)…published in 2021.  I was reading Reeves’ comments on the need to provide a foundation of emotional safety for the feminine to thrive when I showed up to my then men’s group.  I listened to one particular member complain—for the 100^th time—that every time he “openly shared his feelings with his wife like he was supposed to” (his words), she not only drew further away, but openly disparaged his choice, usually saying something like: “I don’t have time for your feelings, I’ve got enough of my own.”

It turned out I had had a therapy session the next day, had been feeling a lot of fear about who-knows-what, and was bitching to my therapist that the woman I was then seeing “didn’t want to hear about my feelings, either.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Marcos said, “Your fear undermines her biological need to trust that you’ll keep her safe.  Those feelings belong in your men’s group, or with your therapist.”  My therapist is Argentinian.  Probably not a coincidence.

Many of you know that Mónica and I were married in Mazatlán last month, and just returned from our Honeymoon.  While we were on a dinner-dance cruise on Lake Tahoe, the band started playing our song.  I jumped up and headed for the dance floor, stunned to discover that Mónica—who regularly dances everywhere from the bathroom to Red Sox games—was still seated.  “Aren’t you coming to dance?” I asked.  “As soon as you ask me to,” she replied, with a slightly wicked grin.

“Mónica’s Caballero.”  Poco a poco…