Toxic Masculinity: Were Not Going To Take It Anymore

TOXIC MASCULINITY: WE ARE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE Deborah Burris-Kitchen

COPYRIGHT PAGE THIS IS A WORK OF POETRY COPYRIGHT © 2021 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED OR USED IN ANY MANNER WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE COPYRIGHT OWNER EXCEPT FOR THE USE OF QUOTATIONS IN A BOOK REVIEW. FOR MORE INFORMATION, ADDRESS: BILLELLIOT@ELLIOT.COM. FIRST EBOOK EDITION NOVEMBER 2021 ISBN 012-3-4567-8901-2 (PAPERBACK) ISBN 012-3-4567-8901-2 (EBOOK) Burris-Kitchen, Deborah ENGLISH 4920

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Forward This book of poems is a collection of poetry that touches on the impact of toxic masculinity on young women and girls in the United States. It starts with a poem written by the author back when she was a young women herself and takes the reader through a journey of a series of real and fictitious events that had occurred over her life with the intent of awaking her audience to the impact of sexual assault and the damage it can cause mentally and physically, The collection also includes a witness poem about a young woman who was gang raped in Alabama in 1944.

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Dedication I would like to thank my husband for being so supportive of me while I have been working on this book of poems. Thank you, Rick Kitchen, for taking up the slack at home while I was busy creating.

I would also like to Thank Dr. Michelle Pinkard for her wiliness to teach and pass on her passion for her discipline.

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Table of Contents

Poem 1 TO BE SHORT, BLONDE, FEMALE AND WHITE

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Poem 2 CHAPARRA, RUBIA Y MUJER BLANCA __________5

Poem 3 DIRTY LAUNDRY____________________________7

Poem 4 GIRLS: DON’T LET HIM______________________10

Poem 5 SEPTEMBER IN ALABAMA 1944_______________11

Poem 6 MY BABIES I MUST FEED_____________________15

Poem 7 KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF THEM________________16

Poem 8 FILTHY RICH_______________________________19

Poem 9 SHOULD A POEM BE WRITTEN ABOUT RAPE?___21 Poem 10 PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR AND MAYA ANGELOU I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS________________23

4 TO BE SHORT, BLONDE, FEMALE AND WHITE No one respects me.

I love everyone, but no one loves me.

My skin color is a cruel reminder Of what my brothers and sisters Have done to people of color They may hate me for it.

My blonde hair is symbolic of ignorance.

Someone to be made fun of and called a dumb blonde.

It is a symbolic of someone to be looked at as a sex object, Someone to be taken advantage of.

Because of my hair color no one thinks I know anything, But the weight of the knowledge I carry on my shoulders Is enough to destroy me.

They don’t respect what I know.

Because I am short, it is assumed I am much younger And more naïve than I perceive myself to be.

People talk down to me in a paternalistic manner.

They don’t respect me.

I cannot change who I am, But what I have to say is very important.

When will people understand?

But they don’t respect me.

Burris-Kitchen, D. (2002). Short Rage: Heightism in America (p. 9). Santa Barbara, CA: Fithian Press.

5 CHAPARRA, RUBIA Y MUJER BLANCA

Nadie me respeta.

Quiero a todos, pero nadie Me quiere.

El color de mi piel exhibe recuerdos Crueles de lo que mis hermanos le han hecho A las gentes morenas/Negras Quizás me odien por esto.

Mi pelo rubio es un símbolo de ignorancia.

Es un símbolo que atrae la atención Como un objeto sensual que se puede abusar.

Por mi pelo rubio, nadie Cree que sepa algo.

Pero el peso de lo que sé, lo cargo en mis hombros, Y es bastante como para destruirme.

Ellos no respetan lo que sé.

Porque soy chaparra me toman Por más joven e inocente De lo que yo creo ser.

Me hablan como mis padres me hablarían.

Ellos no me respetan.

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No puedo cambiar la persona que soy.

Pero lo que tengo que decir es muy importante. ¿Cunado entenderá la gente?

Ellos no me respetan.

Burris-Kitchen, D. (1996). Chaparra, rubia y mujer blanca. (A. Rojo & F. Ochoa, Eds.) La Vernácula University of La Verne Latino Community Magazine, 6–6.

7 DIRTY LAUNDRY

Take these panties I can’t use them anymore they are soiled with blood they must be destroyed i was raped in this underwear take them from me i can’t use them anymore.

They bring me flash backs of horror and pain he took from me everything I will never see the sun again i am a prisoner in my own home i hide in hells den i will never feel safe again i was raped in this underwear take them from me i can’t use them anymore

Why am I the one who sinned why am I the one who tempted him shouldn’t I have been able to dress that way why am I NOT valued shown RESPECT i was raped in this underwear take them from me i can’t use them anymore.

