- from Possessing The Secret of Joy by Alice Walker; pp. vii-x:
I had always got on well with the Africans and enjoyed their company, but commanding the
people on the farm, many of whom had watched us grow up, was different. With the added
experience of my safaris behind me, I had begun to understand the code of “birth, copulation and
death” by which they lived. Black people are natural, they possess the secret of joy, which is why
they can survive the suffering and humiliation inflicted upon them. They are alive physically and
emotionally, which makes them easy to live with. What I had not yet learned to deal with was
their cunning and their natural instinct for self-preservation.
African Saga, 1982
The children stood up with us in a simple church ceremony in London. And it was that night,
after the wedding dinner, when we were all getting ready for bed, that Olivia told me what has
been troubling her brother. He is missing Tashi.
But he’s also very angry with her, she said, because when we left, she was planning to scar her
I didn’t know about this. One of the things we thought we’d helped stop was the scarring or
cutting of tribal marks on the faces of young women.
It is a way the Olinka can show they still have their own ways, said Olivia, even though the
white man has taken everything else. Tashi didn’t want to do it, but to make her people feel
better, she’s resigned. She’s going to have the female initiation ceremony too, she said.
Oh, no, I said. That’s so dangerous. Suppose she becomes infected?
I know, said Olivia. I told her nobody in America or Europe cuts off pieces of themselves. And
anyway, she should have had it when she was eleven, if she was going to have it. She’s too old
for it now.
Well, some men are circumcised, but that’s just the removal of a bit of skin.
Tashi was happy that the initiation ceremony isn’t done in Europe or America, said Olivia.
That makes it even more valuable to her.
I see, I said.
The Color Purple, 1982
- pp. 3-12:
I did not realize for a long time that I was dead.
And that reminds me of a story: There was once a beautiful young panther who had a co-wife
and a husband. Her name was Lara and she was unhappy because her husband and her co-wife
were really in love; being nice to her was merely a duty panther society imposed on them.
They had not even wanted to take her into their marriage as co-wife, since they were already
perfectly happy. But she was an “extra” female in the group and that would not do. Her husband
sometimes sniffed her breath and other emanations. He even, sometimes, made love to her. But
whenever this happened, the co-wife, whose name was Lala, became upset. She and the husband,
Baba, would argue, then fight, snarling and biting and whipping at each other’s eyes with their
tails. Pretty soon they’d become sick of this and would lie clutched in each other’s paws,
I am supposed to make love to her, Baba would say to Lala, his heartchosen mate.
She is my wife just as you are. I did not plan things this way. This is the arrangement that
came down to me.
I know it, dearest, said Lala, through her tears. And this pain that I feel is what has come down to
me. Surely it can’t be right?
These two sat on a rock in the forest and were miserable enough. But Lara, the unwanted,
pregnant by now and ill, was devastated. Everyone knew she was unloved, and no other female
panther wanted to share her own husband with her. Days went by when the only voice she heard
was her inner one.
Soon, she began to listen to it.
Lara, it said, sit here, where the sun may kiss you. And she did.
Lara, it said, lie here, where the moon can make love to you all night long. And she did.
Lara, it said, one bright morning when she knew herself to have been well kissed and well loved:
sit here on this stone and look at your beautiful self in the still waters of this stream.
Calmed by the guidance offered by her inner voice, Lara sat down on the stone and leaned over
the water. She took in her smooth, aubergine little snout, her delicate, pointed ears, her sleek,
gleaming black fur. She was beautiful! And she was well kissed by the sun and well made
love to by the moon.
For one whole day, Lara was content. When her co-wife asked her fearfully why she was
smiling, Lara only opened her mouth wider, in a grin. The poor co-wife ran trembling off and
found their husband, Baba, and dragged him back to look at Lara.
When Baba saw the smiling, well kissed, well made love to Lara, of course he could hardly wait
to get his paws on her! He could tell she was in love with someone else, and this aroused all his
While Lala wept, Baba possessed Lara, who was looking over his shoulder at the moon.
