I’m Not a Man-Hater, But...

I’m not a man-hater, but
I do grieve deep over lost justice,
Over painful words like “dominance”,
The creeping snail of language as it lumbers along encumbered by the institutional weight of centuries,
While we women wait impatiently up the path with blisters on our feet and hands
From dragging this slow-moving inadequacy, asking,
“How much farther?”
Until we are loved and respected with words
Instead of beaten down by otherwise-nice-guys
Who summon, even subconsciously, on a whim,
This oppressor’s tongue.

Who say “bitch” when a woman is trying to share her feelings with them.

Who call each other “pussies” to cut each other deep.

I’m not a man-hater, but
Where does that leave me?
I’m not a bitch by definition (woof!)
But I do have a pussy.

I have a beautiful, furry red JEWEL between my legs that
Like a magic lamp can be rubbed right, and emit some Crazy-powerful potion,
And I have emotion to match.
I have wild, spontaneous emotion
That erupts from me almost constantly,
Like Volcan Pacaya,
Spewing molten lava that can bury cities and fill the sky with ash,
An intoxicating display of passion,
Entwining all the senses and, especially,
Enrapturing the sense of wonder.

I’m not a man-hater, but
I do harbor hatred for the system that has trapped us all,
Denied men the opportunity to let their emotions loose into the world like we women can;
That has corrupted the sacred experience of feeling,
And created a hierarchy based on stoicism and ruthlessness.

I’m not a man-hater, but
I do think that Every. Woman. is a Goddess.
And many men out there are, too.
That we all hold somewhere deep inside us
An ethereal glow and
Lifetimes of learned wisdom

I’m not a man-hater, because
Gender is not a dichotomy,
And to hate men would be to hate a part of me.
After all, I’m made from half-man, half-woman, and
It is unlikely that in the warm and toasty oven that was my mother’s womb
Every single, delicious crumb that was my father’s soda-bread soul got
Swallowed up into some abyss of abandoned ingredients,
While my mother’s yeasty cornbread rose and swelled singularly
To create the nutty wheat loaf that is me…

That’s not true, I know--
I have my dad’s toes.

Yes, we’re all made of half-man, half-woman,
As were our fathers and mothers
So, gender becomes a continuum of masculine and feminine traits that combine in haphazard ways
To create every unique one of us.
Where the differences between my brother and I are much more profound than blue versus pink.

No, I’m not a man-hater, but
I will refuse a system that refutes my right to think.

~ Casey O'Leary