Cher, Tyres, and Boys Who Cry

Cher is a Rich Man, I Can Change Tyres, and Boys Can Cry

A personal essay on how necessity and human interaction can effect change

In 1995 on The Pat Kenny Show, Cher recalled her mother saying she wished [Cher] would settle down and marry a rich man. Cher’s legendary response: “Mom, I am a rich man.” This iconic self-certainty and self-sufficiency characterised my mood a few weekends ago, when, for the first time in my life, I changed a tyre. When I tell you my ego soared to new heights, my head was damn near bursting. I was in comic disbelief. What do you mean I’m changing this tyre with long chrome nails, bejewelled hands and wrists, and a perfectly slicked-back bun all while shedding my uterus lining? I can do literally anything! It was a sight to behold. My friend and I were elated with what we were proving ourselves capable of. Simply jacking the car was succeeded by giddy squeals and high-fives.

What I should confess is that this show of conceit resulted from me resolving a problem entirely of my own making. I had been warned of a “flat” tyre exactly two other times in recent months and remained wilfully ignorant until David, a middle-aged man, forced me off the road, insisting I had a ruptured tyre too dangerous to drive with. “You probably hit a nail,” he speculated. David didn’t account for the fact that I never check my air pressure… Said ruptured tyre was in fact a tyre at 6 PSI. David still doesn’t know this, since I reinstalled this wheel on my car after he swapped it out for my space saver.

I know this looks bad. You could have volleyed personal or sexist insults at my uselessness with all things auto-motors, and I wouldn’t have cared. Aside from occasionally boasting that I can drive stick, I prefer the route of weaponised incompetence: I’m just a girl. I avoid parallel parking or turning right across a busy intersection. I never check my air pressure and I FaceTime my father for refreshers on how to open the bonnet. I can’t be offended when I’ve embraced an identity of ineptitude—I’ve surrendered to my schema. For those of you without an interest in psychology or Kantian philosophy, a schema is a cognitive framework that helps us think, feel, and relate to the world. Where a schema exists that women are bad at cars, three maladaptive coping modes present themselves: 1) surrender, like me, 2) avoid the schema lens, perhaps by never driving, or 3) overcompensate by acting in the opposite extreme, like Sydney Sweeney restoring old cars, I guess.

My debacle with my tyre was an undesired fiasco which made me an hour and a half late on my journey to visit friends. But David’s relentlessness forced me into a position of confronting my negligence. I learnt something that day that I hadn’t known, and frankly hadn’t wanted to know, but am all the better for knowing. My self-schema has effectively crumbled, because I have learnt and embodied capability. In therapy, detrimental schemas can be identified, processed, and resolved with the help of a therapist—likely because circumstances that an individual can no longer afford to endure have forced them to. The practitioner would then use psychometric tools, their experience, a trusting relationship, and honest conversation to identify the client’s harmful schemas and coping mechanisms. Those are sophisticated instruments to wield in identifying and filling a gap of skills or knowledge. As was David, a jack, wrench, and air pump, for me. It seems change and growth benefit from necessity. The right context and mechanism serve to gently prod and invite us to become better versions of ourselves.

I like to think of myself as an intelligent and capable person, but look at how far my obstinacy took me. So how much invaluable advice is falling on deaf ears? Where I am the most likely victim of my own stubbornness, there are flaws in others that prove deadly. In the same fortnight that I learnt to change a tyre, Charlie Kirk was shot, Adolescence swept up at the Emmys, and TikTok has all but declared d4vd guilty of heinous murder. “I’m just a girl” suddenly seems an insignificant schema in the wake of such dangerous cognitive frameworks. Whether you’re an anarchistic groyper, a radicalised and sexist 13-year-old, or another domestic violence statistic, the schemas these men internalise or find community in can be fatal.