Each day it seemed to Lara that the Lara in the stream was the only Lara worth having—so
beautiful, so well kissed, and so well made love to. And her inner voice assured her this was
So, one hot day when she could not tolerate the shrieks and groans of Baba and Lala as they
tried to tear each other’s ears off because of her, Lara, who by now was quite indifferent to
them both, leaned over and kissed her own serene reflection in the water, and held the kiss
all the way to the bottom of the stream.
This is the way Tashi expressed herself.
The way she talked and evaded the issue, even as a child. Her mother, Catherine, whose tribal
name was Nafa, used to send her to the village shop for matches, which were a penny each.
Tashi would be given three pennies. She would lose at least one of them. The story she would
tell about the lost penny might go like this: That a giant bird, noticing the shimmer of the coin in
the glass of water in which she’d temporarily stored the pennies for safekeeping and for
aesthetic enjoyment, had swooped down from the sky, flapped its wings so boldly that the
glass of water fell from her hand, and when next she looked, having hidden her face from the
creature for fear of its large beak and outspread wings, why—dash! No more penny!
Her mother would scold, or she’d put her hands on her hips, shake her head sadly and make a
self-pitying cry to the neighbors about this incorrigible little liar, her daughter.
We were about the same age, Tashi and I, six or seven. I remember, as if it were yesterday, my
first glimpse of her. She was weeping, and the tears made a track through the dust on her face.
For the villagers, in gathering to meet us, the new missionaries, had raised a cloud of it,
reddish and sticky in the humidity. Tashi was standing behind Catherine, her mother, a small,
swaybacked woman with an obdurate expression on her dark, lined face, and at first there was
only Tashi’s hand—a small dark hand and arm, like that of a monkey, reaching around her
mother’s lower body and clutching at her long, hibiscus-colored skirts. Then, as we drew
nearer, my father and mother and Adam and myself, more of her became visible as she
peeked around her mother’s body to stare at us.
We must have been quite a sight. We had been weeks on the march that brought us to
Tashi’s village and were ourselves covered with the dust and bruises of the journey. I
remember looking up at my father and thinking what a miracle it was that we’d somehow—
through jungle, grassland, across rivers and whole countries of animals—arrived in the village of
the Olinka that he’d spoken so much about
I saw that he too took note of Tashi. He was sensitive to children, and often stated as fact that
there could be no happy community in which there was one unhappy child. Not one! he used to
say, slapping his knee for emphasis. One crying child is the rotten apple in the barrel of the tribe!
It would have been difficult to ignore Tashi. Because though many of the faces that greeted us
seemed sad, she was the only person weeping. Yet she uttered not a sound. The whole of her
little cropped head and reddened brown face bulged with the effort to control her emotions, and
except for the tears, which were so plentiful they cascaded down her cheeks, she was
successful. It was a remarkable performance.
In the course of our daylong welcome, Tashi and her mother disappeared. Even so, my father
inquired after them. Why was the little girl crying? he asked, in his stiff, newly learned
Olinka. The elders seemed not to understand him. They shifted their robes, looked genially at
him and at us and at each other and replied, looking about now over the heads of those
assembled, What little girl, Pastor? There is no little crying girl here.
And Tashi and her mother did seem gone forever. We didn’t see them for a long time, after
they’d spent several weeks on Catherine’s farm, a day’s walk from the village. They turned up
at vespers one evening, both Tashi and her mother dressed in new pink gingham Mother
Hubbards with high collars and large flowered pockets, their faces similarly set in the look of
perplexed, instinctive wariness that characterized Catherine’s face whenever she encountered
“the Pastor,” as they all called my father, or “Mama Pastor,” as they called my mother.
We did not know that on the morning we arrived in the village one of Tashi’s sisters had
died. Her name was Dura, and she had bled to death. That was all Tashi had been told; all she
knew. So that if, while we were playing, she pricked her finger on a thorn or scraped her
knee and glimpsed the sight of her own blood, she fell into a panic, until, gradually, she
played in such a way as to take no risks and even learned to sew in an exaggeratedly careful
way, using two thimbles.
