The Staring Men
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My shuttle bus driver was one-of-a-kind, cherry-on-top this morning
What airline was I using because he didn’t want me to be confused or get lost and he had the power
to care for me and make sure that I would get to where I was going safely but how was my time in
Phoenix and how long was I
here and what I had done and did it feel good?
He pressed me to talk to the man on my left who responded “I don’t think
that’s possible” when I shyly said that I preferred not to ruin his focus on a productive morning while the
guy to his left leaned forward four times to look at me and smile and find a way
to insert himself into my conversation
And then, in a heartbeat, we pulled up to the curb and the doors
opened and I stepped outside then I stepped inside and then suddenly the world
was only me and them — the staring men —
THEY WERE ALL THERE AND THEY WERE EVERYWHERE
They were the men who perked up from their newspaper and looked
down their nose to appreciate the shape my body made as I passed them by
They were the security guard at the entrance to Gates 1-11 who surveyed me as I
approached, synchronized his head with my passing, and who lingered too long on my departure
They were the men who whispered a silent prayer for me to step into
their line so they might slip the pass from my fingers, saying nothing worth
saying in hopes to maybe just maybe elicit a smile, the imprint of my mouth tucked
into their memory like a ticket in their pocket that they’ll
pull out later and make love to
alone in the dark
And that leaning guy from the bus that would find a seat close to me at
our gate, but not too close because he knows enough not to look desperate, and eagerly come to my rescue
when I removed my earbuds to ask a neighbor if our flight was boarding
“It’s not and you’re okay,” he said and then asked where I was sitting to see if it was his
lucky day (it wasn’t) then sadly said “don’t worry, go back to your music”
and trust him and watch him and follow him onto the plane
That same leaning guy who’d search for my eyes as he cued for boarding to wave
me toward him then laugh to pretend it was a casual, innuendo-free gesture
so that there would be nothing to report
but so that we might share one more
moment because somehow he needed a little piece of me to make returning home
to his wife more bearable
And the men on the plane, the first class men who have the most to offer
and always stare the longest with the least inhibition because of
what they would like to do
and what they have the power to do
and what they have been given the
power to do
So many men, in so many rows, on my way to seat 28A
Like the ones with the headphones and black sweatshirts that burned a hole into
the right side of my face as I made an artless shape with my mouth because I suddenly
didn’t know what to do with my lips that would appear both pleasant
and neutral
THE STARING MEN, THEY WERE ALL THERE AND THEY WERE EVERYWHERE AND
THERE WAS ME
AND THERE WAS MY WALK DOWN THE AISLE,
SPLITTING THEM IN TWO
And I was a woman who’s spent a lifetime looking at men looking at women, a
woman who knows her value not because I was so beautiful but because
I knew that I was good and honest and
kind and capable and that it made me far more
powerful and potent than simply being
a beautiful woman
I was a woman with a lifetime of these staring men and the expanding knowledge
that it won’t last forever, I know, and so I meet their sidelong gaze
head on, sometimes
in defiance
but also, in a way,
with gratitude
But the good and honest truth is that I would trade a
lifetime of these men for the solid, eternal eyes of one good man,
for a lover who had the desire to look and
never look away
For a lover who asks me what I had done
and did it feel good?
A lover who says “I don't think that’s possible” when I tell him I don’t want
to ruin his focus on a productive morning
A lover who leans forward to look at me and smile, who
perks up to get a better view as I approach, who synchronizes with my passing
and who lingers
on my departure
To come to my rescue
To let me back to my music
Who tells me to trust him and watch him and follow him
For a lover who whispers a silent prayer to maybe just maybe elicit a smile then take
me home to make love over and over
And because that lover is so beautiful, and because that lover is the only man
I want
but also the one man that
wouldn’t be on that plane,
I offered my own invocation to please let the man in 28B be gay
because I was split in two,
as always,
wanting to be near the shape of a man
with an affinity for woman
“Oh, I’m sorry” he said because he was gay and simply
because I waited an extra half second in the aisle
with my heavy bag
“I’m sorry,” he said
because he knew what it was to be a woman trapped inside a man
trapped inside a man’s world
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(above)
Desert Studies, diptych
2019
Acrylic, Charcoal, + Graphite on Paper
4 x 3.5 in
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