against motherhood

care is not feminine.

non-chalance is a mask, at best, in the face of structural femmephobia. but care itself, that is wrenched from the gut of one's being, the very base of will, the driving force of love, is not feminine.

there's this idea that the very essence of masculinity itself is that which is not feminine. i disagree. masculinity is what you make of it. masculinity can be a space to play. like a dad joke, or a bow tie.

there's this phenomenon i’m noticing that a lot of people, particularly queer folk, think that the only way to talk to a man is by mothering him, because men are infamously insufferably difficult to talk to. gentle parenting, if you will. this is slipped under the guise of wanting the best for him. some greater knowing about him and his life. but the moment care has to take the form of a parent, you know you've fucked up.

parenthood is about control more than it is about care. it takes a whole village to raise a child, in actuality, but still, the parent, in denial, through their subtle maneuvering, their hovering, their never directly expressed curiosity and jealousy, effectively function to ‘regulate’ the child's exposure.

care is a function of love, not ownership. if your care comes from a recognition of the object-of-care as ‘yours’ in some sense, that is not care. that is maintenence.

motherhood, before becoming a way of socialising with a child, is first, god’s greatest biological show. a brutal, demanding and long project of nourishment. to grow a garden in your uterus, for hungry, kicking fruit. to lactate and be sucked dry. to literally transfer life to a new form.

it must be hard to stop imagining that life to be a part of you. yours.

but to create is not to control. let that be said about mothers as well as other gods.

it really is fucking time to reclaim desire. i’m mourning everything that goes unsaid. i’m sick of the roles. you make what you want, you never get it. the universe is only lent to us for a little while.

this is the base of care. come sit here with me for a while and tell me what you see. write back to me. if we don't meet each other halfway we'll never get anywhere at all.

what masculinity needs is something dear to us all, a language. a little less grammar and a little more language. a little more tripping and falling and a little less getting back up and a little more rolling around on the floor for a while.

a little less winning for mamma's boy, and a little more living.

i think i would only want my child to know me by my name. never achan or amma. i’m just me.