But she forgot why the sight of her own blood terrified her. And this became one of the things
the other children teased her about. And about which she would cry.
Years later, in the United States, she would begin to remember some of the things she’d told me
over the years of our growing up. That Dura had been her favorite sister. That she had been
headstrong and boisterous and liked honey in her porridge so much she’d sometimes stolen a
portion of Tashi’s share. That she had been very excited during the period leading up to her
death. Suddenly she had become the center of everyone’s attention; every day there were
gifts. Decorative items mainly: beads, bracelets, a bundle of dried henna for reddening hair and
palms, but the odd pencil and tablet as well. Bright remnants of cloth for a headscarf and dress.
The promise of shoes!
There was a scar at the corner of her mouth. Oh, very small and faint, like a shadow. Shaped
like a miniature plantain, or like the moon when it is new. A sickle shape with the points toward
her ear; when she smiled, the little shadow seemed to slide back into her cheek, above her
teeth, which were very white. While she was crawling, she’d picked up a burning twig that
protruded from the fire and attempted to put it into her mouth.
This was long before I was born, but I knew about it from the story that was often told: how
bewildered Dura had looked, as the twig stuck to her lip, and how she, instead of knocking it
away, cried piteously, her arms outstretched, looking about for help. No, they laughed,
telling this story, not simply for help, for deliverance.
Did anyone help her?
This white witch doctor scribbles, only a little, behind his desk, on which there are small stone
and clay figures of African gods and goddesses from Ancient Egypt. I noticed them before
lying down on his couch, which is covered by a tribal rug.
I think and think, but I can not think of the rest of the story. The sound of the laughter stops me
before I can come to the part about the rescue of my sister Dura. I know that the twig, ashen,
finally dropped away, having burned through the skin. But did my mother or a co-wife leap to
gather the crying child in her arms? Was my father anywhere near? I am frustrated because I
can not answer the doctor’s questions. And I feel him, there behind my head, pen poised to at
last capture on paper an African woman’s psychosis for the greater glory of his profession.
Olivia has brought me here. Not to the father of psychoanalysis, for he has died, a tired,
persecuted man. But to one of his sons, whose imitation of him—including dark hair and
beard, Egyptian statuettes on his desk, the tribal-rug-covered couch and the cigar, which
smells of bitterness—will perhaps cure me.
You have to keep us in mind, Tashi would say. And we would laugh, because it was so easy to
forget Africa in America. What most people remembered was strange, because unlike the two of
us, they had never been there.
- from The Cushion in the Road: Meditation and Wandering As the Whole World Awakens to
Being in Harm’s Way by Alice Walker; book jacket: “Just when you think Alice Walker has
empathized her way as far as any writer can go, she goes further.”—GLORIA STEINEM
- pp. 1-2 (Introduction): I have learned much from Taoist thought; it has been a comfort to me
since I read my first Taoist poem: Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass
grows by itself. By Basho, I believe. But there is also, from that tradition, this thought: A
wanderer’s home is in the road. This has proved very true in my life, much to my surprise.
Surprise because I am such a homebody. I love being home with my plants, animals, sunrises
and sunsets, the moon!
. . . . in [Korean] culture it is understood that when we turn sixty we become “eggy” (it sounds
like “eggy,” though perhaps this is not how Koreans spell it) and this means we are free to
become once again like a child. We are to rid ourselves of our cares, especially those we
have collected in the world, and to turn inward to a life of ease, of leisure, of joy. I loved
hearing this. What an affirmation of a feeling I was already beginning to have: enough of the
world! Where’s the grandchild? Where’s the cushion?
And so I began to prepare myself to withdraw from the worldly fray.
There I sat, finally, on a cushion in Mexico, with a splendid view of a homemade stone fountain,
with its softly falling water a perfect, soothing backdrop to what I thought would be the next, and
perhaps final, twenty years of my life.
