EVERY MAN HAS A MOTHER
Every man has a mother.
So make it make sense.
Why are you a monster in the house
and an angel outside?
Why do you smile at everybody else’s woman,
but come home
and make yours afraid?
Why do you speak of women
like they are garbage,
like they are objects,
like they are something to use,
to conquer,
to discard?
Make it make sense!
because you came from a woman.
You did.
You once called somebody Mommy.
You once reached for a woman
because you were hungry.
“Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“Mommy, I’m tired.”
“Mommy, hold me.”
“Mommy, I want to sleep.”
You once knew the warmth of a woman’s arms
before you knew
the hardness of the world.
You knew her body
before you knew the word “alpha.”
You knew her embrace
before you learned
to call tenderness weakness.
You knew her tears
before someone taught you
to pretend you didn’t have any.
So tell me,
when did you forget?
When did you become a man
and decide
everything feminine
was beneath you?
When did compassion become weakness?
When did love become something
to dominate
instead of something
to protect?
And please
don’t stand in front of me
beating your chest,
saying, “I’m an alpha male.”
Alpha?
Alpha of what?
Because if you’re going to use God’s language,
then use it correctly.
Alpha and Omega
the beginning and the end
belongs to One.
Not you.
Not me.
Not the loudest man in the room.
Not the one who needs everyone
to know he’s in charge.
Look at Jesus
who listened,
who healed,
who had compassion
when a mother cried out.
That is strength.
Not noise.
Not control.
Not fear.
Every man has a mother.
Every man was carried by a woman.
Every man entered this world
through a woman.
Every man, at some point,
needed a woman’s body
just to survive.
Before you could lift weights,
she lifted you.
Before you could protect anyone,
she protected you.
Before you knew masculinity,
you knew comfort.
Before you said, “I’m a man,”
you were saying,
“Mommy.”
So don’t tell me
you don’t understand a woman’s pain.
You’ve seen a woman cry.
Maybe your mother cried.
Maybe she didn’t.
Maybe your father loved her.
Maybe he didn’t.
Maybe you grew up in peace.
Maybe you grew up in violence.
But hear me clearly
your history
does not give you permission
to become someone else’s nightmare.
Your father’s behavior
is not your destiny.
Your mother’s suffering
is not your inheritance.
And your wounds
do not give you permission
to wound a woman.
So when you call her stupid,
remember
a woman taught you your first words.
When you call her ugly,
remember
a woman held you
before you even knew what beauty was.
When you call her worthless,
remember
a woman once believed
you were worth everything.
When you treat her like she’s disposable,
remember—
you once depended completely
on a woman’s love.
So make it make sense.
How did the little boy
who cried, “Mommy, hold me,”
become the man who says,
“I don’t care if she cries”?
How did the little boy
who needed tenderness
become the man
who mocks it?
How did the little boy
who needed protection
become the man
who makes a woman feel unsafe?
Make it make sense.
You cannot spend your childhood
calling her Mommy
and your manhood
calling her trash.
You cannot be raised by a woman
and spend your life
trying to prove
women are beneath you.
You cannot erase the woman
who made you
and still pretend
you’ve forgotten
where you came from.
Every man has a mother.
Maybe she’s still alive.
Maybe she’s gone.
Maybe you speak to her.
Maybe you don’t.
Maybe she held you
when nobody else did.
Maybe she broke your heart.
Maybe she did both.
But somewhere
in your beginning,
there was a woman.
And before you became
the man you are today,
you were
somebody’s son.
So before you call yourself Alpha
remember your beginning.
Before you demand submission
remember your dependence.
Before you raise your voice
at a woman
remember the voice
you once cried out for.
“Mommy.”
I don’t need to call you Alpha.
I don’t need to crown you anything.
I just need you
to remember
where you came from.
Every man has a mother.
Maybe—just maybe
if you remember,
you will remember
how to treat
the woman
who came after her.
So I’ll ask you again
Make it make sense.
By Joan A.Roberts