8 wash them hang them burn them brush the ashes into a pile no matter what you do with them my pain will never go away i was raped in this underwear. take them form me. i can’t use them anymore.

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GIRLS: DON’T LET HIM

I want to tell the young girls, all that I did not understand I want to tell you young girls, I wore my skirts short and my heels high I want to tell you young girls, don’t let him still your youth I want to tell you young girls, you deserve to hear the truth.

don’t give up your sexual naiveté to any ole creep don’t let him touch you, you know he heard you scream no don’t let him grab your ass or be his one-night stand if he doesn’t respect your body, slam that door or build that wall if he brushes his hands along your breast, kick him so hard that he falls.

don’t let him define your worth, find your worth inside yourself don’t let him make you feel ugly, make you lock yourself up and hide don’t let him tell you that you are stupid, you know that just ain’t right if he doesn’t respect your beauty, don’t give him your time if he doesn’t respect your mind, tell him to watch you climb.

don’t let him exploit your sexuality by molesting you in public spaces don’t let him disgrace you in front of his friends don’t let him mansplain nothing to you if he thinks he needs to educate you, he is not a man if he forces himself on you while you are screaming no, that is rape he is a bottom feeder yell it loud enough that everyone knows it.

11 SEPTEMBER IN ALABAMA 1944

In the Jim Crow south pale skinned predator’s roamed a dark rural dirt road in Abbeville, Alabama the same road Recy walked when she left church feeling safe and protected by the lord after saying her prayers she was on her way home to be with her husband and daughter.

Recy was not aware that a pack of yellow fanged beasts waited to blindfold her and drag her into the woods drooling for prey their hunger must be satisfied once they yanked her into the woods the savage beasts violently raped her mutilating her beautiful brown body until more children

She could never have.

She begged them to not kill her “my baby needs me; please don’t kill me I promise not to tell” the rabid beasts left her mutilated body half dead at the side of the road bloody

her church dress ripped to shreds

the site of their blood drenched green fangs the stench of their body odor still lingered in her head.

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The foul odor of the beast would not go away nor would the nightmares Recy had from being raped in the Jim Crow South, the laws were written in a way that these carnivorous beasts got away with the rape you see these beasts had inalienable rights they could molest a black woman and disappear back into the woods knowing they are untouchable

protected by white hoods.

The beasts let her go she promised not to tell but told she did she told of blood-stained beasts who gang-raped her she told everything that the six beasts did to her the police claimed she lied they told her the beasts you describe do not exist she cried THEY DO EXIST! to me THEY DID THIS!

The response was not a surprise to blacks who lived in the south for they knew the laws in the south were made by the same evil beasts that lived in those woods the ones that raped Recy that September night the beasts that threatened to kill her and burned down her house but she couldn’t help but tell the truth she told what the evil beasts did to her in those woods with great courage she let the words come out.

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The obnoxious beasts colored yellow gathered claimed the title of grand jury declared that justice to them mattered the grand jury decided not once but twice that these predator’s will always be evil beasts it is their basic inherent instinct they can’t be held accountable for their crimes they wouldn’t be indicted on charges that day they wouldn’t be indicted EVER for what they did.

The hooded henchmen of the blood-stained beasts proclaimed that they were sorry that justice was never served but the apology came a bit too late It came 67 years after the violent gang rape That apology could never negate the pain and suffering that Recy endured after being raped by a pack of six rabid beasts the stench of the blood stained yellow fanged beasts still lingers in the Alabama night air.

Packs of these drooling beasts are still on the loose running around rabid raping black women without remorse knowing they will always be free of charges you can’t shoot them or lock them away when the victim of a carnivorous beast screams rape the savage beasts will not have a price to pay.

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The beasts will be protected as if they are endangered species but endangered species they will never be many black women still file rape charges against these beasts today if you go to Alabama, some people say, that the malodor of the beasts still lingers in the stale night air drawing the conclusion that beasts are just as plentiful today as they were that September night in 1944 these beasts are in Alabama to stay, their stench

will never go away.

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MY BABIES I MUST FEED

I smile and act like his sexual advances don’t bother me.

A little pat on the ass as he brushes up against my breast.

A call to his private office to satisfy his sexual desires.

I tell myself it will all be ok, even though the shame will never go away.

My babies I must feed.

Every day when I arrive home, I immediately break down and cry.

I look in the mirror and see black mascara running down my face.

All I see in the mirror is a woman who has lost all dignity.

My dignity was gone after that first sick little deed.

Every day it gets harder for me to hide from me.

My babies I must feed.

I am getting old; My breasts and butt are starting to sag.

Although I can’t stand him, I need my boss to keep me around.

I can write the conclusion to this well-known story.

