Since moving to the farmhouse, the rhythm of the property is often dictated by the arrival of heavy tires on gravel. It is still a working farm, plus we’ve had our share of contractors in to do work as we renovate the house and outbuildings. Many of the men who come and go are defined by physical labor—men who understand the world through the weight of a tool or the tension of a line. They almost always arrive in pickups, and as someone who values a good conversation, I’m always looking to connect.
I’ve noticed a recurring phenomenon that I’ve come to think of as the Tailgate Talk.
We can discuss the granular details of a project, the logistics of a delivery, or the fickle nature of the weather while we’re actively working or standing in an open field. But the “real talk”—the kind where the layers peel back and we discuss the big life things, the feelings, and the deep thoughts—seems to wait for a very specific setting. It happens at the back end of the truck with the tailgate raised.
There is a unique posture to these moments. We stand on opposite sides of the box, leaning our weight onto our forearms against the side rails or the top of the gate. We are facing each other, but we are separated by the literal body of the truck.
Breaking the “Side-by-Side” Mold
In the world of psychology, there is a well-documented idea that men bond “side-by-side”—looking at a game or a horizon together—rather than “face-to-face,” which can feel overly confrontational or uncomfortably intimate. Women, by contrast, are often raised to sit in situations face-to-face and engage, and learn to develop the ability to navigate the emotional intimacy that creates. These older stereotypes are falling away, but many of the men I speak to are from a different generation, usually being older than myself – which says a lot!
But these tailgate conversations at the farm seem to subvert that rule. By standing over the truck bed, we are facing each other, yet the dynamic feels entirely different from sitting across a dinner table.
The raised tailgate acts as a physical buffer, a piece of heavy steel that creates a “safe zone” between two people. It provides a shared anchor point that grounds the conversation. Standing face-to-face in an open field can feel exposed, leaving you wondering what to do with your hands or where to fix your gaze. But the truck gives those hands a place to rest and the body a place to lean. It removes the pressure of “personal space” while maintaining the connection of eye contact.
There is also something to be said for the truck as a sanctuary of competence. For a man who makes his living through labor, his truck is his office, his toolbox, and his pride. To stand at the tailgate is to stand on his home turf. In that space, the guard comes down. The truck bed becomes a sort of secular altar where the weight of the day is set aside, and the conversation is allowed to drift into the things that actually matter—the passage of years, the complexities of family, and the quiet reflections of men who aren’t usually asked how they feel.
In these moments, the truck stops being a vehicle and starts being a bridge. We talk across the gap of the box, finding a level of honesty that seems impossible anywhere else on the property. It turns out that sometimes, to get two men to really look at each other and speak the truth, you just need a bit of steel between them to hold them up.
