crying on an almost daily basis is the most adult and masculine thing i do
next inner poet calling session: january 24, 2025 🌧️
I refuse to call my tears feminine. I refuse to call them childish. Not that they are not, or cannot be, but because it’s time to reclaim them for adults and masculine men.
Like myself?
Yes, like myself. Declaring that I no longer want to use he/him pronouns in public has just reaffirmed to me how trans I am. It feels like self-betrayal. It feels like giving in to the patriarchy, saying: “Fine, have my masculinity. Just leave me alone.”
JUST LEAVE US ALONE. The obsession with trans people, lately. Exhausting. It’s strategic and meant to distract from colonialism, capitalism and imperialism.
Free Congo,
Free Palestine,
Free Sudan,
Free Syria,
Free Haiti,
Free Lebanon!
…
These are not just empty chants and phrases to me. I mean them with every cell of my body. I mean them with every tear I’ve cried. My tears make me a billionaire when it comes to care. If only every tear was worth a freed person. Let’s exchange!
Another interesting thing happened: Declaring that I only want to use they/them publicly also made me want to lean into my femininity more. The one I don’t own. The one I’m only borrowing, always to return in a better condition than before. I want to wear something outrageously hot and outrageously comfy. Go out to have a fun time. Flirt with myself. If you’ve ever looked in the mirror and thought: “Wow, so hot.” I don’t care what you say, you’re gay. Record a rap album with sypmphonic music and forest sounds. Funny how that works. The spell of lowered expectations: Non-binary magic.
Not that I’ve recorded anything yet, but stick around if you want to find out. These are just the fantasies of a borderline — owning my miss*diagnosis, but honestly, it’s way more autistic than borderline — creative mind with muscial ambitions since the age of five.
Controversial but hear me out: Everyone uses they/them already. It’s part of many languages. In Yorùbá, we only use gender neutral pronouns. Our names are not gendered either. In Nigeria, men and women — or people perceived either way — are called Imọlẹ. At least as a fetus, you have been “it”. Or maybe in some other form. As blood, skin, bones. Everyone could tap into what it means to not define themselves so strictly by the roles assigned to “their” sex. You are not your genitals, my dear.
Here’s a common queer metaphor on why we are queer: It’s a bit like fancying the taste of hazelnut ice cream, while others prefer chocolate or pistachio. There isn’t always a specific reason. It doesn’t have to be due to a traumatic event in childhood. It doesn’t have to be because abuse deprived us of that flavor. It could be that we just prefer one taste over the other. It can change. Sometimes, it stays the same our entire lives. We can also fancy all of them. Or none. It’s okay not to know why. We don’t have to know why we like hazelnut over pistachio ice cream. Is ice cream something we eat or drink? I’ve never written about eating ice cream before. Or have I never noticed how strange that sounds? We might try one flavor and discover we don’t like it. We might also grow to like it more and more over time. You get the idea: There are many places this metaphor can go. What we like is a lot due to our environment, but not entirely. Anyone who has spent enough time around babies — I definitely have with five younger siblings, working in childcare and babysitting — knows that we are all born with a distinct personality. The more adult we become, the more we learn to swallow what we don’t like, while babies just spit it out. Spit it out!
Babies are so intelligent. What if our world was led by a council of babies?
Okay, maybe it would be chaos, but worse than what we’ve got?
Babies are connected to their instincts. Babies are connected to their likes and dislikes in a way that we unlearn as we become adults. Yet, babies cannot care for themselves. They need us, but we need them too. In the long run, we are lost without them. As we take care of them, there’s a lot we can learn from them. We are responsible for their wellbeing when they are in their most vulnerable position. I believe we should remember that, from time to time. How responsible we are for each other, especially when we are at our most vulnerable. If we felt responsible for each other, maybe we would cry a lot more. I cry almost daily because I feel responsible for what happens to people on the other side of the world. I’m made to feel like this is childish of me, irresponsible even, when in fact, it could just as much be the opposite.
