I recently read this fascinating essay by Celeste Davis about how “like” is different from love, and that it is rare for men to like women. It ties this to a condition of liking women not being necessary, or even an impediment, to success in life and career.
It shocked me a bit. It’s sad, if true. That hasn’t been my experience. I’ve always liked women, my whole life. Since women aren’t getting enough like, I decided to write a like-letter to women. I told my wife I’m doing this and she said, “Don’t be creepy.”
I’m not going to be creepy. That’s the whole point of this!
Dear Women,
I like you and always have. Starting at the beginning, well, my beginning anyway, I have my mother. The first woman I met, she is a funny, fierce, intellectual, and spiritual woman who had to deal with some real bullshit from men, but has also known plenty of good ones. She loves her son with all her heart. She got a Ph.D and worked in academia when men expected her to make coffee and she couldn’t get a credit card because of her gender. Her first husband, decidely not a liker of women, bailed on the family and I wasn’t easy to raise. But my mom dug in and did the best she could.
I remember sitting around the dinner table with my mom and her colleague, Marigene, a professor of anthropology. We’d have long, fun, ranging discussions about life. And these women, both strong feminists, never made me feel hated or bad for being a man. But some of the things they had to put up with from men did make me feel bad sometimes, but not about myself, about the world. They taught me in my bones that one can be a strident feminist without being a hater of men. This is a nuance, that doesn’t even feel like a nuance to me. It feels like a truism. But somehow it seems lost in the discourse these days.
At 15, my first spiritual advisor, a sponsor in a recovery group, was a very big lesbian named Claudia. She would talk to me in her kitchen while she stirred goulash or chili or whatever meat stew she was making. She’d listen patiently and dispense good advice. She was kind and tough. We were often joined by her friend, Carol, who was also more than twice my age. Carol once said, “I’ve quit everything I’m supposed to quit but I just can’t stop fucking bikers.” Carol and Claudia treated me like a human being, which was better than I felt at the time. And I can’t leave out Mary.
Mary listened to me too and gave advice and gave me permission to not know what the heck I was doing. I’d tell her, “Mary, I don’t know what I’m doing,” and she’d look at me with this expression on her face that only a woman can have, an expression of gentle compassion that also knows that your problems are sillier than you realize, and she’d say, “I know.” She was a natural at emotional de-escalation. Pure calm.
There were woman I admired who I didn’t know. I had a crush on Edie Brickell, a singer, who had a cute voice and sung about deep thoughts. I also loved the Indigo Girls. That’s woman power right there. I’ve always been a fan. Lesbians in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s were very earnest when everyone else was being ironic. At least that’s how I remembered it. They weren’t afraid to give a shit about what mattered and to not give a shit about what didn’t matter. Back in the ‘80s, you knew you were going to get the unvarnished truth when you met a lesbian wearing a fanny pack and sneakers. Solid, sensible, sincere.
When I was 21, a hippy girlfriend showed me a statue of the Venus of Willendorf. It blew my mind. The images of women I saw held up for adoration had been in ads and on music videos, and they did not look like this goddess.
I learned that the image I saw was a statue that was nearly 30,000 years old from Europe. The idea of worshiping this fertile figure, (if that’s what it was for) of seeing the divine in the female form, was a powerful moment for me. I realized how much we miss when our image of any gender is skin deep. That Venus of Willendorf still speaks to me. “Poetry, life, and love are my gifts,” she whispers, “learn with your heart,” she sings.
My wife, Noriko, is a wonderful, kind, woman whose beauty radiates from her heart and shines with a mischievous elegance that stuns me daily. Her spirit is very strong. She manages to be patient without being a doormat. She’s honest. Smart. Funny. She’s a peach. Her mom, the original peach, is just as sweet. Men can have all these qualities, and I love it when they do. But women have these qualities in a womanly way. Kindness, love, and patience, are universal, but in men and women they’re like the same notes, played on different instruments.
I still like women who sing. Siri and Spotify and figured this out and they feed me a constant stream of Allison Kraus, Japanese Breakfast, Big Thief, Emmylou Harris, and Phoebe Bridgers. I like sad girl singers. I don’t know why.
The church I go to had a little flap years ago when we started alternating the genders in prayers. Most folks were fine with it, but a couple of old guys were upset.
“Why?” I asked. “Why not say ‘she’ instead of ‘he’ now and then?”
“It’s just not traditional.”
“But what does God want, do you think?”
The gentleman looked at me as if I had just asked an utterly irrelevant question.
“Oh, I think he’s out there somewhere.” He waved his hands around.
“Ah, I see.” I smiled. “I think she’s in here with us, right now.”
Thank you, women, for being you,
Sean Sakamoto
Next week, a like-letter to men.
Loving your “Liking” — entirely uncreepy!
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.