Interlude: Crippled Wolf
In the late 1990s when the old AOL Pagan/Christian discussion board got TOSed by new “Christianist” hosts, I was invited to join the Crone Thread, a private listserv of mostly pagan, mostly women elders, folk who understand, revere and emulate the crone aspect of the Goddess.
The Crone is that feminine aspect of the Divine which, in the form of a human being past childbearing age, strives on behalf of the race to learn about and teach the terrors and blessings of mortality. She does this by facing them honestly, walking through them with eyes open, breathing deeply, and returning to tell the tale. Mary at the cross and tomb of her son was my example when I joined the Crone Thread.
Then I discovered that I had my own version of the Crone as a storytelling alter-ego. Walhydra is a curmudgeonly old witch who’s very annoyed to have been reincarnated as an aging gay would-be writer. She started channeling quasi-autobiographical tales through me, whom she dismissed as merely her amanuensis.
I took Walhydra online for the first time in 2006, my sixth year as a public reference librarian, during a training workshop on the then-new realm of social media. The first episode of Walhydra’s Porch, was called “In which Walhydra reluctantly joins the blogosphere: or, Telepathy is more genteel, but nobody listens anymore.”
Almost every episode of Walhydra’s blog starts with her bitching about something and ends with her begrudgingly acknowledging some lesson that the Goddess has been trying to teach her.
Two years after Walhydra’s virtual debut, I discovered that she has a gay twin brother named Crippled Wolf. This fellow is a down-to-earth counterbalance to Walhydra’s Sturm und Drang. I’ll share more about him in future posts.
For now, I’ll just explain that the “crippled” part of his name refers to the aftereffects of my non-paralytic polio in 1954. I’ve been very fortunate in that twenty-some years of chiropractic and tai chi have helped me to strengthen and improve the alignment and coordination of my right side.
I first met Crippled Wolf as a dream self. In the dream, Crippled Wolf is a man just entering his sagehood.
To his kitchen door comes an athletic youth of twenty or so, fleeing from werewolf hunters. Crippled Wolf's friends sitting inside at the table try to warn him away from the youth. But he knows immediately that this young man is to become one of his lovers—even though they will probably never make physical love.
The unnamed youth holds Crippled Wolf's eyes calmly, despite the danger of his flight. They need no words for Crippled Wolf to understand everything.
Before him stands a werewolf, yet almost nothing of human lore about such creatures is true. These are, in fact, wolves who have been cursed—or so it seems to them—into living as human beings, save for the night of the full moon. Only then can they return to their true forms. Only then can they remember all that they know.
"Make me one of you," Crippled Wolf whispers.
"You are one of us. Come with me."
As they flee, the full moon rises.
Needless to say that was a startling dream. Over the decades since, Crippled Wolf and Walhydra have both been teachers or muses for me, each in their own way. What follows is based on a Crippled Wolf story I published in 2006.
Earlier this week, Walhydra was listening as Crippled Wolf told her about his day working as a senior public librarian. He had left the Main Library to sub as Person-in-Charge for the afternoon at another branch.
As he crossed the street, he spied a tall, lanky young construction worker heading to lunch in the same direction.
It was the sweaty sheen of the man’s spikey hair and face which first caught his eye. Damp tee-shirt, scruffy blue jeans and work boots, his white construction helmet in one hand. A face which recalled Depression Era photos of resolute young men intent on survival.
Crippled Wolf quickened his pace so that he could watch the guy’s butt as he walked. One of the best features of men—straight or gay—who are comfortable with their manhood.
It wasn't long, merely moments, before Crippled Wolf began laughing at himself over the contrast between them.
Here he was, a gay male librarian of nearly 58 years. Short hair, wiry bronze-framed bifocals, grizzled goatee. Unbuttoned casual dress shirt, pleated-front khaki slacks and an upscale khaki "outdoors" vest (made in China), its numerous pockets full of electronic gewgaws.
On his way to play manager-for-a-day in a tiny, African-American neighborhood branch library.
Not too conscious of his own manhood at the moment, yet wearing it as he'd become accustomed to doing.
Having been trained admirably "behind the wall" during his years as a prison counselor, Crippled Wolf drew up casually beside the young man, as if by chance while on his way somewhere else. His cruising was strictly an "intellectual hornies” thing. Not to be signaled in any way, out of respect for the other man's privacy.
In that carefully neutral way he'd learned on the prison yard, he glanced at the worker, said "Hey," and gave the briefest of head nods.
The young man glanced back with an open face, said "Hey, man" back, and went on his way into the parking garage while Walhydra continued down the block.
"Ah, that was nice," Crippled Wolf told Walhydra later.
"What?” Walhydra asked.
"That was nice. I'd almost forgotten how it feels."
"Huh?"
"A simple man-to-man acknowledgement. No challenge, no posturing. Just brief eye contact, a nod, 'Hey, man,' and off to your separate chores. Nice."
"I don't get it," Walhydra wondered.
"Yes you do. He recognized me as a man—despite our obviously different worlds and roles. Saw I did the same for him. Tipped his hat, so to speak. No gender role challenges. Nothing to prove. Just 'Hey, man.' Nice."
All afternoon at the tiny neighborhood branch where he was subbing, Crippled Wolf enjoyed the slow, warm, easy pace of chatting and teasing with confident Black adults in their own element.
It was like being back in a prison dorm office—complete with broken air conditioning—hanging out with the male and female security officers.
People who knew their authority was not about their uniforms or titles, but about how they carried themselves. About how clearly and consistently they enforced the boundaries, and how uncompromising they were in respecting the inmates and demanding the same in return.
On this particular afternoon, Crippled Wolf worked and joked with a Black woman about his age. "I'm a great-gran as of last week," she laughed, showing him the baby pictures on her cell phone.
He watched with admiration as this woman shepherded customers of every generation with equal attentiveness.
Children: "Little Man, I didn't even see you over the desk when you said 'Excuse me.' You're so polite."
Teens: "Look me in the eye when I'm talking to you. Don't you look away like you're angry. I told you to share the computer with him."
Peers: "Girl, you way too cool. She and I"—turning to Crippled Wolf with a laugh—"been harassing each other for years."
Elders: "Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Hendricks. Now you have a blessed day."
Meanwhile, a male security officer with a linebacker's build and deep, patient voice alternated between keeping the boys in line ("Gentlemen, stop that language or leave") and working the print release station to make certain Mrs. Hendricks' multi-page document came out right.
Crippled Wolf sat and beamed, worked remotely on his management reports, or did chores like calling in computer problems.
"I'm just here in case someone in the chain-of-command has to take the blame," he grinned, readily deferring authority of place to these people.
A sweet afternoon with real colleagues.
And so it is.
Blessèd Be.
Image source:
“Running wolf tattoo” (10/31/2016) [personal collection].