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MY SON IS almost 16, and it seems even harder now than ever to spend quality time with him. He has his Junior Cert coming up, football three times a week, and he goes to the gym most days, while I often have my own busy schedule.
But we watch television together from time to time, and it’s often a rewarding experience. I wanted to watch the Netflix mini-series Adolescence with him, given the important subject matter and the hype around it.
I thought I might have had to persuade him — and I’m not above bribery — but actually he suggested it, having heard about it in school. So we made time to watch it together, but it was sometimes extremely uncomfortable to watch.
As a father, I found myself identifying with Stephen Graham’s character, Eddie. He’s blindsided when police raid his home and arrest his 13-year-old son for murder. At first, he assumes there’s been a mistake, trying to protect his boy, believing, as I would, that the justice system will set things right. But soon, the truth is undeniable. CCTV footage clearly shows Jamie stabbing his classmate multiple times.
Putting myself in Eddie’s position meant imagining my own son in Jamie’s shoes. The thought was deeply unsettling. How would I react? Certainly, with the shock and revulsion that Eddie shows, recoiling from Jamie’s touch, but would I then be able to hug and comfort my son afterwards, as Eddie does? I don’t know.
We learn more about the details of what happened and Jamie’s motivation as the series goes on. But we never get an easy answer. There isn’t one. There isn’t an answer that makes sense. Much of the commentary on the show has focused on the role of social media, and the endless stream of misogyny and misinformation that today’s teenagers are exposed to. And that is certainly a factor in this case, and an issue that should concern all parents of teenagers.
But for me, the most striking and uncomfortable part of the experience was seeing how Jamie’s aggression, portrayed brilliantly in the third episode by Owen Cooper, was really modelling and mirroring that of his father.
Jamie sees himself as ugly and unloveable. He feels that his father is ashamed of him because he is small and physically weak, and bad at sports. I can relate to that, much more, I think, than my son can. He is an award-winning athlete who spends much of his free time at the gym. I was more like Jamie, physically unimpressive and self-conscious, unable to impress my father with displays of traditional masculinity. But 30-odd years ago, although sexism was everywhere, there were no rabbit holes of misinformation and misogyny for me to fall into. There was no pornography to warp my view of women, no pick-up artists, incels or manosphere to turn to and tell me I was a victim. I’m glad I didn’t have to navigate such a world as an adolescent.
The fourth and final episode of the series sees Eddie cracking under the strain of trying to deal with everything, to live a normal life and to give his family one; but the strain is too much. The shock and anger bubbling under the surface overflow in an angry outburst.
He shouts to assert his will, his wife and daughter cowering in front of him, knowing he will not be physically violent towards them but still fearful, his tone and demeanour reducing them to quiet conciliation. They’ve seen it before and know that all they can do is to play along until he calms down.
It’s hard to watch. I’ve felt that rage. I’ve raised my voice. I’ve held things in until I’ve snapped, frustration and rage driving me, occasionally — no, more than occasionally — venting my irritation on inanimate objects. My son has seen that. Less often as time has gone on, and as I’ve worked on regulating my emotions. But still too often. It’s important to be clear here — I’ve never hit him and I never would. But that seems like the bare minimum, and our demeanour as fathers can say a lot.
Eddie is not a bad father or a bad man, and he’s not portrayed as such. He himself is a victim of a world where masculinity and violence were intertwined, where the tools he was given growing up were inadequate for the life he is now facing. And he is going through therapy, as I am, trying to be a better father and a better man. He blames himself, while knowing that he’s not the only one to blame. We also get a glimpse into the violence that Eddie himself experienced as a child, a transgenerational trauma inherited from his father and a cycle he had hoped to break by the time he’d become a father himself.
But his wife is going through something very similar. And she manages to control herself. Women don’t have it easy in the world, and it’s important to remember that this show is about the very real problem of male violence against women, but when it comes to dealing with feelings, women generally tend to express their feelings to their friends, to let emotions out as they occur rather than bottling them up until they burst out. On the other hand, “boys don’t cry” continues to rule and ruin men’s lives.
I can’t control what my son sees online. I probably could for the most part, for now, but not entirely and not for much longer. And I think the attempt would be counter-productive. I can’t control who he talks to in school or the gym. I can’t prevent him from seeing violence or sexual acts on any of the many screens he has access to. But I can control what he sees from me. I can model the behaviour that I would like to see from him. I can show him a version of masculinity that isn’t toxic. I can be emotional without being aggressive. I can be strong without being violent. I can be protective without being controlling. But it’s not easy; I have to learn the rules of a better version of masculinity. I have to do the work.
We watched the show piecemeal over the last week, often pausing to discuss some of the technical aspects of the production — the single-shot format of each episode shows incredible ingenuity — or for me to clarify some point or to ask questions of my son. This is how we usually watch television, interspersed by conversations directly or indirectly inspired by the content. It works well for us, although it makes watching films in a single sitting almost impossible. The conversations we have are real and sometimes deep and important.
I am reluctant to take much credit for the kind, smart, funny, athletic and ambitious young man my son is becoming. His mother deserves a lot of the credit there, although she, too, accepts that in some ways, we’ve just been lucky. Our son seems to have inherited the best of both of us, and yet has become truly his own person. Where I like to believe I have done well is in talking to him, always doing my best to answer his questions, from the endless whys and hows when he was a toddler to the complex, thought-provoking and sometimes uncomfortable ones he asks now. It’s harder now to always have answers, and I have to make peace with the fact that I don’t and can’t know everything. I try to always be available to talk and to give thoughtful, honest answers, whatever the questions.
A show like Adolescence may leave us with more questions than answers. Fiction is not reality, and the scenario depicted is far more extreme than most of us will ever face. But it gives us something to think about. It causes us to reflect and provides opportunities for conversations that might be difficult. We should take those opportunities.
Derek Walsh is a tour guide and writer from Wexford and based in Dublin.
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