when I was one of the X-Men

{photo via pinterest}

we were given lessons in how to touch. I wouldn't think it was real unless I had experienced it myself, first hand, sitting shoulder to shoulder and toe to back with my peers. there were big smiles as they demonstrated on the stage, one boy and one girl.

always from the side. never from the front. girls have breasts. don't cause a brother to stumble. arms around the shoulder, quick squeeze. 

we called it "nacho"-ing, a playful turn of phrase coined from the lauding of the "non-committal side hug." we were being taught how to stay pure. we were being taught how to protect our brothers from stumbling, from being ruled by that strange thing behind the zipper of their jeans. we were proud of ourselves.

my body was dangerous. I had to be careful. we all knew that. we were dangerous beings, with our shapely hips and our growing breasts that might press into a boy's chest and send impure thoughts racing though him like poison.

I was one of the X-Men. my name was Rogue. to touch me was to die.

because I was a girl. and girls were poison, except to our one-day husbands.

I'm going to let you in on a secret. it didn't protect me. it did the exact opposite. 

it taught me that I was dangerous. it taught me that my body was a cactus. all I could do was hurt, all I could was destroy. it taught me to hate me.

this same dangerous theology creeps through the ranks of the youth groups and the purity conventions. raps and songs and t-shirts and seminars abound. we grip the hearts of those girls, sitting shoulder to shoulder and toe to back with their peers, and whisper, you are in charge of his mind. you are in charge of protection. you are the problem. 

who put us in charge of stripping them down until they keep their arms crossed across their chests and their heads down with shoulders bent to hide that they are women, God-made and Heaven-adored? where is the mandate to shake the least of these, the little ones, until all their worth comes dropping out the bottom like gold doubloons down the storm-drain?

we are resisting innocence in our chase for purity. we are hanging stones instead of breaking them to gravel.

I remember the first time I hugged the man that would become my husband. I mean, really hugged him. I had just returned from a summer in South America, long weeks of sleepless nights and experiences that filled me with wonder. and there was my boyfriend, standing on the curb beside my parents' van, smiling. I didn't think. I hugged him, hard. from the front. and I can promise  you this :: the thoughts in our head were not about breasts or penises or sex or impurity or stumbling blocks.

we were embracing.
that was all.

Gentleman

A gentleman has his eyes on all those present; he is tender toward the bashful, gentle toward the distant, and merciful toward the absent. ~Lawrence G. Lovasik

Where have all the gentlemen gone?

What island have they been exiled to...and can someone send me the coordinates so that I might go and bring them home again?

Someone told them that they were no longer needed in this world...that their age had come and gone.

Someone told them that women were strong and independent -- that we didn't need men to care of us anymore...

...that we could open our own doors, and that a man coming to our defense was nothing more than offensive and sexist.

Someone said that chivalry was dead.

Well, let me tell you this.

They were wrong.

Whoever told Mr. Darcy to dismount his horse...whoever told Prince Charming to toss his crown in the mud...whoever told Orlando to burn his sonnets?

So please, gentlemen, come back to us.

Because there are still ladies in the world...

And we miss you.

We love when you open the door for us, or help us when we drop things, and we will thank you.

We love when you hold out your hand to help us up off the ground after a moment where our grace has fled, and we have stumbled over our own feet.

We love when you treat us with respect instead of just a pair of breasts...just as something to stare at and undress in your mind.

We love when you hug us, tell us we look beautiful, and look us in the eyes when you talk to us.

We love being treated as beloved sisters instead of sex objects and toys to show off.

So, please, come back.

And to those of you who haven't changed -- to those men who love me, respect me, and treat me as precious: I love you, and I am HONORED to call you my friends and brothers.

You are seen.

You are thanked.

And you are loved.

A man may learn from his Bible to be a more thorough gentleman than if he had been brought up in all the drawing-rooms in London. ~Charles Kingsley