I am frightened for my white man. My man - who loves to have sex with me, and helps me make babies, and lets me stay in the kitchen barefoot and pregnant - is in danger! He worries that I may stop cleaning and cooking for him like his mom always did, that I may go to school, and learn, and work outside of our home, and make my own money, and develop my own thoughts and opinions. He is terrified that I may voice those thoughts and opinions in public, some of which may disagree with his own, and that I may embarrass him in front of his important white male friends.
I am so frightened for my white man, who is worried that “others” may take over, and take away his power, and take away his control. They are not white like him. They are black and brown and strange and don’t always follow the white man rules and don’t always listen to him, and don’t always defer to him, and don’t always look up to him, and don’t automatically thank him for his generous willingness to allow them to exist.
I am especially frightened because when my white man becomes worried about such things he becomes scared. And when he becomes scared he becomes confused, and defensive, and angry, and belligerant, and even violent. He doesn’t understand if I disobey or disagree with him. He doesn’t understand if the “others” refuse to sit down and be quiet and acquiesce. He desperately needs the comfort of continuity, Specifically, the continuation of his long-held white man practices, and the certainty of his own power to control … everything – to maintain control over his world, over my body, over the economic, environmental, and educational condition of all “others.”
I am comforted only by my brother. He was also a white man, but he was raised by my mother who was, of necessity, strong and capable. She was really smart, but didn’t realize it until she was forced to make her own way. She was very practical and calm and resilient. She worked hard, but delegated as much of the workload as she dared to all of us children. She taught my brother to respect his sisters and be grateful for their work and contributions and talents. She taught him to be protective, but not controlling or bossy. He learned that his sisters were his best buddies, his greatest advocates, his cheerleaders, and his equals. He learned to respect and support women and become their champions. He was never intimidated by us or threatened by us or frightened by us or concerned about his masculinity or his place in the world. He knew his place was to watch out for us with love and without criticism, and he knew that his sisters would always watch out for him with love and without criticism.
I am forever grateful that my brother helped me escape before that other white man killed my body, or my spirit, or both. I am forever grateful that my brother helped me figure out how to get out, and helped me understand that I was worthy of rescue. And I will always love and be grateful for my brother for showing me that not all white men are the same, that not all white men are jerks, and that there are a gazillion more white men like him, who have no arcane presumption of superiority, who are not intimidated or frightened by strength and talent in others, who are willing and able to see women and others as equals, worthy of respect and love and care.
My brother, and our mother who taught him what it means to be a man, have died, and are no longer with me. Or are they?
