Day nine, and the end of the second trinity, we consider courage. I am of the male sex, but I have pretty strong gender dysphoria, generally being frightened and repulsed by the brash and ballsy archetype of a Real Man. Having had many real men hurl this epithet at me, I decided to own it, feminist that I am, and began, only half in jest, to self identify my gender as Proud Pussy (LGTBQIAPP?). I’ve been beat up a handful of times, but never had a fist fight. I’ve loved and respected many women, but never thrown down to protect their honor, or anyone else’s for that matter. I have though stepped into many dangerous and difficult situations to make, repair, or preserve something I loved.
A bit over 30 years ago I became an orphan. Thanks to my mom’s wise boyfriend and business manager who had bought her a life insurance policy, my older sister and I each got a benefit large enough to build houses for ourselves and our families. We went in together to buy an 8 acre parcel in Topanga, a hip little community in the Santa Monica Mountains just NW of LA. It consisting of two lots at the end of about half a mile of rutted dirt road named appropriately, Paradise Lane. Once we had spent half of our inheritance on the vacant land, the die was cast and there was no way back.
Arrogant polymath that I am, we resolved to build the houses ourselves, and we bought an old trailer, a tipi, a shipping container to store our belongings, and moved onto the land. I was actually pretty terrified, often waking in a panic from nightmares of collapsing foundations, burning framing, and crushed children. By the time, three years later, when we were actually allowed by the LA County Geology Section, (unbeknownst to me involved in a bitter and complex lawsuit involving a landslide in Malibu), to start building, the camping tents that had served as our son’s bedrooms had rotted away around them, and there were three more trailers, to more large tents now housing nine of us. We had also spent the bulk of the remainder of our inheritances on geologists, engineers, architects, permit fees, backhoes, bulldozers and drill rigs. But we had the land and an approved set of plans allowing us to take out a stupidly enormous and expensive construction loans, which we had agreed to repay in 12 months with the proceeds of our permanent mortgages.
My terror became a morning ritual. I would get out of bed glance at my 6 page todo list, get a knot in my stomach, and want to just climb back into the often frigid tipi to hide, but I was way past being able to hide from it, and just had to white knuckle it forward. Building three houses on a difficult hillside lot entailed what felt like and endless and impossible succession of insurmountable problems and dilemmas, all under a ticking clock. Sometimes I would get stood up, deer-in-the-headlights terrified three or four times in a day as some crisis, be it bureaucratic, logistical, or technical, jumped up in front of me and stopped me in my tracks. All could do was take a few breaths and shake it off. I guess it was the hounds of failure snapping at my heels, the potential disappointment of my family who had already braved two winters in our provisional little encampment, along with their encouragement and faith in me that kept me getting back up and pressing forwards. I guess I was sort of the pussy that just keeps on keeping on until the baby’s big old head pops on out.
There are probably real men who are confident and competent and never feel the fear that I do, but I suspect most of them that exude that swagger are faking it until they make it. That works, and I won’t begrudge them, maybe courage is such an integral part of being a Real Man that they’d never even think of it as a value to pursue. Maybe they’re all Honor Strength and Duty instead of Truth Love and Courage. Maybe these are the pussy’s principles, but I’m as proud of them as I am of my pussydom.
Happy Courage
HOLLY DAYS 