“Like a House on Fire” is the story of an unnamed man suffering from severe back pain after an accident at work. After nearly sixteen weeks recovering at home, the narrator feels humiliated by his inability to work or provide for his family. Author Cate Kennedy reveals how the protagonist’s humiliation is inherently linked to a sense of inadequate masculinity. Although his physical frailness, his inability to play with his children, and his failure to support his wife, Claire, all cause the narrator pain, it is ultimately his narrow definition of masculinity that makes his situation truly humiliating, rather than merely unfortunate. Through the example of the narrator, Kennedy suggests that conventional expectations of manhood can cause more harm than good in situations like these.
The narrator perceives his own physical weakness as unmanly. To the narrator, being a man requires physical strength, and that perception makes him feel useless within his family. As the narrator’s wife and son drag their new Christmas tree towards the car, the man selling them the tree looks towards the narrator with the disdain and judgment “he reserves for […] those destroying the social fabric by refusing to pull their weight.” In other words, the narrator interprets his own inability to carry the Christmas tree as a sign that he is essentially worthless. In contrast, the narrator’s wife, Claire, is physically strong. She drags and “lugs” the Christmas tree in a way that suggests to the narrator that she is taking over the conventionally masculine role in the family, leaving the narrator without purpose. When the narrator does try to help physically by carrying boxes of Christmas decorations, his efforts backfire: his back flares up and he drops the nativity scene, shattering it. The accident shows how clinging to an idea of what masculinity should be can end in destruction; the family and the narrator himself would probably have been better off if the narrator had simply accepted his own physical limitations.
The narrator also feels worthless and emasculated by the change in his financial situation. He feels that he should provide for the family, and when he can’t, he suspects that he’s not a real man. The narrator’s injury prevents him from working, so Claire takes on more shifts at the hospital where she works. Just as she took on the physical burden of moving the Christmas tree, Claire also shoulders the financial burden that should fall to a man, according to traditional gender roles. As he watches Claire prepare for her night shift on Christmas Eve, the narrator feels “the humiliation of helplessness, the hands-down winner of all humiliations.” Even though the family is still provided for, the narrator’s narrow definition of what his role as a man should be makes him interpret the situation as shameful. As the narrator cannot contribute physically or financially to buying presents, Claire asks him to wrap them. Completing the task gives the narrator a sense of purpose and pride such as he has not felt in weeks: “It's like I've been in the army for years, drilling myself on just this thing.” The allusion to the army evokes ideas of traditional masculinity, revealing how the narrator can restore his self-worth only by framing a satisfying domestic task as a conventionally masculine pursuit.
The narrator’s relationship with his children is perhaps the story’s most piercing examination of how expectations of manhood can spoil otherwise positive parts of life. Unable to provide for his family financially, the narrator is given the task of looking after the children at home. The narrator thinks little of his own parenting skills, noting, for example, how “the three kids are all glued to the TV, something that's been happening a lot since I've been the chief childcare provider.” Spending time with the children also reminds the narrator of the perceived humiliations of his physical condition. He and the children are supposed to spend the afternoon decorating the Christmas tree, but the task turns out to be very physically painful for the narrator and he quickly ends up yelling at his children. It seems that this gesture toward controlling the children is an anxious attempt to maintain some degree of masculine authority, but all it does is make everyone unhappy.
The narrator knows that if his wife were home, she would lift their daughter Evie up to place the angel on top of the tree, but he is incapable of picking her up. When Evie hands him a cushion and orders him to lie down, he feels defeated and ashamed, “like a beaten dog.” The narrator self-deprecatingly grumbles “Oh, Merry Christmas, father of the year” to himself, revealing how inadequate and incompetent he feels. Evie’s gesture is an affectionate one, but because it challenges his ideas of what fatherhood should be, the narrator feels only misery in response.
However, Kennedy also illustrates how the narrator’s bond with his children has the potential to bring him joy and purpose. For instance, he shares a tender moment with his son, Ben, despite his intense pain. Afterwards, the narrator makes his way painfully upstairs “just to get another look at each of them asleep, sprawled in their beds without a worry in the world.” Kennedy demonstrates, then, that beneath the narrator’s fixation on his masculine failings, his family is actually strong and loving. It’s only the narrator’s narrow idea of what his manly role should be that makes the situation seem negative.
Throughout, Kennedy indicates that the narrator’s feelings of shame and humiliation are rooted in his narrow perceptions of masculinity. His situation is a painful one, but it is only the narrator’s own ideas about conventional masculinity that make it humiliating.
Humiliation and Masculinity ThemeTracker
Humiliation and Masculinity Quotes in Like a House on Fire
The Rotary guy [...] gives me a look he reserves for shirkers, layabouts, vandals and those destroying the social fabric by refusing to pull their weight.
That motion, swinging and lifting my arm to full stretch, feels like someone has taken a big ceramic shard out of the box—a remnant bit of shepherd, maybe, or a shattered piece of camel—and is stabbing it into the base of my spine.
Some days it feels like that's my entire identity focused there in one single space between two injured segments of a bone puzzle, shrunk down to one locus of existence, and seized there.
Listening to the two of us, you'd never believe that we used to get on like a house on fire, that even after we had the kids, occasionally we'd stay up late, just talking. But now that I think of it, a house on fire is a perfect description for what seems to be happening now: these flickering small resentments licking their way up into the wall cavities; this faint, acrid smell of smoke. And suddenly, before you know it, everything threatening to go roaring out of control […] And what am I? The guy who can't get the firetruck started? The one turning and turning the creaking tap, knowing the tank is draining empty, the one with the taste of ash in his mouth and all this black and brittle aftermath?