Oh, the relief of not being a man. For if I were, I would have to know rage. I have never known it. There is a stopping, a stopper built into me. My makeup. Is it my feminine? Is it my sex? I can say the word hate, but I don't know it. Hate is the heaviest word I know. The weight to carry with it, will bend you beyond the measure intended by uttering, conceiving. I have tried to hate before. It is not worth it. The hated never gets the benefit of your pain, your desired wrangling of despair. Men project the rage of anger/hatred outward by use of fists/guns/tanks/bombs. I have lived a life surrounded by guns. I could hate them. I could. I am relieved to not have one in my hands. I am bare armed and fearing the machines of war being built up all around me. And then I wonder who I am when I suddenly want to punch?

When a four year old asks "Who finds me if I'm kidnapped, if strangers take me," how can you possibly answer in any way that he could understand without scaring and scarring him? Not you. The police, sure. The FBI, they are the police for special bigger badder scarier crimes. He can't conceive of why he is asking. Why he could be taken. He knows of strangers. He has said hello to them. He knows never to go with them. He knows to scream and kick and fight and hit and scream and scream. But still he wants to know. But still he wants to know what they would do to you once they have you. But still he wants to know why they would want to take him, why him? Why is he still asking? But still he knows there is danger. But still your voice quivers as you try to answer in a way that might calm you both. It doesn't.