To all the men who held my hand

Do you remember me? Do you remember when you grabbed my hand for the first time? Looking back now, I see it wasn’t because you wanted to hold it, but because you were afraid you might run if there’s nothing holding you back. You said you always liked running, it kept you fit. And I thought you meant running after what you wanted. Little did I know it was exactly the opposite. The more you wanted something, or someone, the faster and further away you ran. But you came back. You always did. Wounds on your feet, bruises on your soul, you came back. 

And you had stories, about the people you met, the things you did, the fights you fought. Especially about the fights. If I’d be still young and naive, I’d think the people you fought with were all outside yourself. But I know better now. I know that every punch, every kick, every bite, was not landing on another, but on yourself. You had a man inside yourself who wanted you to become him. But you were just a boy, how could you be a man? It’s not that you didn’t want it. Oh, you did. But how? What does one need to do to become a man? Fight, of course. And that’s what you did. You fought your mother for staying, and then for leaving too soon. You fought your father for never being there, even when he was. You fought them individually, and then both at the same time. You fought your brother, your sister, your friends, and anyone who barely looked your way. But most of all you fought the man. Every day you’d get up and hear him tell you about all the things you could do and be, and remind you of who you were not yet. So you punched him. With every word, a punch followed. Sometimes a kick. But it didn’t stop him. He just kept going, even shouting. You shouted back, trying to cover his words, and somehow he was still louder.

He was especially loud when you would do something you liked. He was telling you where you could go and who you could be, but he would not tell you how to get there. And that’s all you wanted to know. How? How do you move, when your legs are stuck? How do you even get up, when your whole body is paralysed? And even if you somehow manage to get up, how do you navigate, when your vision is blurry and there is so much noise? You knew you had to find a map, but where? You had questions and, instead of answering, he kept shouting. He was walking a few steps ahead and kept pointing at things, places and people. You wanted to tell him that you don’t understand, that he needs to stop and show you the way, instead of going ahead and only show you the destination. But he wouldn’t listen. So you stopped, picked up a rock and threw it at him. Your aim was good, hit him right in the head. And there was silence for the first time in a while. You almost wanted to shout, to dance, to celebrate somehow. But then it dawned on you, Did I kill him?

So, dear man who held my hand, do you remember me? Do you remember how, while holding my hand, you dragged me through the trenches and sometimes used me as a shield? Do you remember how, with every blow you launched, your elbow grazed my face? Do you remember how, when you dropped my hand, you started running?

I do. I remember how I held the hand of a man, but felt the soul of a boy. A beautiful boy with eyes so clear and full of life. A scared boy with trembling lips and tears pouring from under closed eyelids. A confused boy who didn’t want to give up joy, yet wanted to be strong. An amazed boy who didn’t know he could have both. A curious boy who thought a man is never afraid, lost or insecure. A loving boy who wanted to care, yet he destroyed. And he will keep doing it, as long as there is no man to take the lead.

But no. You didn’t kill him. Not yet. Will you become him though?