For several millennia now, men have had things their own way (I’m assuming there are no howls of protest at this statement). But in the last few decades, things seem to have changed for the better – and changed fast. So fast, we are told, that men’s moral compasses are spinning. In the space of a generation, what it means to be a good man has been completely overhauled.
We are clearly shaped by the times we live in, but just how different are men today from those of past generations? To find out, I’m sitting with 75-year-old Eddie Dickens, my father, discussing how much has changed in his lifetime. What did being a good man mean to him?
“Above all, honesty,” says my dad, sipping on a cold beer (something we both agree is good). “My dad told me that if you’re going to lie, you need a fantastic memory or to be prepared to face the consequences. It’s easier to be honest – you can live with yourself and others – and people will trust you more. There are white lies, for the ‘greater good’, but I’d never lie about something important.”
He’s keen on another H-word, too: honour. Born into a working-class family in Thurrock, Essex, he was offered a place at the Ford design school in Dagenham at the age of 17. It was his dream job – but he turned it down.
“Two weeks earlier, I’d accepted another job,” he says. “I thought it was unfair and dishonourable to go back on my word.”
Things would have moved on, they’d have got over it, I suggest.
“But you don’t think like that.”
It’s hard to argue against honesty and honour as vital ingredients of goodness, but living by them is easier said than done, particularly nowadays. We live in a fragile, ruthless economy, where the P45 of Damocles dangles above us. Would my dad turn down that job in today’s circumstances, where a job for life is an outmoded concept?
“Maybe not,” he says smiling, “but I’d have to find a very good reason.”
I ask him when a man needs to be at his best.
“When you start having children,” he says. “That changes everything. There’s no compromise. Some choices you can change. If you marry the wrong person, you can separate. You can’t go back to not having children. So having them has to be done for the right reasons.”
My father’s relationship with his own parents busts the myth that men ‘back then’ didn’t deal in feelings. It also reveals where I get my (sometimes over-the-top) emotional honesty.
“My dad was very kind and open,” he says. “I think because his dad was so harsh. I was particularly close to my mum, though. I could always ask her – or her 11 brothers and sisters! – for advice. Even in my 20s, if I needed a cuddle, I’d go to her.”
I’m not a parent and, at my age (43, thanks for asking), I’m unlikely to become one. But I have a wonderful wife, family, godchildren and friends – so, to a lesser extent, I, too, must balance my desires with the welfare of others. I expand this ethos to society at large, which takes us to an area Dad and I will never agree on.
I am what you would call “a massive lefty”, and would happily sacrifice personal gain for a happier, more equal society. I believe this is fundamental to goodness. My dad, however, is a “blue-collar Tory”. He’s all for a fair start in life, but then it’s about hard graft. No leg-ups.
Our horns always lock, but we know that we’re both coming from good places – we’re just influenced by different experiences. I’ve been lucky: I went to university, I lived abroad, I wanted for nothing. For my parents – who worked far harder than I ever had to – their great leap was to the neighbouring county of Suffolk, where my dad was offered a job as a graphic designer.
“Moving away from Thurrock was a huge moment,” he says. “It was miles away. Friends and family couldn’t understand it, but getting away gave us a different perspective.”
Our chat has done the same for me: it has reminded me how much has changed, and yet how little. I’m not a carbon copy of my dad – our experiences are too different – but you obviously inherit qualities from your parents. Mine passed on their kindness, politeness, generosity and emotional honesty – and I adapted those qualities to my world.
When I failed to be good, the examples they set showed me that I was letting myself down, and eventually I changed. I’m still changing.
Maybe that’s the most important part of being a good man: getting better at it as you go. In theory, it’s how humanity works, too. We’re not all going to agree on the details but, over time, lessons should be learned from the past – what to keep, what to discard, what to adapt – and, gradually, we improve. Fingers crossed, eh?
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