Man-splaining 'Splained

A poem, by Molly Sargent, for men and women who need to know

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🔸 Happy Casual Friday!

It’s been a heck of a week. I didn’t set out to skewer tropes of toxic masculinity — honest to Pete!

But a funny thing happens when you start a Substack that promises an exploration of Authenticity@Work! Tales of insincere and misaligned actions and outcomes just seemed to find there way to me!

So here I am, fully immersed in a provocative and (for me) convicting discussion about unhealthy relationship patterns like #projection and #man-splaining (which is NOT exclusively a man-thing).

🔸 To wit: here’s a playful poem to round-out the topic… and kick-off the weekend.

“So, listen,” I’ll begin. 
“The truth is…” 
I’ll lay that in
early, to settle any doubt 
that what I’m about 
to say 
might be, in any way,
less than settled thinking. 

Without blinking, 
I’ll continue with the floor,
choosing to ignore
the efforts of a brave few,
who
operate under the impression
that we’re having a conversation,
and who entertain the idea
that my ideas 
are open to discussion. 

“Here’s the thing.” 
This I’ll say, declaratively,
giving it a ring 
of being undeniably 
true. This, I do
by virtue 
of my tone,
simultaneously suggesting that I’m alone
in bringing
considered thinking
to the table.

“Well, yes, I’m uniquely able…”
I’ll give assurance 
in a humble brag of compelling performance,
“to wax philosophic 
on this very topic…” 

This assertion I’ll posit 
when you implore 
to know my source. 
“Of course!”
I’ll appear to agree,
solicitously,
if you persist in your inquiry,
perhaps begging me 
to produce my CV.
“Well, now, we can’t have you feeling insecure!”  
This I’ll follow with a snort,
the dismissive sort.

I’ll attribute my erudite ability
of knowing more
than most
(again, a necessary humble boast)
as due to my experience,
and hence,
my authority.
I’ll then double down on the irrefutability 
of my statement, 
by inquiring, in the negative, 
“Don’t you see?” 

Any response to this, other than concurrence,
will not serve, mind you, as a deterrent
to my continued opining.
Your sighs I’ll just label as jealous whining
and turn to the room
or to those on Zoom
with a knowing glance.
This gives everyone a chance 
to shelter themselves in complicit forbearance 
of oppositional opinions—
clearly errant— 
by under-informed minions, 
speaking up, evidently, impulsively.

After this digression
in our discursive session, 
I’ll resume with my knowing stance
(offering another knowing glance)
to ensure I’ve been clear,
beholding the gathering, as if from a pulpit, 
while contentedly thinking: how fortunate
I am here. 

With interlaced fingers to cradle my cranium,
and elbows akimbo, 
I’ll take up space to the maximum, 
and tipping my chair back to teeter on two legs
while side-eyeing the talent (clearly the dregs),
I’ll deliver my wisdom with the aura of axiom, 
a method I’ve mastered to combat meeting tedium. 

Then, 
in a tonal crescendo, I’ll end. 
“Any questions?” I’ll say (shaking my head no), 
and quickly follow 
with “And so,
I think we can all agree…” 
(my head, meanwhile, nodding heartily).

After which, 
the group’s wide-eyed stares 
will appear to me
as the well-earned respect 
of a fraternity.  

from Sane Response, an autobiographical book of poetry by Molly Sargent
Available on Amazon or here!

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