And then, a miracle seemed to be happening. America was about to elect or not elect a person of
color as its president. What? My cushion shifted minutely. Then too an unsuspecting guest left
the radio on and I learned bombs were falling on the people of Gaza. A mother, unconscious
herself, had lost five of her daughters. Didn’t I have a daughter? Would I have wanted to lose her
in this way? Wasn’t I a mother—even if reportedly imperfect in that role? Well! My cushion
began to wobble.
I had friends who became “eggy” and managed to stay “eggy.” I envied them. For me, the years
following my sixtieth birthday seemed to be about teaching me something else: that, yes, I could
become like a child again and enjoy all the pleasures of wonder a child experiences, but I would
have to attempt to maintain this joy in the vicissitudes of the actual world, as opposed to the
meditative Universe I had created, with its calming, ever flowing, fountain.
My travels would take me to the celebrations in Washington, D.C., where our new president,
Barack Obama, would be inaugurated; they would carry me the morning after those festivities to
far away Burma (Myanmar), which would lead to much writing about Aung San Suu Kyi. They
would take me to Thailand, for a lovely trip up a long river, where I could wave happily at the
people who smiled back when smiled upon! They would take me to Gaza, yes. And much
writing about the Palestine/Israel impasse. To the West Bank, to India. To all kinds of amazing
- pp. 7-12 [WITNESS (On Barack Obama—LEST WE FORGET: AN OPEN
LETTER TO MY SISTERS WHO ARE BRAVE)]:
MARCH 27, 2008
I have come home from a long stay in Mexico to find—because of the presidential campaign,
and especially because of the Obama/Clinton race for the Democratic nomination—a new
country existing alongside the old. On any given day, we collectively become the Goddess of the
Three Directions, and can look back into the past, look at ourselves just where we are, and take a
glance, as well, into the future. It is a space with which I am familiar.
When I was born in 1944 my parents lived on a Middle Georgia plantation that was owned by a
distant white relative, Miss May Montgomery. (During my childhood it was necessary to address
all white girls as Miss when they reached the age of twelve.) She would never admit to this
relationship, of course, except to mock it. Told by my parents that several of their children would
not eat chicken skin, she responded that of course they would not; no Montgomerys would.
My parents and older siblings did everything imaginable for Miss May. They planted
and raised her cotton and corn, fed and killed and processed her cattle and hogs, painted her
house, patched her roof, and ran her dairy. Among countless other duties and responsibilities, my
father was her chauffeur, taking her anywhere she wanted to go at any hour of the day or night.
She lived in a large white house with green shutters and a green, luxuriant lawn: not quite as
large as Tara of Gone With the Wind fame, but in the same style.
We lived in a shack without electricity or running water, under a rusty tin roof that let in wind
and rain. Miss May went to school as a girl. The school my parents and their neighbors built
for us was burned to the ground by local racists who wanted to keep ignorant their
competitors in tenant farming. During the Depression, desperate to feed his hardworking
family, my father asked for a raise from ten dollars a month to twelve. Miss May responded
that she would not pay that amount to a white man and she certainly wouldn’t pay it to a
n****r; that before she’d pay a n****r that much money she’d milk the dairy cows herself.
When I look back, this is part of what I see. I see the school bus carrying white
children, boys and girls, right past me and my brothers as we trudge on foot five miles to
school. Later, I see my parents struggling to build a school out of discarded army
barracks while white students, girls and boys, enjoy a building made of brick. We had no
books; we inherited the cast-off books that Jane and Dick had previously used in the
all-white school that we were not, as black children, permitted to enter.
The year I turned fifty, one of my relatives told me she had started reading my books for
children in the library in my hometown. I had had no idea that such a place existed—so kept
from black people it had been. To this day, knowing my presence was not wanted in the
public library when I was a child, I am highly uncomfortable in libraries and will rarely,
unless I am there to help build, repair, refurbish, or raise money to keep them open, enter
When I joined the freedom movement in Mississippi in my early twenties, it was to come to
the aid of sharecroppers, like my parents, who had been thrown off the land they’d always
known—the plantations—because they attempted to exercise their democratic right to
vote. I wish I could say white women treated me and other people a lot better than the men
did, but I cannot. It seemed to me then and it seems to me now that white women have copied,
all too often, the behavior of their fathers and their brothers, and in the South, especially in
Mississippi, and before that, when I worked to register voters in Georgia, the broken
bottles thrown at my head were gender-free.
