I
Danny's calloused and heavily-creased hand brought the Diet Coke to his lips as we sat in a local diner on a Sunday morning in the heart of Missouri. He had opted for the house beef burger. No onions. Extra pickles.
Fifty-six years old and lean as ever, Danny works on the line at a steel mill as their longest-serving employee. A born-and-raised Missouri native. Son of a trucker father and a mother who juggled waitressing jobs to keep food on the table. He married his high school sweetheart, Tina, who still lights up his world. He is a man of few words, choosing to live through his hands and speak through action.
"You work really hard in life, Danny," I said to him. "Does it ever feel like a thankless job?"
"Sometimes, yeah," he mulled over the question. "Definitely feels that way in society. But I don't expect to see any appreciation. Guys like me . . . we don't make the news unless somethin' goes wrong. Nobody's writin' stories about the guy who pulls double shifts at the plant or shows up every day to make ends meet. It's just 'keep your head down, do your job, and hope you don't screw up.' And maybe that's just how it is."
He shrugged, but I knew what he was talking about. Men like Danny are supposed to keep plugging along, being steady, keeping the lights on. No reason to make a sound.
"Sometimes it feels like the world doesn't care about men. Like really care, beyond the accolades and money. Organizations for women and children are everywhere, but when was the last time you heard of one for men who need help?" He gestured to the streets on the other side of the window we were sitting by. "Don't get me wrong though. I'm glad we're giving help to women and children. They're the most vulnerable and they need it. I'm just saying it sucks sometimes that the same concern isn't shown to us men who work to keep this whole damn world together."
"That's a tough feeling," I concurred.
"Yeah. Like we're invisible."
II
Narong's days start before dawn as head of the maintenance team at a high-rise complex in suburban LA. His parents left Thailand for the promise of anew beginning in the United States, bringing with them their grit and pride, qualities evident in Narong's deep eyes. He's the kind of father who won't miss his son's school recitals, though he might roll in late still draped in his dusty work clothes and boots. When he's not working, he's helping his mother garden or trying to teach his son a few rusty Thai phrases, keeping their heritage alive as best he can in a world that often feels worlds away from his own.
"What's most important to you?" I asked him as he brought the pot of chicken curry to a boil in the cluttered, tiny kitchen of their apartment home. Spatulas and plates laid next to crayons and Spiderman action-figures on the kitchen table. Sounds came from the next room where Narong's six-year-old son, Lek, was watching Avengers: Age of Ultron.
"Most important things. . ." he repeated, sifting through his whole life in his mind. "My family. Always my family. My parents gave up everything to start fresh here, and I carry that with me my whole life. It's how I live for my own kids now: I'd give up everything for them." He turned the gas stove down and covered the pot. The steam blurred the fluorescent light overhead. "Lek Lek — I want to give him the best of both worlds. Our culture, our traditions, but also the opportunities in this country. It's a hard balance, but it's important to us."
"You work really hard for your family," I empathized while noises from the TV told me the big battle to save Earth had begun.
"Just doing my job as a father and husband. It's not much, not glamorous. People don't think about workers like me until the lights go out or there's a leak. We just keep things working." He put his hands on his hips, his gaze shifting to the next room. "But Pim does everything. She's the one who holds us together. I just make the money."
We stood in silence for a moment as he checked on the pot again, another bellow of steam rising to the ceiling.
III
Some people hide in plain sight. They're like the faucet no one thinks about until it stops working — we don't realize they have always been there . . . until the day they aren't.
As I write this paragraph, three men are currently repairing and repainting the office walls in the room next door. I had walked in, popped another capsule in the Keurig, and sat down at my desk without a second thought about them.
But now I think of them. Had they always worked in utilities? Do they have families? Are they putting their kids through college?
Are they happy?
IV
"Do you drink?" I asked Danny right after he ordered the Diet Coke. He turned his steady gaze to me.
"I've been sober eight years."
It got bad, he said. Got real bad. There wasn't a single day he didn't have a bottle on him or waiting for him in the truck. "Made it through work most days somehow, but Tina and the kids . . . they got used to me not being all the way there. I'd come home, make some excuse to sit out in the garage, drink myself dumb, sit in the truck until the bottle was empty. Thought I was keeping it separate, like if I did it out there, I wasn't dragging them into it." His eyes hovered around the edge of the table, deep in memory. "But that's a lie. Hell of a lie. Kids pick up on everything, y'know? They see you stumbling in late. They hear the fights."
"What made you change?"
He swallowed hard, taking a moment. "I saw my boy, Mitch. He was watching from the stairs, seeing me and Tina tear into each other. It was like looking at myself as a kid, watching my own dad come home in that same state. Thought I could handle it, that I was nothing like him — but I was worse." He ran his hand over his jaw. "So I got help. Went to meetings, took it a day at a time. All this time later, I'm still at it. Tina stayed by me somehow. And the kids, they gave me that second chance. I made a promise to them that I'd be better. And for once in my life, I'm keeping it."
V
I just got off the phone with my dad. With both of us being men of few words, conversation is something we've had to work at. He doesn't talk about his work unless asked. And even then, he doesn't share much. He talks even less about himself, as though sharing anything about his past and current hopes makes him uncomfortable, or that anything worth saying had nothing to do with himself.
But he never complains, no matter how late he has to stay, or how much his colleagues are being asses, or how stretched he might be with demands from work, family, and church.
And yet, he's always been there, always present. I have no memory of him ever being absent. How lucky I was. He was always reliable, like the faucet that works. So reliable that he hides in plain sight.
Being a father and husband isn't often talked about — unless it's about the disappointments. People demand much of them, yet ironically don't expect much. The same is true of the masculine roles that hold society together. We don't see the guys in the sewers, on the oil rigs, at the landfills, on the top of the telephone poles — just like how I barely registered the painters in the next room. And the men who take their jobs seriously, both within the home and without, often do so quietly.
These are the invisible men: the ones who show up to the school play in greasy clothes, who get up before sunrise with a thirteen-hour day ahead of them, who work three jobs and hardly see their children while they're awake but spend a few minutes every night watching them sleep. They are the Danny's of this world, who conquer addiction to give their families hope. The Narong's, who keep the lights working and bring home the bread hoping that there will eventually be enough to put their kids through school. And they are the ones like my dad, who don't really know how to say "I love you" or "I'm proud of you" but will give up anything to show up.
Let's show up for them, too.
——————————————
"Are you happy? I asked Narong as he dug into the rice cooker. He didn't answer immediately. If he is like any other men I know, he rarely asks himself that question.
"I know my family is safe, my son is growing up strong, my wife supports me, and my parents' sacrifices weren't for nothing," he finally said. "Happiness isn't a big thing for me. It's just the moments with family and friends, giving my son a chance to be successful in life, the stability we have as a family. And maybe that's all it needs to be."
That thought brought a small smile to my lips as he raised his voice toward the living room. "Lek Lek! Time to eat!"
Stay purposeful.
– Nathanael
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