I don’t think men are trash. The companionship of a man can be a good thing. A man worth my time will offer his support and friendship. However, a man I can certainly do without is one who holds so closely to the notion that men are the head of a household for no reason other than—to put it bluntly—they think their dick makes them so entitled. It’s laughable. I don’t blame them all for this sick sense of entitlement, everyone likes a bit of power.  This social construct of a society has done opposite works to men and women as if we’re complete opposites. We’re not polar opposites, we’re complementary. While I won’t disregard our differences, it’s important to recognize the intersectionality in our ambitions and skill. Furthermore, one woman varies from her sister, just as one man varies from his brother. The intersectionality between genders and the additional variances among a gender itself cannot be fit into boxes with straight edges and corners. In propagating the stereotypical, old aged roles imposed upon both genders through all sectors of our culture, we leave no room for women who decide on not having children or for the men who like to clean or cook and cry openly. I recognize the contexts in which such traditional roles were outlined, but how is a woman commonly expected to cook, clean and such if she is also working a 9-5? I’ll be bringing bread home too so I can do without this hierarchal shade. If I am maintaining the home and bringing in income, well aren’t I doing it all? If anyone, I ought to be deemed “head of household” with that logic. Anyhow, that isn’t what I’m after. I believe a woman and man should join for intimate friendship, reciprocation, and support. If any are compromised, one should reflect on the sweetness of their solitude and deem if the relationship offers more.

Loneliness can be distasteful, but at least it doesn’t infringe on your power. If anything, loneliness coats the void within you with an adhesive to hold to experiences and interactions that distract you from your fleeting despair. Loneliness forces you into introspection—eroding the blurriness between the states in which you are absentminded and woke. To be profoundly in tune with each distinct mode will keep you from being passive and thus subject to undesirable energy. Anyhow, my love for my solitude is not to say I don’t want love. Love is life. But my fleeting moments of loneliness cause me to draw upon the notion of compromise. How much compromising is too much? Is there such a love with no compromising? A part of me feels that compromise is vital, as it signifies two unique individuals reaching understanding. Compromise makes me think of the woman who has no money for a comb, and her husband who has no money to fix his broken watch. She cuts her hair to afford him a new watch and he sells his broken watch to afford her a comb. It’s a love of pure exchange. No expectations, but total reciprocity. But then… I feel as though we throw around the term ‘compromise’ as this sophisticated disguise for what in reality, is a lover having to betray their personal values. Compromise and imposed change are not the same, and I myself don’t have the wisdom to discern between the two clearly.

As a woman, I’ve been considerably fortunate to not have brothers. I don’t need this “protector” when I can adopt the logic to keep myself out of undesirable situations in the first place. I don’t need a brother to go after a boy that has hypothetically done me wrong. The notion is so silly, for when a person is selective with their time and energy, fuckboys are only folklore. Kind of like the monster under the bed as a child, you’re convinced it’s a thing but it’s not a thing you’ve witnessed to tell the tale yourself. God willing, I’ve had good luck with men (people in general). The energy you put out is what will boomerang back. Anyhow, this is not to dismiss the conscious, selective women who still get hurt. For it happens. But when it does, just remember, Beyoncé’s “Me, Myself and I” is the healing shit.

Look, I am not belittling the glorious male warriors of past time. Yes, I get it, men fought in wars and were physically adapt, yes cool story bro. But what I am saying is that this bestowed “protector” role is a societal construct that has carried on into today—penetrating irrelevant contexts and giving men propriety of what women have the capacity to do themselves.

In addition to not having the big brother to spy on me when your girl was out and about in the city (lol I’m talking about poetry slams and brunch duh), I’ve been even more fortunate to have a gentle father who did his own laundry, cooked and cleaned. In my household, there are no stark roles ordained because of gender. Things are simply done because they have to be, and they are done by one who has love. There is a great joy in cooking to nourish your loved ones, and in cleaning to make your physical space an outward manifestation of the state of your internal self; however, this is under the premise that love is the sole factor. When gender contributes, such acts become menial chores, for how unfair it is to be assigned tasks at birth unwillingly?  To be truthful, I don’t even feel like I am seen as a woman at home. I’m just a soul, a person, who is respected and understood for my ambitions and dreams. I was never told I had to learn to cook for marriage, I was told I needed to learn so that I could support myself as a person. I am grateful.

I don’t know what it is about me, but I sometimes imagine certain ‘female belittling’ scenarios in my mind, and I become so perplexed by what isn’t even my direct reality. I’ll stand in the mirror and enact my comebacks to men who casually slut shame a woman for the same act they themselves carry out. These imaginative scenarios of mine get descriptive too. For instance, I picture being married, and my husband’s friends coming over. In cultural accordance, I as the woman would greet them and then fix them up something to eat as they sat conversing. They would say thank you but would not be particularly appreciative of my gesture, because it was expected.

If I have it my way, and I insist on having it my way, this is how it would go down.

His friends would enter my home, and I’d be lounging on the couch watching the documentary about the Gulabi Gang. I’d say what’s up to his friends while extending my arm out—gesturing for them to walk to me and give me a fist bump, or some platonic shit of the like. I’d hear about their life updates and make a joke to one of them that no woman will marry him until he learns to properly iron his shirt… I’d probably give him a wink too to undo a bit of the damage to his ego. Then I’d get up and tell them to make themselves comfortable on the couch—leaving the Gulabi Gang documentary on so they can get educated.

Then, my husband and I would both go into the kitchen and fix up something for his friends. Even if he wasn’t particularly useful in the kitchen, he still better be in there with me. Perception is important. The collaborative effort is a signal to his friends that I am no damn trophy wife, I am simply a partner in the kitchen with my partner.  I do not serve. Listen, I would happily serve them if it wasn’t that deep. But is that deep. Certain acts are culturally imposed and expected of a woman. And so, my husband and I would both bring the tea and food to the guests. As a team.

Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman