...and then...

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