When you’re a male born and raised in the South Island, as I was, your views on masculinity are – shall we say – traditional. Masculinity is not exactly more advanced in the North Island – where I’ve lived for over a decade – but it is certainly more stereotypical and unshakeable when you grow up somewhere like Christchurch, Dunedin, or Blenheim.
I have a mixed relationship with Canterbury, where I was born and raised. As a queer kid it wasn’t the most hospitable place to find myself. Only now as an adult man can I see the systematic and inescapable ways in which traditional masculinity and the trope of the “strong, silent southern man” does damage.
We can’t discuss the southern Kiwi man, or indeed any Kiwi man and his relationship with his emotions, without turning to the generation of Kiwis who went to World War II and came home as different men. Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were young and impressionable boys who saw the horrors of war, then returned to New Zealand in the 1940s completely shellshocked.
These forbears of ours never learned to talk about what they experienced. In fact, it felt like they entered into a silent pact to never speak of the war again. What resulted is a whole generation of broken ex-soldiers with post-traumatic stress disorder who would never get help. They internalised, stayed quiet, and pretended to be fine. The product was a generational façade of strength and fortitude; underneath it, though, were profound and irreparable wounds.
These soldiers passed this stunted emotional intelligence to their sons, who passed it to their sons and grandsons (like me and my generation). While not specific to the South Island, somehow down south this strong, silent form of traditional masculinity permeated deeper – perhaps also owing to living in the cold and just learning to “put up” with discomfort.
Today, as society at large unravels masculinity overall, I see how this shell-shocked generation of men influenced an entire southern culture.
Naturally, the pastoral is an important influence here too. In the south live country people, historically isolated from cosmopolitanism. The rural environment is harsh and lonely, and even if you are from a city like Christchurch, agriculture is a big part of life and so too are its philosophies and customs. The elements, wide open spaces, long stretches of time alone and the need to keep animals alive, like experiencing a world war, has made southern Kiwi men very hard on the outside.
Could Fred Dagg be the correct depiction of the Speights-drinking, Swannie-owning, stubbie-donning southern man? Photo / File
Even if you’re not from a farm, growing up you are influenced by farming culture so it’s impossible to decouple yourself from it. It’s a particularly stifling environment if you don’t fit a certain masculine mould or are sensitive.
When you grow up in the South Island, there’s much less curiosity about the rest of the world than in the north. You are more content with the simple life; less surrounded by people from other cultures who’ve had other experiences. There’s a strong sense of pride about being from, and living in, a city like Christchurch because you learn to believe it’s the best place in the world to live.
That lack of curiosity bodes well for a heteronormative, white-picket-fence family construct and following in one’s parent’s footsteps. It’s less helpful if you don’t fit the mould of a Speights-drinking, Swannie-owning, stubbie-donning southern man who doesn’t want to see more than what’s in his own backyard.
Then there’s the obsession with sport, which obviously is an overall Kiwi obsession but is much stronger down south. Rugby is everything in the South Island. Even if you don’t play, you’re forced to watch and hear about it 24/7. You learn from a young age that athleticism is prized over everything else, including intellectualism. You find ideals of “toughening up” physically are reappropriated to your emotions, too.
I noted earlier I have mixed feelings about being from the South Island because I do believe, deep down, all of the above makes for men who are more good than bad. Southern guys like my father, my brothers, cousins, and old friends are genuine and well-intentioned. They value family and lifestyle above all else. They thrive in the outdoors; they help others in need. They are, overall, good blokes.
When I am home in the South Island – and I use the term “home” hesitantly – I feel alien, and often alienated. I am an outsider; a city boy with different priorities and too much sensitivity to thrive there.
Yet when I look at my male friendships here in Auckland, I am still drawn to those who really, truly understand what it’s like to grow up a southerner and choose to leave. There’s a kinship there I find comforting; the knowledge we “get” each other because we know what it’s like to have our masculinity so firmly defined for us.
All of this, plus therapy, travel, and diversity in the people I hang out with, helps me understand the southern Kiwi man better. He’s a man I felt so foreign around in my formative years, and only now can I comprehend the multitude of factors beyond his control (and conception) that have made him.
