The Inheritance Of Y

They handed me a cage

and called it legacy

Told me to be a man —

an emotionally constipated existence with a lifetime's debts and a generation's abuse for a penis

They say I built patriarchy —

Built it?

Pardon my French mademoiselle, but

I wasn’t even consulted on the goddamn cushions, let alone the blueprint

You say men are the problem

Sure

Tell that to the oestrogen-dripping aunties

who micro-managed my testosterone

and emotionally outsourced my spine

because it was apparently their duty to

Mothers taught sons

that men who cry are a liability,

that love is transactional,

and respect is only earned

if you shut the fuck up, show up,

and pay the bills on time.

But yes, please,

tell me how I’m the villain in this piece

I, the millennial man —

raised by boomers,

shamed by feminists,

and still figuring out

how not to be abhorred

for existing with a Y chromosome

Every time I speak,

I’m accused of “derailing the discourse”

Respected madam, I didn’t even board the train

I was shoved on it,

handed a script,

and told:

“Don’t blink, don’t cry, don’t feel, don’t fail.”

Also, smile.

But not too much.

Because then it’s creepy.

They say I benefited from patriarchy

Sure, where do I cash my cheque at?

Because all I have ever gotten is

emotional repression,

performance anxiety,

and the permanent suspicion

that feeling things makes me less of a man

and more of a fucking joke

Now when I say this shit out loud,

I’m a misogynist

When I ask questions,

I'm “gaslighting”

When I suggest nuance,

I’m “weaponising logic”

And if I say I’m confused,

I’m “part of the problem”

But you know what?

Maybe I am the problem

Not because I wanted to be

But because I was made in the image

of your father’s father’s handbook

and your mother’s silent compliance

So don’t call it my patriarchy

like I ordered it off Amazon

It came gift-wrapped in trauma, and signed,

“With love, society”