"I try all things; I achieve what I can"
Let us say that only Everest for the mountains
and the Sequoia for the trees
and the blue whale for the animals
(and if we must split land and sea
then it’s the elephant for me)
can be what we call giant.
I have seen the giant pacific octopus
and wished that it were bigger.
The last thing I ever want to do is the thing that everyone else is doing. For the purpose of this entry, that thing is playing the victim. Claiming specialness. I am not special. I am not a victim. But I am willing to observe, politely and mildly, that there is a bit of an extant sentiment in society that is, shall we say, ever-so-slightly in opposition to men. There’s lots of things we’re not supposed to be, depending on who you ask. But it’s all the same thing in the end, really. The thing we’re not supposed to be, is us.
So what. My entire childhood and adolescence were based on doing exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. Big deal. Still, here I am: one of these men – at least in terms of biology and mentality – that we don’t seem to want much of. I write occasional poems in support of others like me because after three years in college, I learned more than anything that the most important thing to do is to celebrate and support with the greatest fervor those things that are the most like ourselves. The liberal arts world in college is a world based on the elevation of things of your own kind, and denigration of things outside of your own cultural circle. And also tolerance. Do what you will with that little contradiction.
I am aware of what kind of man I am. I only very occasionally build things, but I have an embarrassingly impressive array of tools. That kind of cliché. I fold laundry more than I hammer steel, I wash dishes more than I turn wrenches. My hands are not hard or large. I am tall but not imposing, and I am (he meekly admits) terrified of confrontations. My God, I think back over all of the fights I have craftily avoided in my life and I am not proud. But it’s still in there, that core thing, that masculinity that is called toxic nowadays. I know our need of it, and bristle at the mockery directed its way.
I am not here to argue against that. It strikes me as hypocritical in some ways. The masculinity I own and revere does not raise its voice to protest. It works and produces and creates and lets that action speak for it. It follows the cardinal rule of the writer in that it does not tell – it shows. I am here not to complain but to be a fan. To write up my support for the hard things that we are, and for the shittily unrefinable parts of our nature that I would not run from a fight to preserve.
Having said that:
GO AHEAD
Be dirty and don’t hide
your large hands that could
split timber.
They flip thin pages, too,
rattle pans and
feed their fighting heirs.
GO AHEAD
Be mean and lift the heavy thing
and don’t mind making a little
show of it.
Your beambroad back
can bear it and
won’t tremble in the least
GO AHEAD
Be hard, clumsy and cruel
and let the sneer of the timid
mock itself.
You hardly can part
from that look that
feeds you its forsaken strength
GO AHEAD
Be bare-knuckled and nude
because we need most what
no one wants.
The world knows and
keeps a place
for the things we expel.
Independence Day Grandpa, Grandma, can we talk to you about our mom and dad? I don’t know quite what’s going on but things are getting bad. Dad’s been crying at the news and his voice is higher pitched. His jeans get tighter all the time and there’s a limpness in his wrist. Meanwhile, mom’s been swearing more and wearing suits to her new job. She hasn’t fixed her hair in months and on weekends she’s a slob. Dad’s afraid of everything – plastic straws and – what’s a Russian bot? Last week was Independence Day, and he said he “just forgot.” Mom hasn’t cooked a single meal since she went marching in D.C. And now our yard has all these signs that say “welcome refugees.” Dad almost asked if it was right but she wouldn’t let him speak so he’s been getting craft beer growler fills every day for two straight weeks. We don’t know what to do right now We’re prolly just too young. But maybe you’ve got some idea of what’s been going on. Granddaughter you’re a clever girl and grandson you’re no fool. So we’ll tell you something here and now that you’ll never learn in school. You’re noticing about your folks that something’s kinda wrong. It’s not just them – it’s everywhere. We’ve been watching all along. If it’s hard these days with mom and dad, to know just which is which You may not have the words for it, But your dad’s your mommy’s– You’re right, grandpa, school’s no help our teachers are all so strange. They say two-plus-two and Judy Blume both equal climate change. They took us out of class one day to line up on main street with signs that said the world would end from the President’s next tweet. I just want to build some things, and when sister tries to sew they swear that STEM’s the thing for her and I’m privi- toxi- I don’t know! Do you think that you could talk to them? To our parents and the school? Tell them that they’re scaring us and that they all seem real confused. We surely could go talk to them but they hate that we’re so old. We remind them of the ways they’ve failed and the truths they’re scared to know. There’s a wisdom in our wrinkled skin that they’re trying hard to kill. And if kids like you are catching on they’ll start trying harder still. For now it’s good you’re noticing and that your guts say it’s not right. Just keep each other close at hand – pick your spots, and fight your fights.
They say in the aftermath the evil’s come out but the evil out there lives in their mouths. So it’s something to look around face to face, hue to hue listen to someone being accused ...and know... ...and know... the opposite’s true. I think you dig me, Mr. Hughes And when you said you - a Kentuckian - were brothers with an African that was fine and I mean that the good way you would mean it back in your place and time, not sarcastic like we do in mine. But I wondered (this one's harder ...I know... ...I know...) could you have reached your other brotherhand to secure a little kinship with a white man? Talk about fine!
God has taken from us the sun, which loving was too much like firefly July, watching our brother kiss the girl we were too little to love but loved! with cloying loyalty anyway. A name in a notebook and the little electric leavings of her path across our sky. But must we just go sunless sad, wearing moods like wet vestments at a mirthless service? No! We kick wet leaves on the cooling coals of long November and hoist such a hard, proud December that our summerlost girl - hand still in rival’s hand - turns in a wistful flourish to look back once upon us and wish that she were half so free as we.
Andy Havens 