I will be replaced with another honey who applies for my job, especially if she is hot, and he is horny.

I am so scared. I can’t breathe.

My babies I must feed.

I am fighting hard to keep my hourglass figure and spending a ton of money to get rid of my wrinkles.

Only for him to replace me with the next bimbo.

It is only a short time before my boss will dismiss me.

When the time comes, I will leave without my dignity.

But I hope he doesn’t dismiss me too soon for My babies I must feed.

16 KEEP YOU HANDS OFF THEM

Sometimes it starts with a boyfriend.

Her prom date gets demanding.

The favor he asked for, just didn’t seem right.

He wanted her to suck on it, but she gagged at the site.

He said you made it hard, now make it go away.

In that private space, the young girl was not certain what to say.

Sometimes it is a teacher or Professor invites her into his private space.

A bad note on her paper, but only he can make it go away.

Just do me this one little favor and extra credit you will receive.

The thought of sleeping with him makes her want to heave.

But if she does not concede to his demands what will the consequences be?

Will that A turn into a D? Will that knowledge she obtained ever be reflected in an earned degree?

Sometimes it is a boss and superior who signs her check.

He brings her gifts and compliments her breast.

One day he invites her into his office and pats his left knee.

Please come over honey and sit with me.

He tells her: “Your perfume is an aphrodisiac and your lips are plump and colored like a fine red wine.

Please fulfill my sexual fantasies” and he grabs her from behind.

She does what he requests, because her job she must keep.

But OMG, she has never felt so cheap?

She can tell no one about this dirty little deed.

17 When you are a young girl the victimization begins.

We move from being little girls to being desired by men.

The socialization of becoming sexualized is very dangerous For young girls indeed.

For many it may be sick little deeds to which they must concede.

For others may be forced into slavery and certain death.

To everything in between.

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FILTHY RICH

Here I sit here in this cold dark space reflecting on the alleged crimes I committed Apparently, I am LUCIFER himself.

When did paying women for sex become a crime?

They claim I ran a sex trafficking ring.

They called me a PEDOPHILE and a SOCIOPATH. Really, when did all this begin?

Men like me with power do not get called such names.

Wealthy men having their way with women and girls is a reward being FILTHY RICH has always brought.

Look at Hefner, Castro, Chamberland, Beatty, Thomas and Sheen.

That is just to name some of the most well known.

These allegations I am facing must be some bad dream.

Men like me, I have always been told, we can do as we please.

There are no consequences for our bad behavior.

How dare them use me as their sacrificial lamb.

I built my fortune and I deserve what I demand.

FILTHY RICH they called me. A name I earned.

They called me that with a hint of disgust. As if being rich is a bad thing?

So, some of the girls may have been a bit young.

But I liked the virgins and these days these bitches start young.

She sure didn’t feel 14 when I felt her bare ass on mine.

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I know she wanted it. Her skin was pink and moist as she screamed no.

How was I to know she was not an adult?

When I asked her how old she was, she told me she was 18.

If she had told me she was younger, I would have sent her home.

How is it my fault? Hell 14 is almost grown.

All women are gold diggers and will sleep with any rich man for a fee.

In exchange for their service, I made it rain.

Blondes, brunettes, tall, short, curvy and thin all of them stood outside my door waiting to get in.

I knew it was my money that drew them in.

That has always been the curse of being a rich man.

They called me FILTHY RICH. A named I earned.

I had a private Island, Little Saint James, filled with FILTHY RICH men.

They came to play with young girls.

FILTHY RICH men would come to fulfill their fantasies.

This was not a sex trafficking ring.

Why blame the rich man for sexual assault?

We cannot control ourselves with breast pressed to our faces.

I am not a PEDOPHILE or a SOCIOPATH. I am just a FILTY RICH man who the Me Too and Women’s Rights advocates just cannot understand.

Many of them probably got their start by sleeping with a FILTHY RICH man.

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SHOULD A POEM BE WRITTEN ABOUT RAPE?

Prose, rhyme, metaphor and anaphora similes, alliterations and enjambment.

Try not to use too many couplets or use clichés.

Never center your words on the page.

Always paint a picture with the words you choose.

Make sure the reader can feel your pain.

Make sure you have something meaningful to say.

Make sure your poetic words can be used to free the oppressed someday.

All these rules of poetry are clouding my mind.

I just want to write down on paper what the voice in my head is telling me to say.

Sometimes the words come out in a rhyme.

Sometimes the voice gives me a cliché.

Like “it was a dark and stormy night.”

I woke up with that cliché stuck in my head.

Wait a minute, are my stanzas supposed to be 7 lines or 8?

Is that still up for debate? Anyway, this Stanza is now 9.

What I want to write about comes to me when I am asleep.

It comes to me in nightmares or sometimes just dreams.

