I am proud to be a woman.
I’m proud to “fuss” over small details,
like my eyebrows, or the way you drive.
I’m proud of the woman who came before me.
The one who refused to lie down,
refused to stay down
despite how often
she was pushed there.
What I’m not proud of
is the self-defense manual we’re assigned at birth,
teaching us that unless we’re armed,
we are to blame for the harm we are dealt.
That I feel more akin to a shapely plastic mannequin,
than the human men I work with.
Because I know that just like me,
she’s probably been the target of sexual insinuation.
She’s been tossed about, placed below a man’s belt
with laughter all around.
Because that’s all they can imagine
she’s good for.
Not caring that their baiting
perpetuates centuries of our suffering.
“I’m sorry”, our hail mary,
a way to avoid the next beating.
“I’m sorry”, the only currency
they accept outside of our bodies.
“I’m sorry”, what they want to hear
when we dare to redefine beauty.
“I’m sorry”, but
I’m not.
I’ve heard enough.
Enough of being called “sweetie”
by old men who shove sugar cubes in our lips,
like a treaty, signaling we’ve gotten too salty for their tastes.
And when they don’t assault us, we praise them.
As if that isn’t the bare minimum.
Enough of being expected to smile because we
“look prettier that way.”
Of the connotation behind “resting bitch face”,
I like to think of it as an adaptation, anyway.
Much like the batesian butterfly,
who mimics poison in its wings,
I, too, aim to ward off predators.
Enough of, even with our blades drawn,
fists clenched with the most
jagged thing in our bags,
still being followed and yelled at
for four more blocks.
Enough of “how was I to know?
who could tell she was uncomfortable?”
Enough of co-workers and customers
laying their hands upon our lower backs,
our asses, our breasts;
commenting on our shapes, our weights.
There, in a place where we can’t escape
without foregoing our already lessened pay.
Enough of breaking our generational backs
bending backward, twisting, fracturing.
All so a few of the good ones can understand,
so that maybe they evolve.
We scream as a collective so a few are heard,
constantly having to prove our worth.
Yet they demand our warmth, our comfort,
our nurture, our refuge.
We are not their fucking cocoons.
And why, like clockwork,
Does fighting for equal ground signal a witch hunt?
Before you burn me for whatever chord I’ve struck,
for “pushing my luck”,
I am not talking about all men.
I’m talking about him;
the one with the hungry eyes,
animal pools shining in them.
Hiding behind the brittle mask of “masculinity”,
the one trying to convince us to take responsibility
for his inability to see his sickness.
The one who guts young girls, palms outstretched,
insisting “she was asking for it!”
The poltergeist on every dark corner of our streets,
prowling for what he thinks belongs to him.
That feeling of pitch blackness, visual senses dimming,
knowing his outstretched hands are gripping
just inches away from our necks.
He hides behind the disguise of congressman,
leader, lover, family man, “nice guy”.
He laughs in the face of our oppression,
a polished shoe planted firmly at our backs,
licking his lips and obsessing over our soft skin,
insisting our screams for equality are
“asking for too much.”
“Look at everything I’ve let you have,
little girl, isn’t that good enough?”
No.
Because my trans sisters are dying in the streets.
Because my sisters of color are still treated like exotic game,
tokened and then tossed away.
Their sexuality demonized by the very men
who fetishize them.
They are not your splash of variety.
And there is no such thing as equality
when we still have to convince the law
that we should have control of our own bodies.
Half a century later and we are still trying to row and wade
through these subjugated swamps that are thick,
sticky with the blood, sweat, and tears
of the women who died for the right to choose.
We are not equal
when even our nipples are illegal;
except, of course,
when they’re selling beer and magazines.
When “Feminist” is a slur,
and plagiarizing our hard work is status-quo.
And when we brush aside their consolation prize,
and throw it to our undertow,
they scream that “F” word with contempt.
Enraged that we no longer consent to
living in their shadow.
