The other night my roommate and I were talking about life over a couple of beers when he
asked me “when do you think you became a man?” I took a long sip, and pondered the question for a
moment. Becoming an adult is quantifiable for everyone I thought. Once we’ve lived 18 years the U.S.
government declares us adults, but what I’ve learned from Hollywood is that that doesn’t mean we
automatically “become a Man.” I was thinking so hard that the sip of beer became an aggressive gulp,
and I nearly choked trying to swallow it all. That’s when it hit me.
It was thanksgiving, 2011, and I was 16. It is said that when at thanksgiving, never bring up
politics, religion or sex, and you’ll have a fine time. Actually, that’s said about bars, but I think it works
for thanksgiving as well because drinking is more than likely involved there too, at least in my family it is.
We were all sitting around the fire after our meal talking about the Packers game when my dad gave me
this odd look; one that I’ve never seen before. It was a look that was somewhere between curious and
