I believe I was around nine years old when I understood that not too many men were privy to the laughter, cries, and thoughts that these women shared. I remember noticing how the women became quieter, and how their mood changed, when a man ventured into their “Slip” territory. Often a man was met with sudden silence, and he knew he was fresh meat and completely overmatched in this den of lionesses. A sudden outburst of laughter followed his exit, unless he was extremely handsome. He, too, would get out as soon as possible, but what followed was an outburst of howls, moans, and what they would do with him. Of course, being nine, I missed the sexual innuendos:

“He can place his shoes under my bed anytime!”

“He could eat my grits all day long, girl.”

“I could keep him in my basement for a long time.” (That one always scared me.)

Thinking that they must talk about me when I leave, one day I walked out and quickly come back in to catch them in the act. But I was just met with them yelling at me to “Stop opening and closing that door!” and the usual inquiry to my mother of “Stella, what is wrong with that boy?”

Over the years, I’ve found myself at ease being in and around the company of women, and I’ve gained a sacred appreciation for them. Though I have to confess, I still don’t completely understand them. That would be like saying I understand nature. The best I can do, and have learned to do, is appreciate being in their presence.

Last Thursday night, I had the honor of being in the presence of a group of women at the “Listen to Your Mother” event in San Francisco. I was chosen to give a reading of my experience of having multiple moms (“The Slip Gang”), along with eleven women also reading what turned out to be some extraordinary stories of mothers and mothering.

At the first rehearsal, I walked in not knowing I was going to be the only male in the room. When I realized this, I found myself reverting back to being in the presence of “The Slip Gang,” presenting myself for inspection. The women there were fine and had no problem with me being there. There was that awkwardness we all have, at times, meeting and greeting someone we don’t know. But like many groups of women I have been around, a sisterhood formed instantly, and I was allowed to watch the female energy work its wonder of creativity, connection, and power. I definitely felt a part of the group, as well as, an observer of feminine energy working at its best.

They didn’t place me outside their circle; it’s just what happens. And I didn’t think to try to change it. I’m aware that I can only appreciate the female energy, loves, losses, and joys. I don’t have it in my cells to know the loss of a child inside of me, or the devastation of not being able to breastfeed my child, or even the everyday movement of women and the deep relationship they have with life and family. Being in that rehearsal, and in the one that followed, was like being in nature. All I could do was appreciate the fact that I was in the presence of something greater than I was, and be careful to not say something man-stupid.

A few times I felt the difference, especially when they would affectionately call each other the “B” word. It was not a word I was allowed to use. Like the “N” word, it can only be used by the gender that it has been negatively assigned to. I knew that if I tried to use that word, there would be instant silence, and I would have had that fresh meat feeling.

The real joy was the night of the performance, when we were all feeling that nervous energy that bonded us together. I’ve performed before in my one-person show, so I was okay—and used to—having my own dressing room. But there was a moment of hearing them all talking, laughing, helping each other, that I wanted to go into their dressing room and say, “Can I hang out with you guys?” Of course, I immediately abandoned that idea, thinking it’d be misunderstood. I don’t think these women were wearing slips, and somehow, no matter how you frame it, a black man walking into a room full of half-dressed white women is not a good idea. Ever.

The best moment was right before we went on stage. We stood in a circle, wishing each other luck and getting last minute instruction. Someone read the Marianne Williamson quote that starts: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. …”  And for one brief moment, I felt connected to the female energy in that circle. It lasted only a moment because I truly know that I do not understand the feminine energy, mind, language, soul, and heart. All I can really do is appreciate it, and that is what I felt the most that night—deep gratitude for the opportunity to be in the presence of such talented, brilliant, beautiful women and thankful that I was allowed to be a part of that sacred inner circle of sisterhood.