Raising Sons, Naming Privilege, and Talking About Masculinity

I recently watched a spirited online conversation about the “male loneliness epidemic” and about phrases like white privilege, male privilege, and toxic masculinity. Some people in that discussion argued that these words have basically turned into slurs, especially when they are directed at white men. I see it very differently.

For the most part, people stayed engaged and mostly respectful, even while they strongly disagreed. It was refreshing to see, and for me, that was a reminder that we have to keep talking to each other, not just about policies and elections, but about the language we use and the stories we tell about one another. Our words carry weight. They can name harm, open doors, and build coalitions, or they can shut people down and push them deeper into corners. Choosing them carefully and using them wisely matters.

I come to this conversation as a mom of two young adult sons, a Democrat, and someone who is currently on the ballot in my community who has promised to be 100% authentic about what I believe. My sons have spent their lives in the Obama, Trump, and Biden era, watching politics swing between hope, backlash, and exhaustion. Their first presidential vote was for Kamala Harris, after they did the work and really sat with what was at stake. Now they are getting ready to cast another vote this fall, this time for their own mother’s name on the ballot. Not every family gets to say that.

They did not grow up in a bubble. Their circle of friends has always been diverse. One of my sons’ closest friends is a young man who sometimes dresses in a way some would consider feminine. For my son, that is simply his friend. How he dresses is not a factor in their friendship or in his understanding of that friend’s humanity, it's simply his own unique expression. Both of my sons have walked with me in Pride parades, and this year they came with their girlfriends, as allies. None of that feels performative to them. It is just part of how they move through the world.

From the time they were little, my main goal as a mother was not to raise “perfect” kids, but to raise good humans. I wanted them to be polite, respectful, and kind. I wanted them to notice when someone was left out, to listen when someone was hurt, and to understand that their choices affect other people. When they approached the first election they were old enough to vote in, I was very intentional about my role. I did not want to hand them a pre‑printed set of opinions. I encouraged them to do their own research, to listen to different perspectives, and to vote with both their minds and their hearts. I trusted their hearts. Like many young voters, they even went through a phase where they thought they might like RFK. Over time, as they paid attention to what he said and did, they realized he was not aligned with the values they care about. People show you who they are eventually, and they saw that clearly.

My husband’s journey is also part of why I feel so strongly about this language. When we met, he was a conservative who voted for Trump twice. For a long time, he was exactly the kind of voter Republicans assume they can count on.

When we first started talking about words like privilege, he pushed back. The terms white privilege and male privilege felt attacking to him. I understand that reaction. A lot of people hear those words and think they are being called bad, or told their hard work does not matter. To me, that discomfort is not a reason to avoid the term. It is a signal to pause and ask why it hits so hard, and to work through the feeling instead of shutting it down. Change and growth are almost always uncomfortable. Most things worth doing do not come easy.

Over time, he paid attention to what was happening around him. He listened, he watched how policies played out in real people’s lives, and he noticed who was paying the highest price. He may not sit around saying “I am using my privilege,” but his choices tell that story. By 2024 he proudly wore a “Republicans for Harris” shirt around town. He understood that his voice, his job, and even his appearance gave him access to conversations I might never be invited into. There were people who would not listen to me, or to other Democrats, but they would listen to a man who looked like him and who said, “I used to vote this way and I changed my mind.” That was not him abandoning his identity. That was him using his privilege on purpose, in a way that aligned with his values.

Recently he has been wearing my “Christine Hamm for County Board” t-shirt, and yesterday on Father’s Day, it felt especially powerful. He wore it to Costco, to the grocery store, and out to dinner with his son. On a day when many men are out with their families, he chose to be visibly aligned with his wife’s name and values. He did not make a big announcement about it. It is simply how he moves through the world now. That quiet, steady support, using his everyday life as a kind of soft amplifier for what he believes, is one of the clearest examples of healthy, non‑toxic masculinity I can imagine. He would also tell you himself that he is not suddenly a straight‑ticket Democrat. He has committed instead to really listening to the issues, hearing arguments from both sides, and then voting with both his mind and his heart. To me, that is another way he models a healthier kind of masculinity and citizenship.

From that vantage point, I do not hear words like white privilege, male privilege, or toxic masculinity as insults toward my husband or my sons. I hear them as honest descriptions of patterns that shape all of our lives and as invitations to ask, “What are we going to do with the power we have?”

When I listen to talk about a “male loneliness epidemic,” I absolutely believe many men are lonely and disconnected. But I do not believe that naming white privilege or toxic masculinity is what pushes them away. The bigger problem is a culture that tells boys they should never be vulnerable, that their worth is tied to dominance, and that any challenge to their unspoken advantages is an attack on who they are. Bad actors then take that loneliness and fear and turn it into a story that blames feminists, queer people, people of color, and anyone who dares to name unjust systems.

For me, the answer is not to retire these words. It is to use them clearly and responsibly and to pair them with real relationship, community, and support. White privilege is simply a way of talking about the unearned advantages white people have in our systems. Male privilege does the same for men. Toxic masculinity names a specific script we hand to boys about being “real” men: always in control, never vulnerable, dominating instead of collaborating. That script harms women and marginalized people, and it also harms the men who try to live inside it by cutting them off from their own emotions and isolating them from real friendship.

When I use these words, I am not trying to shame individual men or erase their pain. I am trying to give us a shared language for talking about the systems and expectations that shape all of us. In my home, in my friendships, and in my work, those words have led to more honest conversations, not fewer. My sons and my husband are proof that you can hear these terms, sit with what they mean, and still choose empathy, growth, and engagement instead of defensiveness and resentment. I am not interested in softening this language just to make it more comfortable for people who have always had the comfort of being centered, and I am not interested in writing off men who are struggling as lost causes. I want them in the conversation and invited into something larger than the narrow scripts they were handed.