#manisphere

Modern masculinity, at least as performed by many of today’s most visible male pundits and “alpha-influencers,” bears little resemblance to the classic ideal of steadiness, courage, and self-sacrifice. From Theodore Roosevelt’s “strenuous life” to the quiet resolve of civil-rights icons who risked comfort for conscience, strength once meant carrying burdens, not broadcasting grievances. Yet the loudest voices in the contemporary manosphere invert that code: their measure of manhood is how convincingly they can claim persecution. In place of honor we find endless complaint; in place of duty, a search for scapegoats.

Nowhere is this inversion clearer than in Donald Trump’s political persona. Even as a billionaire and a former president, he casts himself as “the most persecuted man in American history,” styling every indictment or electoral loss as proof that shadowy elites oppress both him and the “forgotten men” he claims to embody. Scholars have traced this pose of “masculine victimhood”—a performance that reframes lost privilege as injustice—across his rallies, Truth Social posts, and fundraising appeals. The effect is to recode grievance as grit: if the strongman can cry foul, so can every disaffected follower who fears slipping status.

A similar choreography plays out in the media sphere. Bill Maher, once a self-styled iconoclast, now devotes monologues to lamenting that men are the “last acceptable target of discrimination,” warning that feminism has gone “too far” and created a new “gender apartheid.” Joe Rogan’s marathon podcasts, once about curiosity, are increasingly dominated by guests who rail against “cancel culture,” selling the idea that the male voice itself is endangered. Although Maher and Rogan differ in tone—one sardonic, the other bro-convivial—both repackage progressive vocabulary (“rights,” “representation,” “safe spaces”) to argue that men, not women, are the true marginalized class. The rhetorical trick is simple: trade the language of liberation for the language of loss.

The online manosphere industrializes that trick. Influencers such as Andrew Tate rise to fame by preaching gym discipline and financial hustle, yet pivot quickly to fantasies of male dispossession: women, governments, and “soy society” supposedly conspire to neuter the natural order. Scholars tracking this content note how grievance is monetized through courses, crypto schemes, and Patreon channels, all under the banner of rescuing men from feminized decline. Even academic studies of European “manfluencers” observe identical patterns: neoliberal hardships are real, but influencers misattribute them to feminism, redefining victimhood as the core of contemporary masculinity.

What unites Trumpian rallies, bro-podcasts, and TikTok hustlers is a shared appropriation of progressive identity politics. The civil-rights frame—assert injustice, demand recognition—has been reverse-engineered into a script where men petition for special concern because they feel “erased.” Instead of grappling with structural changes (automation, wage stagnation, shifting family norms), these figures externalize pain, recasting men as an aggrieved bloc owed restitution. It is a politics of pre-emptive alibi: failings are not moral lapses or market forces but symptoms of feminist oppression.

The cost of this posture is twofold. First, it hollows out classical virtues. Strength, once linked to restraint, is now measured by volume; honor, once tied to responsibility, is eclipsed by retweets of outrage. Second, it sidelines genuine discussions about male well-being—mental health, unemployment, educational gaps—because any policy remedy that is not emotionally satisfying to resentment entrepreneurs is dismissed as weak. Thus a generation of young men is taught that dignity lies not in bettering themselves or serving others, but in perfecting a rhetoric of injury.