We’re flying! Going to Meet My Masculine!

Today is the day we hit the air for Guyana.

This week,  or maybe it was last week–time just seems to be blending–I was talking to my friend Amber and from the conversation we concluded that I’m going to meet my masculine (my maker). It all seems so biblical at times . . .

But the conversation didn’t stop there: we made some connections to the way that society treats and incarcerate black men . . . my father has been sent to his homeland as correctional punishment, and the last three dear Gerald letters I’ve received have come from inmates at San Quentin. The letters are so touching and they reflect on the cycle of violence, neglect, and abandonment–and these men recognize that they are not present as fathers for their children.

What happens when our masculine energies are imprisoned, literally and figuratively? What  is amped up in our performance of masculinity, what is downplayed? And who/what in the end benefits from all this absence and negative expression?

As a woman, with strong feminine energy, how do I integrate my masculine energy? How do I not imprison that masculine force within in, but allow it to have its freedom of expression, without fear of punishment?

All interesting questions to be felt through . . . . Here is a poem from dear Gerald, where I begin to think through these themes:


Return indigo.


Bing walks toward us in his prison suit—his skin lacks the luster sun gives you. He approaches like a rain cloud without rain. Landlocked and desert, he is the town with the lake, now the ghost in the story.


I couldn’t sleep. She got arrested and she is all I have and love on this country’s coast, 3-thousand miles from home. 6am, from the jailhouse, she emerges muted, tired as my heart with panic. Hands me a collection of cranes, shaped from the foil of her American Spirits.


My cousin was with a gang and that gang kidnapped and tortured some people, and the tortured remembered their faces. Sad fact is, his father said he wasn’t his—too black and so my cousin turned Crip. Thirty years older his son will be, and then he’ll take him to monkey bars.


To slip into her faded face, she recognizes her measurements have changed. Unable to sever the 9s of the hurtshirt worn too long, my mother feels the coffin’s walls. She needs a dress, and friends to understand that when you live in dirt, it’s hard to see blue.

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