Men of a Certain Age

The #MeToo campaign has dredged up a lot of memories for me. I'm working on a longer blog post that breaks down how, from early childhood, society molded my views on women and men. What was expected, what was valued, and what wasn't. And how those views informed my decisions to stay silent when men harassed and assaulted me. 


It's a lot to process. And some of the people I'll write about are still in my life. This is true for many of us. We live among our abusers. We share mutual friends. We see them at parties. We laugh at their jokes. We try to forget what they did, at least as long as they're in our presence. 

For now, I'm going to share this poem. 

Long ago, I dated a bartender. I visited him on weekend nights. This is what I endured every. single. night.

MEN OF A CERTAIN AGE

Men of a certain age
always ask your name
before telling you how pretty you are.

They ask for it again
and again, and again.

As if your name -
the brand that has gone before you
and spun itself around
your life, is meaningless.

But the random configuration
of your maxilla and zygomatic bones 
is a fortune fit for a king.  

Men of a certain age
always take your hand, your arm, your waist
when they tell you
you are beautiful.

They reach out, lean in, 
press against your flesh again, 
and again.

They whisper, as if
your worth were a great secret,
locked away and wasted, until
they bestow this truth
upon you.

They nod and squeeze -
one more time, 
one more.

Then lean back, 
satisfied
they have assessed you justly, 
and smile,
anticipating your gratitude.

Women are always grateful
for a king’s attention.
And all men are kings
of a certain age.

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