The Rent Men Owe

There’s a cost men must pay to occupy certain spaces, particularly those designed and maintained for women's safety and community. Call it rent, call it dues, call it tax; it doesn’t matter. What matters is that this cost is real, it is necessary, and it is overdue. Men often ask why there's such a requirement. The answer is simple: we built the unsafe world women must navigate daily. We created the danger. If we want entry into the safety women have carved out, we must pay what’s owed.

Below are three stories, parables really. They are fictional, their characters imaginary, yet each holds truth. They’re about men, spaces, and the moments when the tax comes due.

The Guest Who Stayed Too Loud

Cass was enthusiastic. He arrived at the Riverwood Housing Co-op full of ideals, charm, and energy. Quickly, he became a fixture at meetings and events. He spoke often, passionately echoing the values he thought everyone shared.

Initially, the co-op members, mostly women, welcomed his voice. He was articulate, informed, and seemed genuinely committed to their causes. But slowly, subtly, Cass began dominating conversations. He often spoke on behalf of women without asking their consent, believing he was defending them.

One evening, Mira, a longtime co-op member, gently intervened during a meeting. "Cass, maybe we could hear from Elena herself. It’s her story."

Cass bristled, but said nothing immediately. Later that night, he vented privately, accusing Mira of undermining him. "I’m on their side," he told himself. He became defensive, and soon his private resentment spilled into public conflict. He accused Mira of jealousy and gatekeeping. Others in the group felt forced to pick sides.

Eventually, some members left. The community fractured. Cass never intended harm, yet the damage was done because he couldn't relinquish control.

Cass believed access granted him authority. He had entered a sanctuary and rearranged the furniture without permission. The tax he owed was humility, listening, stepping back. Instead, he clung stubbornly to his voice and drove others away.

Being allowed in doesn’t mean taking over. True leadership in women-centered spaces is not measured by how loudly you speak, but by how willingly you listen.

The Coach Who Stayed Quiet

Tomas coached a local women’s basketball team. Young and charismatic, he was admired by both players and parents. Lena, his star athlete, trusted him deeply, even relying on him as a mentor.

One evening after practice, Lena approached him nervously. She confided that Coach Reddin, the head coach, had begun crossing boundaries. Subtle comments had become persistent. Text messages arrived late, intrusive and unsettling. "I don't know what to do," she told Tomas, eyes filled with fear and embarrassment.

Tomas paused. He believed Lena but considered the consequences. The team was doing well, and Lena was close to earning a scholarship. Public conflict could jeopardize everything. He urged caution. "Let's not escalate things right now," he said quietly. "I’ll keep an eye on it."

Weeks passed. Lena’s performance faltered. Her joy vanished. Tomas saw the change but hoped it would resolve itself. Eventually, Lena’s friend convinced her to speak out. When the story broke publicly, the outrage spread fast. Reddin was immediately suspended.

Tomas’s response? Indignation, but not for Lena. "They’re painting me as if I did nothing," he complained bitterly. "I didn't harm anyone."

Yet that was precisely the issue. Tomas’s silence had shielded Reddin. His reluctance to act was complicity. His responsibility wasn't just to coach basketball but to protect the trust placed in him by Lena and every other young woman on the team.

Silence isn’t neutrality; it’s consent. When you’re trusted with someone else's safety, silence becomes betrayal. True protection demands risking discomfort, status, even stability, because that’s what leadership requires.

The Library Circle

Dez loved Wednesday evenings at the community library. The weekly philosophy discussion group had become his sanctuary, a thoughtful space mostly attended by women. June, the librarian and discussion leader, guided conversations skillfully, ensuring respectful dialogue.

Wanting to share the experience, Dez invited his friend Omar. Omar was intelligent, witty, and loved debate. Initially, Omar’s presence added energy. But gradually, his style became intrusive. He interrupted, redirected discussions toward himself, often dismissing others' perspectives.

Several women quietly voiced their discomfort to Dez. He hesitated. Omar was a friend, after all, and Dez wasn't sure the issue warranted confrontation. He brushed off their concerns, convinced they misunderstood Omar’s intentions.

The breaking point came when Omar openly dismissed June during a discussion about gender ethics. The group fell silent. Dez suddenly saw clearly what had been happening, the disruption, the disrespect, and his complicity through silence.

The next Wednesday, Dez arrived early. He stood awkwardly before the group and spoke plainly: "Omar won’t be joining us anymore. That was my mistake. I didn’t listen soon enough, and I'm sorry."

He lost Omar’s friendship, paying the price of discomfort and estrangement. But the circle regained its safety. June’s leadership restored the trust. The tax Dez paid wasn't heroic or dramatic. It was simply acknowledging the damage done and quietly making amends.

Leadership isn’t always loud declarations or public actions. Sometimes, it's the quiet humility of putting principle over personal relationships. Protecting safe spaces requires sacrifice. If nothing is lost, nothing meaningful has been paid.

The Tax Is Not the Problem

These three parables are not about three extraordinary men, nor are they cautionary tales meant to demonize individuals. They're about moments every man will encounter. Moments when privilege must be checked, power relinquished, and comfort sacrificed to maintain the safety and integrity of women-centered spaces.

The tax isn't there because men are unwelcome. It’s there because trust and safety require active effort and accountability. It exists because the privilege we carry into these spaces was not earned. It was granted by a society built for our advantage. That advantage has harmed women in countless ways. We owe a debt.

When you step into a space women have created, understand this clearly: it isn't yours to own. You can't rearrange it to suit yourself. You can't silently allow harm because it's easier or more convenient. And you can't maintain friendships at the expense of the safety and comfort of others.

So yes, the tax is real. It isn’t punishment; it’s payment on a debt we owe for the world we helped build. If you want to stay in the spaces women carved out for safety, you pay. No debate. No discount. No delay.