Young Men, Silence, and the Long Road After College
Recently, I heard an advertisement featuring President Bill Clinton and California Governor Gavin Newsom discussing young men, political movements like MAGA, and figures such as Charlie Kirk. What struck me most was not the politics, but the acknowledgment of something deeper and more troubling: how many young men today are becoming increasingly isolated, disconnected, and vulnerable, with suicide rates reflecting that isolation. The conversation emphasized the need to pay attention to sensitive young men who are trying to make sense of the world they have inherited.
That point resonated deeply with me, because for many men, this sense of being pushed aside begins early and only intensifies with age. After about twenty-six, unless a man is tied to the military, a stable career, or some form of inherited security, society often treats him as expendable. If you miss certain doors, there is rarely a second invitation. You begin to feel trapped in a rat race with no exit, facing the real possibility of lifelong poverty. That sense of inevitability has followed me, in one form or another, since I was twelve years old.
Healthcare is another quiet crisis for men. Outside of stable employment, access to consistent medical and dental care becomes almost impossible. Even with work, scheduling appointments and affording care can feel insurmountable. Dental health alone tells a grim story. I have known many men who lost their teeth before the age of thirty-six, often after decades of hard labor. These are not rare exceptions. They are warnings written on people’s faces.
After college, I spent nearly nine years drifting, thinking, and trying to understand where I fit in society. I hitchhiked frequently, worked small jobs, and spent long stretches in Garberville, California. I worked at a health food store, which helped me survive materially and emotionally during very cold and difficult years. There was a certain peace in traveling long distances and holding onto dreams, especially the dream of making a living through fine art. I never made “big money” from art, but I did learn something more enduring: how fragile artistic livelihoods really are, and how brutally the market treats men who rely on creativity alone to support themselves or their families.
The fine arts are often presented as a noble path, but rarely as an honest one. Supporting a spouse and children through art alone is possible, but extremely rare. I have seen artists succeed in San Francisco, but they are exceptions among thousands who studied alongside me and ended up with nothing. In my case, I was not shocked by that outcome. My junior high art teacher was very honest with me early on about what to expect. I learned young that wandering, uncertainty, and failure were not personal defects, but structural realities.
The most important realization came after college: young men are quietly pushed out of society unless they have family wealth, inheritance, or a safety net. I watched friends maintain marriages and stability largely because their families could help them when times got hard. I did not have that. Many men do not. Love alone is not enough, despite what the Love Generation promised us. That generation believed love, peace, and harmony would sustain us, especially after the cultural awakening of the 1960s. What followed instead was a political and moral backlash that criminalized people, demonized drug culture, and treated any form of socialism or collective care as dangerous or un-American.
The idea of socialism—of taking care of one another in a democratic society—was gradually stripped away. Today, in 2025, we see this clearly in the erosion of social services. Food assistance, housing protections, and rent control are increasingly restricted, and men often fall through the cracks first. The system seems far more willing to extend sympathy and support to women, while men are expected to endure silence, shame, and isolation.
This brings me back to figures like Charlie Kirk. I do not find his rhetoric meaningful or helpful. His politics function as a product, designed to generate profit through anger and division. He rejects socialism entirely, while promoting a worldview that demands a larger share of the pie for people like himself. That way of thinking is deeply foreign to the education I received, which emphasized unity, teamwork, and shared responsibility—across race, gender, and background.
I was raised with the idea that we succeed together or not at all. White, Black, brown, male, female—we are a team. That belief sustained me during the long, quiet years in Garberville, years marked by failed relationships, silence, and emotional hardship. The silence itself can be devastating. It can hollow a person out if they are not prepared for it.
Yet, in that silence, something else can happen. You begin to study. You reflect. You encounter traditions like Zen, and teachings that once seemed incomprehensible slowly begin to make sense. Time, suffering, and solitude change how you hear certain words. Perhaps something substantial is accomplished after all, even if it is invisible to society.
I am not persuaded by political performances or loud certainties. What I trust instead are the lessons learned during years of quiet struggle. If there is one warning I would offer young men today, it is this: be prepared for long stretches of nothingness. The silence is real, and it can be dangerous. But within it, there is also the possibility of clarity, honesty, and a deeper understanding of what it means to live without illusions.
Disclaimer:
All opinions expressed in this newsletter are solely those of the author.
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