...and then...

Requiem for The Weedman Dasha Kelly Hamilton Tony never talks to me about terps                                                                     Katie didn’t mention percentages or strains Mike doesn’t brandish a logo, but his product and customer service -- always fire Julian can’t name the co-op of growers, but the strand is described with war tools Meeting Moose is most natural in parking lots Ant delivers to the house Max is still making moves after bar time Serena can’t come through til after work Sam’s stash is personally vetted Percy doesn’t partake at all Ericka responds to texts, never calls Ed rewards loyalty with free samples and extra shake Jake is not opposed to credit Denver needs her money every time Cast our votes Decriminalize our connects Yelp our transactions Ease them to the margins of utility, of enterprise beside the bank tellers, book sellers, taxi cab drivers and market cashiers Alisha doesn’t have a sto

At eleven, my daughter's fears were getting mauled by a tiger, injured a car crash and being a victim of rape. We talked a lot over the years about sex, sexuality and patriarchy, music lyrics and power, media, shame and the law, discretion, integrity and the whispered fragility of boys. At sixteen, I rocked her as she wept. Her slender shoulders were violent from crying. One of her friends had been raped. Months ago, but was only beginning to share. Months ago, when she started losing weight, stopped hanging out before pre-calc, and kept exhaustion shadowed beneath her makeup contours. We sat crouched on the stairs leading up to my room. She'd called out my name from the dark hall. Her voice, normally expectant and full, had been small and reaching. I peeled away from my husband to find her on the landing, shaking. My daughter felt helpless and hurt that her friend had gone through so much all alone. That she didn't know. Couldn't have known. That it was so unfair.

"I mean, who doesn't want their six-year-old daughter to hang out with princesses, and shit...?" A few of us nodded solemnly. Some threw up their hands, clicked their teeth in disgust. Many were quiet with sloped shoulders. Seated at long tables arranged into an open rectangle, we all pointed our bodies and attention towards him in agreement. I doubt the men would use the language "holding space for him," but that's what we did. We meet twice weekly to loosen their knots of habits, deeds, lessons and norms, particularly as partners and parents. Over the course of six months, we unpack trauma, toxic masculinity, self-actualization, expectations and accountability vs. responsibility.  They weigh the stakes of their relationships, wellness, and even their freedom. The men also have space --often, for the first time-- to admit their hurts, their misguided intentions, their inherited perspectives and debunk curious myths. This week, our check-in, a warm-up

I've been trying on the idea of lonely for some months now. The word first tumbled from some consciousness and out of my mouth on a car ride with my friend.  “I’ve been lonely for as long as I can remember,” we were both stunned to hear me say.   We had just pulled up to her apartment when this unannounced truth slid into open air.  We’ve been friends and colleagues for more than twenty years: clocking countless hours of logistics, laughter, life and lament.  For as long as I can remember. I've never described myself as lonely, save a post-breakup season. Isolated, either. True, most of my world is solitary: sitting at a laptop, traveling to an engagement, working from my empty nest home office, even speaking in front of an audience or class. By default, I’m alone a lot, but lonely is different. Isolation is different. My language, instead, is that I’m “a high-functioning introvert,” was "an arts and crafts kid” and have always “spent a lot of time in my head.” I