My earliest memory of him was his smell. A flash of blue, his uniform, a large key ring, a pocket full of coins, big hands covered with callouses, hard working hands. It’s been thirty-four years and I can almost catch that smell, the smell that clung to him after work. I swear, even at this very moment that I can almost reach out to touch him but then he disappears. That’s how memory works.
My father was the first man in my life. When I was a child, he fixed vending machines. All I saw was an official looking uniform, his name embroidered on his chest, he was so strong and full of energy. He was young when I was born, barely twenty-two. I don’t know if he had any idea what he was doing but he was raised by another wonderful man and that man was raised by a man who died too young, scarred by years in the trenches during World War One.
I am sure that you have known terrible men.
I am sorry that you don’t know my father, my grandfather, my husband, my sons.
Knowing them would changed things for you, I promise.
Last week at Mass, another homeless man wandered into our downtown church. One of the trade-offs of having the Traditional Latin Mass offered in one of the oldest churches in our city, one of the few with the original high altar remaining, is that we are in an inner city area and with that comes… disturbances.
All are welcome, this is true. Come and sit, stay awhile and keep warm but do so in peace and in respectful silence. Please don’t ascend the steps to the sanctuary. Please don’t touch the statues with a cigarette dangling from your fingers. No sir, despite your protests, you are not God. This space is sacred and you are scaring the children, you are scaring me.
One young man got up, red missal still in hand, I watched him as he walked with purpose around the back of the church and up the side aisle, ready to approach the man. My husband, a police officer, also stood. He stepped over our feet, a row of little shoes resting on the kneeler and joined the first guy. Another young man got up, left his wife and three children and walked behind my husband and then a fourth joined.
Mass continued on. I didn’t know if the priest could see what was happening. The epistle was read. The congregation shuffled in their seats, eyes turning towards the side door as the men were trying to escort that man back outside. I could have sworn that everyone’s hearts were beating in unison. We prayed on. With his back to the stairs, he stood tense, his fists were clenched, he was ready to fight but he knew that he didn’t stand a chance, four against one.
“I have the right to be here.”
“You need to leave.”
Knowing that the fight was pointless, he left and the men locked the doors and rejoined their families in the pews.
I should have been focusing on the Mass but I just kept thinking of women that I read about and these words kept swirling around in my head, “They don’t know men like this…”
When I hear the words “smash the patriarchy” I see my boys, I see those men. I try to remember how rough my dad’s hand felt while wrapped around my tiny hand. Do you realize that little boys haven’t changed all that much?
I was reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and in it Mark Twain described the treasures that the neighbourhood boys carried in their pockets. Though the book was written in 1876, Twain said that is was based on his own childhood experiences from thirty years earlier. Later, I was cleaning the room shared by my two boys earlier this week. They are three and a half years apart. One has light orange hair and the other, the older one, has penetrating brown eyes, eyes that can disarm you. The ginger one has a tooth hanging right down in the front of his mouth, ready to fall out at any moment, he looks mischievous and silly. They share a large six drawer dresser which stands in between their twin beds. On each side, an arm’s length from their pillows, on the edge of the dresser there is a pile of treasures. A playing card, a piece of gum, a small piece of paper with some numbers on it, a toy car, a Rubik’s cube, a candy wrapper… and I stared at these items and saw Tom Sawyer there, in Ontario, in 2018. My boys haven’t seen pornography. They have never uttered a cuss word. They mind their manners but love to giggle at bodily functions and roll down hills and come inside covered in grass stains, gulping down water, leaving the fridge door wide open. They yell “MOM! Come and watch me beat this level!” and “MOM! You didn’t tuck me in and I need a hug!”
And again I think, “You want to smash the patriarchy?”
Have you held a six year old boy in your arms? Have you watched them try to fight back tears in front of their buddies? Have you watched them defend their little sister when the big kids were laughing at her?
These young boys are trying so hard to figure out what this world thinks of men and they think that you hate them and this makes me angry.
Women are strong. We are the backbone, the glue, the concrete foundation, the heart, the giver of mercy, the keeper of peace.
I am a strong woman. I was raised by a strong woman and she was raised by a strong woman and she was raised by nuns who took her in when her strong mother died far too young, after delivering her seventh baby.
Don’t talk to me about strong women. I don’t need you to explain anything to me. I have seen what your rage has done and am tired of seeing male characters being written off as fumbling imbeciles on mind-numbing tv. My strength has nothing to do with men. It isn’t even on the same page, we are not cut from the same cloth. There is no comparison. I do not need to wager my own strength against his in order to prove my worth. I don’t have to smash anything to prove how strong I am.
Could we, as women, have asked that man to leave our church? Sure we could have but I am damn glad that we had good, calm, brave men to stand up and take care of it for us. There is no weakness in this admission.
I see the men carrying people through the flood water. I see the men throwing their bodies in front of strangers during mass shootings. I see the men who still open doors for women even though they get sneered at under the guise of progress.
I see my sons and their marbles and their half-finished space puzzles and I want them to know that they aren’t an endangered species. I know that the world needs good men and my sons are being raised by a good man, who was raised by a good man, who was raised by a good man.
I know there are terrible men. We are a fallen people. There always will be men who use their power to rape and hit and kill but there is the patriarchy that I personally know and you cannot tell me that there aren’t some truths that remain absolute– like men were made to protect the weak, that they are mostly good. You cannot tell me that the men in my life aren’t honourable and that somehow my sons are worth less than my daughters are right now. Your voice, disdaining marriage and fatherhood, will not drown out my voice. Sister, you do not speak for me but I do want you to know that I hear you and that I am sorry for whatever it was that caused you pain.
We need to rise up and raise up a new generation of men but this doesn’t mean throwing out the old. Smashing destroys everything, the good and the bad. There is still so much that is good- my nephews, my brothers, my sons, my husband, my own father and the men whose names I don’t even know who stepped up and placed themselves between us and the man that wandered into our church. He too is a man broken down in his own way, crushed under the weight of a brokenhearted world and I still think of him and the man that raised him and wonder if perhaps that man, his father, walked away, like many men do.
Please know this, many men do stay and stand up when they are needed and even if you don’t want to say it, I will! We need those men to keep standing up. Sure we can fight for ourselves because one thing does not contradict the other. As for me though, I’ll stand with him, beside him, confident in my own abilities while at the same time admiring his and together we will raise the next generation to stand up strong too. The patriarchy isn’t going anywhere, this matriarch will defend it.
This Woman's Work 