I wake up to a voice in my head telling what it wants me to say.

Write what down? You want to write a poem about what?

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“Write about him holding you down and ripping off your close.”

“Write about him raping you while you were pleading with him to stop and screaming NO.” I CAN’T right about that. It will expose my vulnerability!

I CAN’T write about that. Who will believe me?

I thought poems were supposed to be about love and being free.

“You must tell your story about what he did to you that night.

It is your obligation to connect with others who have experienced your pain.

It is your obligation to let victims know they are not to blame.

It is your obligation to write a poem that will help others heal.

It is your obligation to write poem that will change the culture of toxic masculinity.

It is your obligation to alert the masses that rigid gender roles are as deadly as a venomous snake.

Both boys and girls should avoid getting bit.”

I want to tell women to practice Marshall Arts and buy a .45.

Mine is always loaded and next to my bed.

Oh. Don’t forget to take your drink with you he may have spiked it.

But according to the voice that speaks to me in my sleep, It is my responsibility to use my words, not my gun, to fight for a world where a woman can live without fear.

Only then can women truly be free.

Maybe this poem is about love and being free after all.

23 PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR AND MAYA ANGELOU I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS

This beautiful bird has been caged for far too long.

Taught that she has done something wrong.

Told that she alone is responsible for her being in a cage.

Told that see will never be free to leave that space.

Creating great anxiety and much eagerness to flea Especially when she is told this every single day.

That here in this cage she must stay.

But still she prays for better days.

Seeing herself flying over mountains, rivers and seas.

Praying that someday she will be free.

She will never give up on her dream

Paul and Maya, I do know why the caged bird sings.

She is caged waiting for her master to decide what and how much food he will provide.

Knowing she needs food to truly thrive.

Needing the nutrients that the food will provide So that she can escape and fly far away.

24 She has dreams of learning more And achieving greater heights.

Knowing that there is much more to see.

Knowing that she can be more than her Master wants her to be.

She is caged and forced to hear Her Master profess only what he wants her to hear.

He tells her that he knows what is best for her.

And he feeds her only what he thinks she needs to know.

Making her believe that she is at fault for being caged.

Playing that blaming the victim game.

She is caught in his game where only he knows the rules.

Constantly being fed the lie, that she will never be able to fly.

She will never fly high in the sky among the stars.

That is reserved for those birds who are deserving.

Those stronger, smarter, and far more superior Telling herself, my dear girl, you are not worthy.

Creating in her a dangerous quiet rage.

Making her that much more determined not to stay in that cage.

25 Paul and Maya, I do know why the caged bird sings.

She sings because she wants to escape.

She will repeatedly hit the top of the cage over and over praying it is not too late.

Hoping and praying that someday she will escape.

Crying out and singing her song about longing for better times.

Dreaming of happier times when see can write a happy song to sing.

A song about soring over mountains, rivers and seas.

She will never stop fighting to offset the master’s lies That she will never be free to leave Because she is completely dependent on him.

That is where the lie begins and ends.

She has heard of birds that have escaped.

They found that hole or open gate.

Those are the stories she has been told.

Should she be so naive to believe that she could be one of them.

The one that got out and could freely live without the bars that keep her in.

26 She has heard those stories of birds who escaped the cages of oppression and hate.

Ending up soring far over the mountain tops with great confidence and grace.

She sees the examples but still can’t believe that she will ever be free.

Paul and Maya, Yes. I do know why the caged bird sings.

She sings because she exhausted and quickly losing sight of her dream The one where she is free and Soring high over mountains, rivers and seas.

27 Deborah J. Burris-Kitchen, Ph.D. is a Professor of Criminology and Department Chair at Tennessee State University in Nashville. She is the author of Female Gang Participation (Edwin Mellen Press, 1997). She also co-authored an article on racism in higher education in the College Student Journal (2000). Her publications also include a book titled Short Rage: an autobiographical look at heightism in America (2002). She also has a book chapter (July 2010) titled Pathways to prison: Implications for the Health and Mental health in the African American Community in Handbook for African American Health Psychology: Evidence-based treatment and prevention practices (edited by Robert Hampton & Ray Crowell); From Slavery to Prisons: A Historical Delineation of the Criminalization of African Americans (2010); a journal article titled Short Rage Revisited (2018); and Deviance and Control, Kendall and Hunt (2020).

Dr. Burris-Kitchen has served as the chair of the research committee and as the Vice President of the National Organization of Short Statured Adults (NOSSA). She has also served as President for (Association of Humanist Sociology) AHS and has been a member of AHS for several years. She is also a member of American Criminal Society, and American Sociological Association.

Dr. Burris –Kitchen is also an activist who fights against violence, racism, exploitation, greed, and capitalism.