It Will Be the Truth

As the family gathered for cocktail hour, my nephew asked me to bring him a virgin daquiri—and I answered that I could, but by the time I brought it to him, it would just be a daquiri. He said that someone my age shouldn't be making jokes about taking away virginity; it was gross. My niece said it was much worse than gross, that it was hostile to women; it was creepy, awful, a bit terrifying. Are you saying, my sister-in-law wondered, you're going to stick your dick in our drinks? Stop making those jokes. They aren't funny. They just upset people. It's a barely disguised rape joke. Not saying you don't have the right to make the joke, but you don't have right to make it without consequences, right? Who even feels like drinking anymore.

So now I hear them from the balcony where I sit with my Mojito, me chewing on the mint, them still talking about me, about my awfulness or cluelessness or hatred toward women, toward them. Are they right about me? I was making fun of myself, I thought, a joke on masculinity, as if my manliness could transform the drink just by being held in my hand. Has the world changed or just found me out, discovered a new lens to see my privilege, toxicity, rage? I hate being told what to do say, what to think, how to act, especially by these kids, who think the world is theirs and I have to change to meet their constructed vision of it. And I'm also sorry, sorry I hurt them, sorry I caused them such pain. I'll tell them that, when they come for me. Let me back in. I'm sorry. It will be the truth. I'm so so sorry.