This isn’t news to me. In the spaces I occupy, professional and otherwise, I have had a front row seat to critical discourse about men and their schemas. Victim-survivors, psychologists, academics, activists and/or fellow single women have attempted to challenge patriarchal views, comment on gender relations, unpack rape culture, or simply vent about the ways in which men are incapable and falling short. The rhetoric is a messy entanglement of comedy and absolute seriousness. I banter with a male friend about being a misandrist. Women romanticise men, while men objectify women, I insist. His girlfriend can do no wrong and will always be allowed double standards because women are pure of heart and men are black of soul, I implore. My friend is in on the joke, but many men are not. They don’t see the humour when women make quips or perform skits on the internet. And they certainly don’t see an opportunity to self-reflect or improve when they encounter broad-scale and important criticism targeted at their sex. Their schemas about themselves, and the world around them, are too ingrained. Their coping strategies, too effective.

A young man I know once tragically lost his friend. These boys were pursuing a degree in commerce, two veritable finance bros in the making. They were also wealthy and sporty. So basically, I’d need a teaspoon to measure their combined emotional depth. That was harsh. And not true. A teaspoon is the emotional range this young man ordinarily allowed himself. This was his schema: boys don’t cry. He appeared to surrender to this notion, and if the schema was that boys who feel are weak, he and his friends did everything to overcompensate. They couldn’t risk being what the internet brutally characterises as being cringe, a simp, a beta male, or a soy boy. Even in the privacy of his own room he confessed to policing his thoughts and feelings, perceiving himself as embarrassing were he to shed a tear. The extent of such a schema’s reach is bewildering. He is the accused, the judge, jury, and executioner all at once. But the devastating passing of his friend overwhelmed him with grief, forcing him into a position where he had to speak. Our conversation was a necessity. Contained within it was also space, safety, and opportunity to confront his weakness—the weakness being an inability and inexperience at allowing his own emotions.

There are countless instances in which people, articles, workshops, memes, or videos insist that it is okay for men to be vulnerable. But I cannot recall a single one which holds relevancy and poignancy, and I think this young man would say the same. Despite the reach a viral video promises, these are blunt instruments with which we are attempting to challenge schemas en masse. There is no relationship. No context. No necessity. If it cannot be personally linked and integrated into our lives, it’s clearly not an effective tool to shift culture or established patterns of thought, feeling, or relating. In this regard, I believe that people are much more sophisticated instruments than algorithms.

Cher did not attain fame after one How-To TikTok video or reading an inspirational feminist quote on Instagram. Cher became a rich man through a litany of moments that bridged the gap between the possible and the impossible. As an undiagnosed dyslexic, necessity drove her out of school and into the employment of Salvatore (Sonny) Bono in 1962. From this meeting to the release of her most successful singles in the early 70s, I’m sure that Cher encountered many instances in which she had to confront maladaptive schemas and coping strategies in order to pursue the career she’s known for today. I wonder who counselled her, who encouraged her, or challenged her in those moments. It certainly wasn’t the internet.

I am not discounting the power of social media, or of singular voices addressing the masses. The influence it can wield for better or for worse is clear. But I believe that systemic problems are almost impossible to change with abstract critique alone. We can, and should, take accountability in our own lives, exposing gaps in ourselves and others as necessitated. After learning how to change a tyre, I feel less defensive and more open to learning about my own weaknesses. These confrontations with the self are not an assault, but an opportunity for growth. I also have a renewed appreciation for the role that I can play in the lives of those around me. Like that young man who finally had permission and a witness for his emotional turmoil. In a moment of absolute necessity, I hope that the solidity of his schema fractured, even a little.

I can also be a model for nieces, nephews, or godchildren. I can compassionately challenge friends and relatives on anything that appears to be detrimental to themselves or others. We don’t have to nag, but we do have to recognise opportunities to speak or to act, and then choose to do so. Complacency is much lighter work. Just ask David. He sacrificed an hour out of his day to rescue some girl from what he perceived to be an imminent traffic accident. When we encounter disaster: a girl with a flat tyre, or a boy who won’t cry, we are in the immediate and best position to hold up a mirror. We should be brave and speak when there is context and necessity—still with due gentleness, as we’re extending invitations, not playing whack-a-mole. Be bolstered by the fact that small interventions can catalyse incredible change. Once an orphaned girl, Cher is now a rich man. I can change tyres. And maybe now, a boy can finally cry.