No shame if you cannot cry. We are all built differently. Embrace your flavor of being a responsible human. Embrace your flavor of being a responsible man.
TW: rape, sexual assault
I wouldn’t mind if men cried over women being raped and harrassed on a daily basis. Can you feel how much it hurts? Can you try? I wouldn’t mind if men cried over men raping and harrassing other men too. Does it hurt yet? I’m thinking of Palestinian men being raped and harrassed by Israeli soldiers. Don’t believe me? Do your own research. (I’ve talked about how the burden of proof falls on the oppressed. I learned this from Natalie Gutiérrez.) Men are more easily believed. Women more often need to prove themselves. If her words stand against his, whose does the public favor? His. By far. Don’t believe me? Do your own research. Never again? For Sudanese women too? For Congolese women too? I wouldn’t mind if men cried over their regretful, sexist behaviors and truly changed, instead of being feminist in words but not actions. Why so defensive, if you’re innocent? I wouldn’t mind if men cared more who they’re being privately than their public image, instead of accusing women of being attention-seeking. Mirror, mirror on the wall, tell us, who is the most self-absorbed of them all?
The reason I changed my pronouns to they/them is because I’ve been feeling a lot of grief around the patriarchy lately. I was reminded of how dysphoric I felt when men used he/him pronouns for me in discussions around toxic masculinity.
Most of the time I feel alienated in masculine spaces because of how sexist they casually and obviously are. The only masculine spaces I feel more included are the queer ones. My masculinity is gay, through and through. When I look to examples of men that align with my own masculinity, they are mostly — if not always — gay men. I believe that discussions around men would be a lot more nuanced if queer men were included. However, usually queer men are invisibilized in feminist discussions. Most feminist discussions center cis-hetero relationship dynamics. Of course, violence also happens in queer relationships. Violence also happens amongst women. Yet, it is not comparable. In the process of recommitting to healing my relationship to masculinity, I’ve been reflecting on my fear of men. Is it truly men that I fear?
The answer is no.
I’m not afraid of men. I’m afraid of experiencing violence, rape and abuse. Again. The source has mostly been men. However, men per se aren’t the problem. I want to live in a world where the fear of men isn’t as present anymore. I’m not trying to defend sexist men. Trust me. I’m being pragmatic here. Fearing all men makes me more paranoid than I need to be. It makes it hard for me to trust in my intimate relationships with men. Sometimes that mistrust is warranted, but I hate bio essentialism. Nobody is born evil. I believe we are born innocent. When I think of the little boy I babysit, all I can feel is love and care. Why should I fear him? Men are just born into a system that privileges them in ways that they can very often not perceive, especially when they are cis straight men. Queer men perceive patriarchal violence more, because they are also targets. We are. Saying I fear men is not naming the actual fear I have.
I’ll continue these reflections as a series, so stick around. In the next Inner Poet Calling group session, the theme is going to be What Can Responsible Masculinity Look Like? 50% of the earnings is going to Friends of the Congo. It’s open to all genders. I count on the men to show up with solidarity. It’s very masculine to write poems, right? Tell your friends about it!
Love,
Imọlẹ
PS: Please still use they/them for me unless we know each other deeply. If you enjoy my writing, but don’t have the spoons for a paid subscriptions right now, feel free to tip me. Your tips are helping me out a lot. I had a short second of having 0€ on my bank account. Committing to art with integrity is not a walk in the park, although sometimes it very much can be. Should be. Thank you for supporting me! ❤
Also, still true: I’ve changed my 1:1 Inner Poet Calling & Caring Money Stories sessions to pay-as-you-can. This is your chance if you want to be in an Embodied Learning process together and create with me in a way that is affordable for you. I’m known to spark life-changing trans*formations. I’m deeply anti-capitalist, so I can never promise you instant success. What I do intend is a slowing down process that allows you to see your unconditional worth. At the end of the day, we all just want to be loved. Even if we find it hard to admit. Behind every craving for success is a desire to be loved as we are. That’s what we desire most beyond survival. Limited spots! 🦋