I made my first white women friends in college; they were women who loved me and were
loyal to our friendship, but I understood, as they did, that they were white women and that
whiteness mattered. For instance, at Sarah Lawrence, where I was speedily inducted into
the board of trustees—practically as soon as I graduated—I made my way to the campus for
meetings by train, subway, and on foot, while the other trustees, women and men, all white,
made their way by limo. Because, in our country, with its painful history of unspeakable
inequality, this is part of what whiteness means. I loved my school for trying to make me feel I
mattered to it, but because of my relative poverty I knew I could not.
I am a supporter of Obama because I believe he is the right person to lead the country at this
time. He offers a rare opportunity for the country and the world to start over, and to do better. It
is a deep sadness to me that many of my feminist white women friends cannot see him; cannot
see what he carries in his being; cannot hear the fresh choices toward movement he offers.
That they can believe that millions of Americans—black, white, yellow, red, and brown—choose
Obama over Clinton only because he is a man, and black, feels tragic to me.
When I have supported white people, men and women, it was because I thought them the best
possible people to do whatever the job required. Nothing else would have occurred to me. If
Obama were in any sense mediocre, he would be forgotten by now. He is, in fact, a
remarkable human being, not perfect but humanly stunning, like King was and like Mandela is.
We look at him, as we looked at them, and are glad to be of our species. He is the change
America has been trying desperately and for centuries to hide, ignore, kill—the change
America must have if we are to convince the rest of the world that we care about people
other than our (white) selves.
True to my inner Goddess of the Three Directions, however, this does not mean I agree with
everything Obama stands for. We differ on important points probably because I am older than
he is, I am a woman and person of three colors (African, Native American, European), I was
born and raised in the American South, and when I look at Earth’s people, after sixty-four
years of life, there is not one person I wish to see suffer, no matter what they have done to me or
to anyone else, though I understand quite well the place of suffering, often, in human growth.
I want a grown-up attitude toward Cuba, for instance, a country and a people I love; I
want an end to the embargo that has harmed my friends and their children, children who, when I
visit Cuba, trustingly turn their faces up for me to kiss. I agree with a teacher of mine, Howard
Zinn, that war is as objectionable as cannibalism and slavery; it is beyond obsolete as a means of
improving life. I want an end to the ongoing war immediately and I want the soldiers to be
encouraged to destroy their weapons and to drive themselves out of Iraq.
I want the Israeli government to be made accountable for its behavior toward the Palestinians,
and I want the people of the United States to cease acting like they don’t understand what is
going on. All colonization, all occupation, all repression basically looks the same, whoever is
doing it. Our heads cannot remain stuck in the sand; our future depends on our ability to
study, to learn, to understand what is in the records and what is before our eyes. But most of
all I want someone with the self-confidence to talk to anyone, enemy or friend, and this
Obama has shown he can do. It is difficult to understand how one could vote for a person who is
afraid to sit and talk to another human being. When you vote you are making someone a proxy
for yourself; they are to speak when, and in places, you cannot. But if they find it impossible to
talk to someone else, who looks just like them—human—then what good is your vote?
It is hard to relate what it feels like to see Mrs. Clinton (I wish she felt self-assured
enough to use her own name) referred to as a woman while Barack Obama is always
referred to as a black man. One would think she is just any woman, colorless, raceless,
pastless, but she is not. She carries all the history of white womanhood in America in her
person; it would be a miracle if we, and the world, did not react to this fact. How
dishonest it is to attempt to make her innocent of her racial inheritance.
