On a street in Minneapolis, two versions of masculinity clashed. One anchored in fear, the other in care | Alexander Hurst

TThe first thing that struck me about Rapture’s 2011 song It Takes Time to be a Man. was the sonic, analog fuzz of its recurring guitar and piano riff. Once that drew me in, what made me listen was the uneasy marriage of masculinity and empathy in the lyrics. In the last verse, Luke Jenner tells us, “Well there’s room in your heart now / for excellence to take a stand / And there are tears that must be shed / it’s all part of the plan.”

For a year, right-wing voices have been waging a war against empathy. According to Elon Musk, empathy is “the fundamental weakness of Western civilization.” Others go further, calling it “toxic,” “suicidal,” and even “sinful.” Certainly, the macho wing of the Maga right sees no place for it amid its (bad) appropriation of medieval history and imagery that is visible everywhere from the makeup and horned headdress of the “QAnon shaman,” condemned for his role in the siege of the US Capitol. on the tattooed arms and body of Donald Trump’s Secretary of War, Pete Hegseth.

And yet, consider the ideal of chivalry upheld by medieval knights: generosity and suspicion of profit, courtesy, honesty and respect for one’s word, hospitality, respect for the rules of combat, and pity for the adversary – whose life a knight takes only as a last resort. I say this not because I think the medieval knight should be the new standard for modern men, but to point out that Maga men would fail miserably to live up to their own ideals.

But on January 24, near the frozen sidewalk of Nicollet Avenue in Minneapolis, a different concept of manhood emerged. It was a vision of masculinity that is the domain of men who have taken the time to understand that virility lives in the deep empathy of those who, like Alex Pretti, place their bodies in the face of the bully’s repression, rather than in his service.

I have no idea what Pretti believed, if anything, about nonviolence. The fact that he carried a gun implies that if that was his ethic, it was only up to a point. Minnesota is a state where “concealed carry” gun laws apply, and one could argue that a person in Pretti’s situation could reasonably conclude that they were attacked by an armed militia and draw their legally owned weapon.

Indeed, U.S. gun lobbyists loudly defended Pretti’s right to carry a gun against the Trump administration’s suggestions that bringing a gun to a protest implied violent intent. If he had drawn his weapon, predictable logic would have occurred. The Insurrection Act could have been invoked and the subsequent repression would have been swift, brutal and complete.

Instead, his response resulted in a sacrifice that may have distorted history and changed the course of the resistance. Whether or not he made that calculation in his head at the time, he denied the authorities any excuse for a massive crackdown.

Ultimately, out of empathy for the other protester, who had been pushed to the ground, rather than from a place of aggression toward federal immigration agents, he risked his life (or just his life) in an act of care rather than violence. French psychoanalyst and philosopher Anne Dufourmantelle wrote about this type of voracious acceptance of risk in a 2011 book In Praise of Risk. “Perhaps to risk one’s life is to realize that it is absolutely singular and yet not one’s own,” writes Dufourmantelle, who died tragically six years later while risking her life to save two drowning children on the southern coast of France. “Perhaps life is on the line for us.”

There is a common misconception that nonviolence means passivity. I know this is not the case because I grew up surrounded by people who believed deeply in an ethic of active, nonviolent resistance. These were people who organized their lives around the consequences – the sacrifices – arising from their commitment to seeing others as we see ourselves, in favor of a moral community beyond a community of identity. As a teenager, I affirmed that this was also my commitment. As an adult, I believe that nonviolence can only be an active choice when the balance of power between different parties is equal. And I don’t know if, faced with Pretti’s choice, I would have the courage to risk hurting myself. But this is the kind of courage that must be taught; it takes time to embody.

Years ago, I realized that what drives so many atomized, disaffected young men to turn to far-right charlatans peddling false and inflated versions of what it means to be a man is that society—American society in particular—has only ever shown them one conception of what it means to be powerful in the world.

That’s how they are, as the French anthropologist Philippe Bourgois wrote about the young men who joined Harlem street gangs in the 1980s, seeking respect, seeking to be seen.

I was lucky to receive a different image. My childhood was filled with potluck dinners at the Catholic Worker House, teachings about social injustice, and anti-war protests. I heard my mother pray “Our father, our motherwho art in heaven” next to me at Mass. I had close friendships with women and men, who taught me to be emotionally vulnerable. I became familiar with open doors and open hearts and the willingness to sacrifice that define true community, rather than its thin approximations found online.

As a society, we need to loudly change the stories we tell boys and young men about the type of man it takes time to become. Alex Pretti had courage and everything that myths and tales say men should aspire to. He got them because of his empathy, because of his ethic of care. His tormentors demonstrated masculinity, the kind that comes from violence and terrorizing communities.

On a street in Minneapolis, two versions of masculinity clash. One rooted in fear, the other in worry. To young men who are hesitant about what kind of man to become, in the words of Rapture: “Well, go slow and take my hand. »

• Alexander Hurst is a columnist for Guardian Europe. His memoir, Generation Desperation, was published in January 2026.