I didn’t know how much I had to heal.
Until I let out a scream for myself and every woman who’d been harmed at the hands of men. This was many years ago. When I was part of a circle of women, surrounded by a circle of men, where the women were invited to let out whatever we’d been holding- rage, fear, confusion, hurt or betrayal.
I wasn’t sure what was in me. I didn’t even know if I could really “scream” on call. But I surprised myself. I let out a scream so full-bodied and intense, I lost all sense of time and space, blurred my vision and almost passed out.
My painful cry emanated from the deepest part of my body. From my soft womb, that had been taught to protect itself on every late night or isolated walk. It leapt from the musculature of my legs, that had been taught to run if needed. It emerged from the confusion of my 8 year old self, seeing pin ups of naked women in a family friend’s kitchen pantry. It oozed out of every significant absence I’d noticed- from text books, news casts, church liturgies, legislature halls and professional meetings. It snuck in from the morning scent of lilacs when L. was raped that spring.
My scream was less human, more animal. A low gutteral howl, tinged with exhausted rage. It was a whisper borne by generations of sisters before me and those who’d not yet told anyone. It smelled of sadness. It ached from the exhaustion of speaking up and fighting. As the air of my lungs expired, surrounded by a circle of men (including my partner), I collapsed into the arms of an unknown ‘brother’ standing in front of me.
That moment happened quite a few years before the #metoo movement. That cultural upswell when private screams went public. If you identified as a woman, #metoo recalled every offence or gesture of harm. Every situation you wish you’d never had. If you identified as a man, you may have questioned or replayed every comment or gesture that may have (or did) caused harm.
We bristled. We worried. We shared. We separated. We argued. We demanded. We circled back. We talked. We began again. We began to wonder just how much had to be made right.
Our collective scream, made possible by brave women like Tarana Burke and the power of the internet, reignited messy conversations about identity, consent, accountability and the limits of justice. It raised awareness like never before and implored changes in how we related across genders. Our difficult conversations moved across continents and expanded to all genders who’ve endured sexual abuse and harassment. During these early days, I got caught in these. Some conversations went well and others didn’t. I could feel the pulse of my rage and impatience with those who didn’t “get it”. I could sense my patience with those who tried earnestly. And sometimes I’d confuse them, unable to make room for the both/and of confusion and earnestness.
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Most of my adult professional life has been about listening to the screams of women and girls. An alert and narrow kind of listening that’s desperate for peace, radical consent and dignity for those harmed. But after my brother’s tender holding of my own scream, something shifted. Instead of keeping myself alert to a binary victim/oppressor dynamic, I became more in tune with our interconnectedness. How this kind of gentle witnessing helped my rage and fear move towards something more liberating.
That afternoon in circle, I remember that brother’s arm. His soft skin and strong muscles covered in arm hairs bent like a wheat field. I remember how he held me as my eyes blurred from efforting. A kind of holding that allowed a claiming of my own experience. He held me without gripping or merging.
Something about this contact reminds me of all the men I’ve lost over the last two decades. Colleagues, friends, an old boss and University boyfriend, an uncle, a brother-in-law, grad school advisor and father-in-law. I don’t know how you relate to those who’ve died but for me the veil is thin. I talk to them often. Ask them for advice or support. Thank them for being part of my life. Remember what it was like to dance, laugh, and play music with them. How their stories of hardship and wins changed me. How I could feel the centripetal force and rugged diversity of masculinities they expressed. I feel blessed by all of it. Brotherly love.
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Honoring a healthy, diverse and vibrant expression of masculinity feels critical to me right now. I am tired of the “man box” and “toxic masculinity” scripts, especially here in North America. I’m uninterested in the institutions and cultures that uphold them. Rather I’m drawn to a “rewilding” of masculinities as the author Sophie Strand has encouraged. The kind of diversity that encourages shape-shifting and a masterful integration of polarities: tenderness and strength, community care and justice, beauty and humility. I’m thinking of this because my son is about to move into the wider world and I’m aware that we’re collectively bereft of imagination, ritual and rites of passage that encourage wilder versions of the masculine.
At this time of my life I want to widen my attention when it comes to gender. In particular, to the kindness, gentleness, mystery, flirtation, power, creativity and magic that comes from the masculine. I want to appreciate that the masculine is both an emergent identity and an energetic expression that lives in all of us. My noticing doesn’t exclude a critique of or accountability for the behavior that dominates or oppresses. Yet with a loving intention to widen the view, I can include all of it- the depth of my grief, the howl of my anger and my infinite love for the masculine in its most generous, free and diverse expression.
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Today on Tension of Emergence podcast, I offer another door into this exploration. I speak with Canadian filmmaker, artist and mythopoetic guide, Ian MacKenzie on Eros and the revitalization of the masculine.
To join our conversation- listen here:
I understand that this topic is full of mine fields, perspective and tender holding. And I hope my sharing does not diminish your own. I’m in the early stages of thinking about all this. But as I speak from my own experience, working through my rage and fear of harmful domination has been supported (in part) by my attunement to a bigger, wilder becoming. And most of all, from the generous, relational field with every “brother” I’ve loved- both seen and unseen.
So my invocation as this letter closes- may the masculine and feminine be set free. May our desire to be free(r) with each other- marked by mutual respect, dignity, compassion and honesty- liberate every box and stereotype. May our willingness to begin again and again, give way to a new blooming in us all.