To the men in my life

 This letter is mostly for the friends, brothers and a handful (literally) of uncle-father figures. I’m sure you know there aren’t many of you in my life. Writing this letter feels weird. I find it much easier writing love letters to the women in my life. But I thought I would stretch myself a little and gesture towards a public display of affection. A few months ago I started writing about friendship. I realised that I was writing about friendships mostly with women and a smattering of you in mind. I have a range of feeling and language to describe those relationships. I even did a series of photos posting friends on my whatsapp status and it was only with my girlfriends. 

This is not a letter with ‘men in general’ in mind. This is a letter for the men who listen to my voice notes and send voice notes with equal enthusiasm. The men who have invested in a friendship and whose company I enjoy. The men I have spent Christmas with, been on walks with, belly-laughed with, the men who have been in my home easily, and have equally welcomed me into their homes. The men who have driven me to the airport, read my work and taken me seriously. The men who take me out for lunch or dinner or coffee and cake. The men who get me hot chocolate and chocolates when I need a sugar dose. The men I have made room for in my life. The men with no complications, just easy and honest conversations. The men who have made me feel safe and seen. It is strange to think about you in a world where men are dangerous. It is difficult not to exceptionalise you in this context. All the same, you exist. And possibly I have to suspend the disclaimers for now and commit to this letter.

Many of you remind me of my dad; the good parts anyway. I guess there’s some truth about women and their dads and the men they choose to bring into their lives. I think I keep you all because there’s a sensitivity about you. I have seen some of you show tenderness and you allow yourselves to be human and not the shallow version of manhood that doesn’t allow you to show us who you really are. And in each of those moments where you allow your softness, you are delightful. In your sensitivity there’s an ease. I won’t talk about the shadows I have seen and at times overlooked or rolled my eyes or made a jibe towards. Those are obvious and plentiful. And human. I too have shadows.

I am observing myself as I write this letter: it seems I cannot write it without belabouring the world in which my affection makes sense. And yet here I am, writing a public love letter. My disclaimers point to the meaning of loving men openly in a violent world. Where that love may not always be reciprocated. Because much of my experience of ‘men in general’ (a vexation of men: my collective noun) is characterized by harassment and violence (this is not metaphorical violence) I am scared of men. I listen to Umhlobo Wenene and more often than not there will be a story about women who have been violated and murdered by men. The men are often seemingly normal men; not monsters who crawl around with venom in the dark. Normal men who work at the post office.

After Uyinene Mrwetyana was murdered there was a voice note circulating. It was a woman talking about how normal Luyanda Botha had been. He seemed to be an average man. This is not to humanise him but to remind myself that violent men are not the exception. They look like men who work at the post office. 

I don’t know how old you were when you first heard that someone had raped someone or someone you knew had been raped. I was in high school when I started hearing about rape not as something that happens in alleyways (in fact there was an episode on Soul City about what we now call intimate partner violence). Girls in my school began sharing their experiences of rape with me when I was 15/16 years old. The men and boys who had raped them were people that they knew. Over the years the stories have become plentiful and yet the maths doesn’t seem to add up: women seem to know women who have been violated, harmed, harassed by men but most men never seem to know men who are the violators, harassers and rapists. The maths is just not math’sing.

It was also in high school when I first heard of a boy who was known for beating girls he dated (he went to one of the boys schools in the Eastern Cape). He was popular: a rugby player. We orbited around each other; I could even characterise him as an acquaintance. He wasn’t a monster. There was nothing which marked him as dangerous. And I’ve been trying to make sense of this since high school: how normal it is for us to live with these normal men who do unspeakable things to women. We just keep it moving. 

You would think that as an evolutionary feature, every time a man violated a woman, his body would morph. His hand would shrivel up or disappear overnight so that the whole world would know what he’d done. Or that the blood of the woman he killed would stain his hands forever and ever and we would all be able to see it and never forget. But no, the bodies of men who violate are not marked. The burden of proof remains on women’s bodies always. If I were a witch, these are the kind of spells I would cast: may his tongue swell every time he uses his mouth to catcall a woman. May his hands be covered in boils after groping a woman. I think I would make a great witch!

When I was in university, I heard that someone who had been in my philosophy class during first year beat women. I knew him well enough while we were studying together. We spoke out of the necessity of being part of the small group of black students who were studying philosophy that year. He once asked me to help him with a tutorial. I don’t know why we didn’t meet at the library; we met in his res room instead. Perhaps I was curious to see what the men’s reses looked like (were they dingey like the brother school hostel I had seen while in high school?). Nothing happened. He may have even kept the door ajar. Years later when I heard what he had done to a young woman, my brain was scrambled. I still don’t know where to place that story. 

And yet here you are; in my life, my home, my office and I continue to make room for you all the same.

I don’t know how this letter has turned towards the men I hate because I am trying to write a love letter. Is it possible to love men in this context? I have often wondered what I would do if my normal friends (you guys) were known violators in other parts of your lives (well, actually this has happened before and I often reflect on how I reacted). I wonder often what you do when you hear other men talk about violating women as is the case with in-group/affinity group conversations (when a violator assumes you’re one of the boys). I wonder what you say and do in those moments. 

When I was a high school teacher I once had to break up a fight between two boys. They were taller than me. One was later removed from the school (apparently he carried a knife sometimes). There was also a boy who died by suicide when he was 15 years old (or was he murdered? I can no longer remember but I remember his name, face and anger); I had taught him for one year and experienced his quick temper which once ended up in a fight in my classroom. In that context I learned about the ways boys can hurt themselves and each other. I have also kept in touch with some of the boys I’ve taught. There was one in particular whom I met while he was studying at university. I was struck to see how he seemed to have maintained some of the innocence boys lose so rapidly as they grow older. There is a sadness in watching boys grow older. It’s like watching a flower wilt slowly.

This letter wasn’t supposed to be about violence. But here we are. I have been wondering about what would it have been like to be a woman in a country where I wasn’t socialised by violence and fear; would my brain have developed differently, at a psychic and material level? What would it feel like to be a man who is not socialised through patriarchy? How different would you be? It feels like a miracle to have men in my life whom I can feel safe around: physically, emotionally, psychically. Because of the extreme violence we all live with, men seem to think that being a good person is the lowest common denominator: if they are not abusers (in all forms) then that’s it. They do not have to be interesting. They do not have to be sensitive. They can just not be violent. I think this is a very South African problem; the weight of violence on all of us. 

Perhaps I am simply relieved that you exist. Because that means I am not crazy. 

Lots of love

A