Column: It was always a guy

I was a teenager in the 1980s. I didn’t think much about the fact that I was a boy myself—but I remember clearly that it was other boys, guys, and men I was afraid of.

Some older boys at daycare cornered me in the yard. They pushed me around and threatened me with clenched fists.

Growing up, it was always boys, guys, and men who might be violent, aggressive, loud, trying to act tough, getting in the way, raising their fists, threatening with violence. It was guys trying to prove they were bigger and stronger than me, that they had the power to do whatever they wanted to me when no one was watching.

There were rumors about a gang of guys who would attack, beat, and whip other boys. It sounded like an exaggerated story. But once, when I was out walking with my parents, we ran into them. They were holding rocks and sticks wrapped with leather straps and stared me down.

When I started first grade, I was nervous. Most of all, I was scared of the older boys. I avoided certain hallways and stuck to the “safe” side of the schoolyard. Keeping track of where the older boys were became an instinct.

A lot of boys at school got into the habit of suddenly and forcefully punching each other on the upper arm. Everyone kept count so they could hit back later—until things felt "even." Some didn’t hit back right away. They saved it up to deliver 15–20 hard punches in a row to someone else’s arm.

As boys, our bodies were always available to the other boys. We were supposed to take a hit on the arm, be held in a “cop hold,” tripped, shoved into a locker, smacked on the back of the neck, or whipped with a towel in the locker room. How were we supposed to learn to respect boundaries—our own or anyone else’s? Consent? You must be joking.

Some of us used to hang out at the Slussen subway station. One guy came up to me.
“Are you a wimp?” he asked threateningly.
“No,” I said.
“What the hell did you say? Are you a wimp?!” he said again, raising his fist.
“Yeah, okay, I’m a wimp,” I tried.
“What the hell do you want, you f***ing wimp?”

I quickly turned and walked away. He swung at me. Hit the back of my head, but not too hard. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t show anything. I just walked off and left everyone. Took the first subway home by myself.

After the subway incident, I was angry and frustrated. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I could’ve handled it differently, how I could’ve gotten away, how I could’ve kept control. Even though I’d never act on it, I felt the urge to do the same thing to someone else. To pass the shame and humiliation on to someone else so I wouldn't have to carry it.

I was mugged by two guys at T-Centralen. They knew which high school I went to and gave me two options: “Give us what you’ve got now, or we’ll get you later.” I tried to talk my way out of it, but eventually gave up. They took the valuables I had on me.

Again, I couldn’t stop the thousands of thoughts about what I should have done. The shame of giving it all up without a fight, of not being cocky enough to just walk away, made me wonder if maybe I would’ve preferred to just get beaten up. Better to take a real beating than to be stuck with the shame.

I went to the Stockholm District Court. The guys who mugged me could barely look at me during the trial. I was scared to testify, but I realized what they’d done to me was nothing compared to what they’d done to others. I was just one in a long line of their more or less violent assaults on other boys.

Today, I’m an adult. Violence isn’t as present in my everyday life, and statistically, I’m no longer in the most vulnerable group of men. But I still sense that violence is out there, just like always. Generation after generation of boys, guys, and men.

And I wonder—why are we men so quiet while men’s violence continues? Do we really think it doesn’t concern us?

/ Vejde Gustafsson