I can easily imagine Obama sitting down and talking, person to person, with any leader,
with any woman, man, or child in the world, with no baggage of past servitude or race
supremacy to mar their talks. I cannot see the same scenario with Mrs. Clinton, who would
drag into twenty-first century American leadership the same white privilege and distance
from the reality of other lives that have so marred our country`s contacts with the rest of the
And yes, I would adore having a woman president of the United States. My choice would be
Representative Barbara Lee, who alone voted in Congress five years ago not to make war on
Iraq. That to me is leadership, morality, and courage; if she had been white I would have
cheered just as hard. But she is not running for the highest office in the land, Mrs. Clinton is.
And because Mrs. Clinton is a woman and because she may be very good at what she does,
many people, including some younger women in my own family, originally favored her over
Obama. I understand this, almost. It is because, in my own nieces’ case, there is little memory,
apparently, of the foundational inequities that still plague people of color and poor whites in
this country. Why, even though our family has been here longer than most North American
families—and only partly due to the fact that we have Native American genes—it was only
very recently, in my lifetime, that we secured the right to vote, and only after numbers of
people suffered and died for it.
When I offered the word Womanism many years ago, it was to give us a tool to use, as
feminist women of color, in times like these. These are the moments we can see clearly, and
must honor devotedly, our singular path as women of color in the United States. We are not
white women and this truth has been ground into us for centuries, often in brutal ways. But
neither are we inclined to follow a black person, man or woman, unless they demonstrate
considerable courage, intelligence, compassion, and substance. I am delighted that so many
women of color support Barack Obama and genuinely proud of the many young and old
white women and men who do.
Imagine: if he wins the presidency we will have not one but three black women in the White
House—one tall, two somewhat shorter, none of them carrying the washing in and out of the
back door. The bottom line for most of us is: with whom do we have a better chance of
surviving the madness and fear we are presently enduring, and with whom do we wish to
set off on a journey of new possibility? In other words, as the Hopi elders would say: who do we
want in the boat with us as we head for the rapids? Who is likely to know how best to share the
meager garden produce and water? We are advised by the Hopi elders to celebrate this time,
whatever its adversities.
We have come a long way, Sisters, and we are up to the challenges of our time, one of which is
to build alliances based not on race, ethnicity, color, nationality, sexual preference, or gender,
but on truth. Celebrate our journey. Enjoy the miracle we are witnessing. Do not stress over its
outcome. Even if Obama becomes president, our country is in such ruin it may well be beyond
his power to lead us toward rehabilitation. If he is elected, however, we must, individually and
collectively, as citizens of the planet, insist on helping him do the best job that can be done;
more, we must insist that he demand this of us. It is a blessing that our mothers taught us not to
fear hard work. Know, as the Hopi elders declare: The river has its destination. And remember,
as poet June Jordan and Sweet Honey in the Rock never tired of telling us: We are the ones we
have been waiting for.
And with all my love,
- Bill Weintraub: ‘I get emails from people who say, oh, I think there are people who are born with a male and female spirit.
But there's no proof of that.
And one of the things you have to ask about trendy little belief systems like that one is -- what's the impact on your own life?
Because if human beings are part male and part female -- doesn't it make sense to explore your "feminine side"?
And shouldn't you then get penetrated anally -- and learn to enjoy it?
As Robert Loring keeps saying, ideas precede action.
What you think determines how you behave.
So it matters what you believe.
I bet that most of you are pretty careful about what you eat -- what you put in your mouth.
But it never seems to occur to you to question what's going into your brain.
Yet there are ideas out there which are just as toxic as trans fats and LDLs.
Ideas like, "it's bad to be a Man."
This is from feminist writer Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple.
She's referencing, she says, an anthropologist named Perkins who studied the Swa people of the Amazon:
Man, the [Swa] say, has a destructive nature: it is his job therefore to cut down trees when firewood or canoes are needed. His job also to hunt down and kill animals when there is need for more protein. His job to make war, when that becomes a necessity. The woman's nature is thought to be nurturing and conserving. Therefore her role is to care for the home and garden, the domesticated animals and the children. She inspires the men. But perhaps her most important duty is to tell the men when to stop.
