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.