MEN’S JOURNAL SEPTEMBER 2019 027with me on my journey. I explain how, at
age 10 or 11, I told my parents that I wanted
to be a writer. “That’s great, Bill,” my dad
said. “But it’s about the most competitive
thing you can do, and nobody makes any
money at it.” Translation: I don’t have con-
fidence in you.
I tell the bearded guy—a proxy for my
father—that I needed his conf idence, not
his distrust. But he just keeps telling me
that I’m not good enough, that he doesn’t
have faith in me. Then I shout that a boy
shouldn’t have to earn his father’s love,
that he turned away when I needed him
to believe in me. My “dad” staggers to the
ground under my words, and other staffers
cover him with a sheet. He dies. I’m almost
out of my body by this point, watching a
drama that proceeds as if by its own will.
Another staffer tells me that my words
come from love, that I wouldn’t risk telling
“Dad” otherwise. I don’t understand this
fully, but it feels right. Finally, I bring my
father back to life. He smiles. I look up to
see the bearded man who sent me off on
this quest. He cups my head in his hands
and tells me that I’ve done good work and
have completed my journey. I’m led away
to a soft chair and orange slices, feeling
utterly spent but also purged, as if some
tumor has been excised. The catharsis
leaves me feeling agreeable. Which is how
I end up traipsing through the woods
nearly naked.
Afterward, we go back to the barn and,
as drums pound, dance in the dark around
enough candles to roast a hog. There are
nearly 50 of us, counting staf f. It’s a celebra-
tion of having completed our journey and
of how far we’ve come. And it’s true. I’ve
shared things with these people that I’ve
never told anyone. I’m exhausted but also
relieved of some of my secret baggage. A nd,
oddly enough, here, being the only dude
wearing underwear makes me far more
conspicuous than being naked would.
On Sunday afternoon, we say our good-
byes in the parking lot. I tend to bug out of
events as fast as possible. But here I don’t.
I’m reluctant to close this door. I f ind the
school bus driver and hug him again and
tell him that I still think he’s the bravest
motherfucker I’ve ever met. I tell him that
he has to own his bravery now, which is
scary as hell. He says, “I know. I saw you
this weekend, bro. I saw your heart. And
you’ve got to do the same thing.”
I know he’s right. I drive home feeling
exhausted but also strangely buoyed. With
each mile, the high of the weekend fades
slightly. But maybe when I get home, my
shadow self won’t be there. Qare not to put down—to f ive stations, pick-
ing up a balloon at each. It’s me and f ive
guys against two other teams and the MKP
staff. My group grabs the log and takes off
across the grass toward a distant drumbeat,
guiding us to the f irst station. The night
swallows us up. My team starts slow, and
it doesn’t help that the staff repeatedly tries
to throw us off. The f irst station, set near
a large tree, is a decoy, with a drummer
but no balloons. At another, we’re offered
plastic hockey sticks, which, we’re told, are
“better” than a balloon.
I spot these ruses and warn the team,
and it feels strangely good to be part of a
group. We spend a half hour stumbling
up and down hills, looking for each sta-
tion, careful to keep the log off the ground,
trusting one another. In the end, our team
f inishes f irst. There’s no prize, but we’re
proud. It shocks me how quickly and
deeply I trust and feel connected to f ive
guys I met just hours ago.
At around midnight, we’re led to rooms
that barely hold nine cots each. I fall asleep
within seconds.
THE NEW WARRIOR Training Adventure
is designed to lead guys through a hero’s
journey, like in classical literature or Star
Wa r s. We’re def initely in the stage where
things get worse before they get better.
Saturday begins with 60-second cold
showers and oatmeal for breakfast. The
retreat, given its design, has faced some
criticism over the years, mostly for being
too intense and weird. I get it. It’s easy to
spoof what’s going on here—the games,
the crying, the initial staredowns. But if
you engage, this all seems beside the point.
To be sure, processing your deepest
emotions can be about as fun as a prostate
exam. And yet, after a morning of dancing
in a circle (highly awkward), that’s what
we do. Standing in two circles, with f ive or
six staffers in the centers, the 18 of us step
forward one by one to take on our “shadow
selves”—the identities we constructed the
moment we learned, usually during ado-
lescence, that we were not good enough,
strong enough, or lovable enough. One
guy’s moment was in eighth grade, when
his friends told him that he had a hairy back
and called him weird in front of some girls.
Another man’s parents derided him for not
being “manly” or as tough as his brothers.
When my turn comes, I step forward
and a staffer with a gray beard takes my
head in his hands. He says that he’ll beDISPATCH