How Frank Ocean Made Me a Better Man

My journey to define a modern masculinity through hip-hop

When I was growing up, some of my favourite artists were Sean Paul, Kanye West, and Eminem. These men became role models for me, as their larger than life personas addressed topics that I didn’t often talk about with other men in my life. Sean Paul showed me how to be the life of the party, Kanye taught me to aggressively chase my dreams and Eminem showed me how to be strong even when you’re struggling inside. Together, these artists (and hip-hop more generally) fed me the well-accepted version of masculinity that society largely accepts: bravado, womanizing, and the ability to be strong at all costs. My role models gave me tangible personality traits to strive towards as I began to transition into adulthood.

So that’s exactly what I did. In middle school, I started putting myself out there, being bold like my role models. I remember asking my crush to dance to the Chris Brown’s Forever in Grade 6. I read Dale Carnegie’s How To Win Friends and Influence People in Grade 8 and started using the principles to be more “confident” and extroverted. I even tried to learn guitar so that I could make any girl swoon with my cover of Hey There Delilah. All in all, as I started to transition from boy to “man”, I started to take steps (mostly subconsciously) to become more masculine — a term I had largely defined through musical influences.

Have you ever seen Eminem smile?

While there are many great associations with a traditional definition of manliness, like confidence, ambition, and strength, there is an equally negative side to the same definition — including arrogance, aggressiveness, and being emotionally reserved. Unfortunately, I feel like I started to adopt both the good and bad elements that society’s definition of masculinity presented.

This became apparent when I started seeing my current partner in my first year of university. I remember having a big fight with her because I thought she didn’t listen to me or care about my life. My evidence was that 80% of our conversations were about her, her fears and doubts, her day-to-day life, and her aspirations. After hashing it out, I began to realize that it was my fault that I didn’t feel heard. From my definition of a man (especially in the context of a relationship), I was meant to be the “rock” — the partner that was confident in the face of uncertainty, the one who supported without needing support themselves, and the stoic face that never voiced fears.

Its about here in the timeline that I began to listen to Frank Ocean. Frank had hip-hop roots paired with the ability to both sing and rap like some of my other favourite artists like Andre 3000, Drake, and Kid Cudi. Importantly, Frank also reminded me of me. He was a young, skinny, coloured boy who also played video games, with two songs on his debut project caller Soul Calibur and Street Fighter. Frank seemed like a regular guy.

But more than anything, Frank’s lyrics opened a door to a new type of masculine role model for me. On the song There Will be Tears off Frank’s debut mixtape nostalgia, ULTRA he sings:

Hide my face, hide my face, can’t let ’em see me crying

Cause these boys didn’t have no fathers neither

And they weren’t crying, my friend said it wasn’t so bad

You can’t miss what you ain’t had, well I can, I’m sad

I really resonated with these lines. Frank begins the lyric by admitting he’s crying, something he feels ashamed of and tries to hide from his friends. He cries about lacking a fatherly figure in his life, something his friends also experience. While his friends remain stoic and hide their emotions, Frank breaks down and shows that, while against the norms of what how his peers act, boys have feelings.

I admired Frank because of his ability to weave the traditional “toughness” that is often exemplified in hip-hop with a sense of honesty that seemed like he checked his bravado at the door and was more comfortable in his own skin than other rappers. I admired that strength in Frank. It felt like this song, and Frank more generally, gave me the permission to be sad, to cry and to be insecure.

The first time I remember crying in front of my partner was cathartic. I had shared with her some mistakes I made in my past, opened up about guilt, and accepted that I needed support. Fortunately, I received love in that moment.

Opening up like this was extremely challenging — much harder than asking a girl to dance. It showed me that real strength wasn’t just swallowing your emotions, but owning up to them, accepting them, and coming face to face with your own demons. I learned that its easy to “put on a front”, to not deal with negative emotions or admit that you need help. Frank showed me that true strength— and hopefully a better marker or “masculinity”— is being vulnerable with others.

Frank’s openness across his next few musical projects continued to show me a healthier form of masculinity. In White Ferrari, Frank demonstrates an eternal love for one his past partners, a stark contrast to the way other rappers demean their exes. On Pink + White, Frank shares the beauty behind embracing things you can’t control. On Bad Religion, Frank cries about the pain of having “three lives Balanced on [his] head like steak knives” in the back of a taxi.

Taken together, I think Frank’s honesty has changed me as an individual. Importantly, I think he (and other artists like him) are giving a new generation of young boys a better type of role model to look up to. Frank changed my definition of masculinity to include strength in vulnerability and emotional intelligence. My hope is that future generations’ definition will continue to evolve where men not only feel more comfortable in their own skins, but recognize that being honest to yourself is truly manly.