For the last several months I’ve been volunteering with an organization that goes into women’s prisons and jails and teaches writing and poetry workshops. I’ve been volunteering at a jail with several other folks. It’s been a transformative experience (more on that soon). But I wanted to share a story from one of our evening sessions. Each session we come in with a prompt and write poems together. 

After the writing time, anyone who wants to, shares their poems. Everyone is offered the chance to share or to pass. Tonight’s prompt was an emotional one, all about closure. We talked about endings, things we were ready to leave behind. People spoke of relationships where they got closure and of the pain of ones where they didn’t. 

This particular group was pretty large and it was getting late. As the sharing wound around the table toward me I folded up my piece of paper and slid it into my pocket. Tonight I would pass. I was aware of the time, aware of the vulnerability in the room, aware of the way I might be taking up space. 

I’m continually aware that I am the only man in this room. Aware that the people who hold power over these women look a lot like me. I’m aware that some of those men maybe don’t wield it well and that even the ones who are really trying to do right still have the power to harm. I’m aware of the space I take up. Aware of how my facial expressions or my body language might be perceived. When I speak and when we do our chant at the end of the night I’m aware of the timbre of my voice. Aware that speaking with volume might create waves of anxiety or pain in the room. 

As the sharing gets closer to me I waver. Another volunteer, before she reads her poem, mentions that she’s been moved by the vulnerability in the room and she wants to meet it by being vulnerable herself. 

Now I’m second guessing myself: Am I a coward for not wanting to share my poem? Am I simply protecting my own vulnerability? I’ve written about the death of my grandfather. About how our family gathered around his bedside and sat vigil for two weeks as he slipped closer and closer toward death. We sang hymns. We told stories. We laughed and we cried. It felt like a beautiful closure. 

Of course even that closure is complicated. I wasn’t out then. I hadn’t yet transitioned. The moments of peace we had as a family in those days would fracture in the years to come. I would be left to wonder if my grandfather would have continued to support me even after I came out and transitioned. But I still got to be there. I still got to say goodbye. 

I think about the men the women in these room have encountered. I think about the men that I know. The ones who would scoff at being asked to write a poem. The ones who would write it but never share it. I wonder if my sharing this poem; my sharing this vulnerability is exactly what I need to do. 

It’s not the first time I’ve wondered how to take up space. How to use my voice for good. How to give back to the community and not take away. How to step up without stepping over. I think about times I’ve been silent when I probably should have spoken up. And times when I should have stayed silent and let others speak. In this situation I could definitely spin my silence in my favor. I was trying to honor their stories. I didn’t want to take attention. I was trying to make sure they got the time they needed. 

But it could also be spun another way: I didn’t want to be vulnerable in front of these women. I worried I might choke up or cry. I didn’t want to read something so personal. I was hiding and I was using my “good man” ideals to cover it up. 

In this moment I’m waffling back and forth. Where is my voice most needed? 

I take the paper back out of my pocket. Maybe I can just read a portion of the poem. A couple of lines. People have done that in the past. 

think again about the kind of man I want to be. I want to be a man who reads poems. Who isn’t afraid to tear up. Who tells the people he loves that he loves them. I want to be a man who isn’t afraid to be vulnerable. Who is willing to be tender. 

The person next to me passes and eyes are on me. I smooth out my paper. I read my poem. 

Maybe it wasn’t the right thing. Maybe I shouldn’t even be in this space. But I also know the world won’t change on its own. And I might be the only man these women hear speaking gently this week. I might be the only one willing to share a poem with them. 

And maybe that’s not enough. I certainly don’t pat myself on the back for showing up in this space. But I hope it’s something. 

May I continue to learn how to use my voice well.