Was listening to some “Get your butt up, girl” music this morning, when two favorite songs played. The first was “If It Hadn’t Been For Love” by the Steeldrivers, and the second was my beloved, Jimi Hendrix, singing his great blues song, “Hey Joe.”

Much as I love these songs, they’re also disturbing, and I am always confronted with the normality of misogyny and a frightening version of masculinity inherent in their lyrics, and the lyrics of many well known, catchy tunes. From Leadbelly’s “In The Pines” to Lyle Lovett’s “LA County” the theme of murdering the lover who cheated or left pops up fairly regularly in the course of music history.

So, I got to thinking (not for the first time) about the way in which our culture equates possession with love, and the idea that women and children are emotionally, if no longer legally, the property of men. That a perceived infraction or misstep is rectifiable through physical violence.

There are many others who’ve written and talked about this equation as well as the hypocrisy in our society that allows us to think about ourselves, and talk as though we’re on a higher moral plane from which we can judge other societies for their treatment of women.

Every one of those critiques of our structures and belief systems has been analyzed far better than I can in a blog, early this morning. But what I want to say is that the friction I felt earlier is common. I know this as a “woman of colour,” and now an older widow who did not retire with a million dollar portfolio; is an advocate for the natural world; defender of vulnerable populations; and is a believer in justice, peace, compassion, and love as well as the practical need to do what’s necessary in self defense. I’m a romantic, but not a fool.  I know that most ideas about love are hooey. That love, like thinking, is an active verb. It’s what you do, how you act on every level. It’s beyond petty, individual egoisms, and places the well being and health of the corporate body first, whether that is a couple, family, or community. Love is commitment beyond personality “flaws” or differences. It is recognizing when your partner is being an asshole and loving and trusting them and the relationship enough to let them know, and allowing them some grace to modify the behavior, grow, and change.

But it’s also recognizing your own assholery, having a self-correcting mindset and process, and genuinely listening to critique and accepting it when it resonates. Because you didn’t make it to this age without knowing your patterns, shortcomings, and forms of denial-the biggest killer of good relationships.

A good relationship is negotiated and renegotiated over time. It’s  commitment and communication that creates something solid despite all problems, arguments, annoyances, and plights. Love is the decision that whatever comes, we will work it out and stick together. It doesn’t deny pain, disappointment, flight fantasies, or any other feelings that arise. Love allows you to “pull the camera back” and gain perspective. It requires not only patience (not my personal best subject) but humor! If you can’t laugh at the absurdity of life, including yourself and relationships, all sweetness dies. My late husband and I fought like cats and dogs for the first few years of our marriage, and I threw him out more than once. We were two strong willed people with personal histories when we met in our thirties. We were both passionate people, sure about how things were to go, and those ideas were sometimes in almost polar opposition.  

But we were also passionate in our commitment to certain values, most particularly, Semper Fi, he as a Marine and Vietnam vet, me as the product of a highly unusual childhood that included indoctrination by my  three-tours-in-‘nam,-gung ho-Marine brother. Our relationship wasn’t “normal” and was sometimes a mystery to me. Hubs was the one with patience and steadfastness, while I brought the whimsey along with a more practical approach to the world. Between us, we had all bases covered. It worked not only because we were in love, but also because we recognized that we were better as a team than individually. That our sense of humor, compatible romanticism, ideas of what family meant, our Brooklyn vs Jersey competitiveness, and our mutual hatred of bullies meant more to us than the petty annoyances or even some larger infractions. I understood that as the introverted curmudgeon I am, I still liked him better than other people. And most importantly, we both felt deeply loved. He knew that despite flare ups or even kicking him out, he could depend on me, that I was always faithful, in love and as a friend. That I might want to kick his ass, but no one else was gonna touch him.

And I felt safe with him as with no other man I’ve known. It was never his thing, but after Vietnam, he eschewed physical violence, and the only time I ever saw the possibility arise when in defense of a vulnerable person/against a bully. He embodied a healthy masculinity and genuine strength.

I’ve rambled far off topic. Jimi’s still singing the electric blues in the background, and I’m lying here wondering how all roads lead me back to Love.

Well, I guess that’s a topic for another day. Just check your machismo, fellas. The world really does need more love, real love. Not more “owners.” To quote Indigenous activist Dallas Goldtooth, “We have to re-imagine how we relate to each other.” Respect your women and let them go if they want to leave. You won’t break, and like that #15 bus, another one will come along. Just wait. Your self respect and ego shouldn’t be tied to the behavior of another person, sugar. Show strength through real masculinity that includes critical self analysis and the openness to adjust.

Then write a different song for your life and the good of your entire community. It doesn’t have to be the “got my gun” blues.✌🏽❤️