It is the woman who says: Stop. We have enough firewood and canoes, don't cut down any more trees. Stop. We have enough meat; don't kill any more animals. Stop. This war is stupid and using up too many of our resources. Stop. Perkins says that when the Swa are brought to this [Western] culture they observe that it is almost completely masculine. That the men have cut down so many trees and built so many excessively tall buildings that the forest itself is dying; they have built roads without end and killed animals without number. When, ask the Swa, are the women going to say Stop?
Indeed. When are the women, and the Feminine within women and men, going to say Stop?
So in Walker's view, Men and Masculinity are purely destructive.
Women are "nurturing and conserving" -- and the source of inspiration for men.
And without "the Feminine within women and men" -- men will destroy forever.
Is that true?
Two guys fight.
Is the latter a manifestation of "the Feminine within?"
The Hug is as MASCULINE as the Fight.
They're both Masculine.
The Fight is Masculine.
The Hug is Masculine.
No matter what Walker may think.
In point of fact, and as Patrick has said, "Masculinity in men is what keeps us alive on this planet."
Even among the Swa.
Let's assume, for a moment, that Walker's depiction of the Swa is accurate -- which I assure you it is not.
But let's pretend for a moment that it is.
The men provide wood for fires and canoes -- and probably some sort of shelter; they hunt for meat; and they make war "when necessary."
Without men, meat -- which is a huge source of calories and necessary amino acids -- can be neither hunted nor cooked; there are no canoes for transport; and the women of the tribe will be raped and their children killed by marauders.
Of course without men there wouldn't be any children -- but that's something else Walker conveniently sets aside.
When a man and a woman procreate -- is the man destructive?
Give me a break.
Walker claims the women say "Stop -- we have enough meat."
But men the world over know not to over-hunt.
Even American men.
And the Swa are subsistence hunter-gatherers; I doubt they ever truly have enough meat.
The myths that Walker is presenting -- and she's very influential -- are remarkably bigoted, biased, and FALSE.
But she's putting them forth.
"Man has a destructive nature."
We don't agree.
What we believe, what we say . . . is that Masculinity is a Divine principle and Manhood a Divine gift.
Man is Man. He ain't got no feminine in him. His glory is his masculinity, just as women's glory is their femininity. Man is whole; woman is whole.
In short, a lot of what we "know" about society are cultural creations. Man, masculinity, manhood, etc. isn't a cultural creation. Woman isn't a cultural creation. Man is man; woman is woman. He ain't no woman; she ain't no man. Man is whole and woman is whole. Manhood is divine; womanhood is divine.
Culture has separated man from himself by telling him that he has a feminine aspect, a feminine gene. Rather than recognizing that man2man is man, not feminine.
"man2man is man, not feminine"
Bill: That's the absolute heart of the matter.
Man2Man is Man.
Masculinity is a Divine principle.
Manhood a Divine gift.
Danielou: "It is only when the penis stands up straight that it emits semen, the source of life. It is then called the phallus, and has been considered, since earliest prehistory, the image of the creative principle, a symbol of the process by which the Supreme Being procreates the Universe."
Bill: The erect penis "emits semen, the source of life."
How destructive is that?
"It is then called the phallus."
Phallus is Manhood
Manhood is Man.’
“Life is better than death, I believe, if only because it is less boring, and because it has fresh peaches in it.”—Alice Walker
“I'm poor, black, I may even be ugly; but dear God, I'm here! I'm here!”—Alice Walker
“And now that I know it, I cannot un-know it.”—Alice Walker
“All History is current; all injustice continues on some level, somewhere in the world.”—Alice Walker
"As for those who think the Arab world promises freedom, the briefest study of its routine traditional treatment of blacks (slavery) and women (purdah) will provide relief from all illusion. If Malcolm X had been a black woman his last message to the world would have been entirely different. The brotherhood of Moslem men—all colors—may exist there, but part of the glue that holds them together is the thorough suppression of women.”—Alice Walker