I'm not the girl that will always have clear skin that glows, spotless without discoloration. I will not always have make-up on, or at least look like I have make-up on. I will not always feel confident without make-up on either. And that's okay. I will not always have clothes that fit me perfectly. Pants that are the right cut, or tops that flatter my figure and hide my flaws. I will not always have the money or be willing to use the money to buy new clothes. And that is perfectly sensible. My teeth are slightly crooked and don't sparkle when I smile. On that note, I rarely smile. But that is my demeanor. My nails are only occasionally painted, and when they are, become chipped only after a few days. I sing, I dance, I laugh all together, without synchrony. That is how I celebrate. I may wear the same pair of shoes for a week, without regard to how well it matches my outfit. I may not even have a perfectly put together outfit. I may mismatch colors, or re-wear the same colors or tops just because. I rarely choose fashion over comfort.
This is all me. I've spent my entire life trying do fix of all of these things, but I could not escape who I really was. Until now, I've realized it's okay to be these things.
I dared that man to come look at me still. Legs open, mouth full, I'm indulging in manhood. Yet, I could never figure out that stint in his eyes. The look of disdain. Like he had a say. Like the moment we've met, he proclaimed my right to being. He became my slave master and I became his slave. In that instantaneous moment we were bound, he gained an ounce of power, but I've lost a lifetime of strength.
Out of all the guys, it would have been you. It would have been you. The rest just didn't do it for me. They didn't see my inner strength, disguised behind my beautiful crooked teeth. That should have been it- the one that sealed the deal. We both knew what we had, and thereafter, I couldn't create that with anyone else. I still can't, and everyday I mourn a little, for it was my pride that had broke us. It was my pride that had tainted the purity, and spoiled every moment. It became so bad that it hurt to keep going, and we both strayed until we became something irrevocable.
I wish there were more strong female characters in books. Or maybe there is, but I'm just not looking in the right places, or the books that are popular do not have strong female characters in them. It never struck me until I declared myself a feminist. I recently started reading a book, and although it has caught my interest enough to WANT to keep reading it, I'm disheartened by the "main" female character. She's the object of two brothers' desires, and we get to know her primarily through the male characters' perspectives. I'm almost half way through the book, and we don't know a quarter as much about what she thinks or feels, or goals in life, than how she looks in the sun, or when she's playing the harp, or how delicate her fingers are. She's enslaved by the pharaoh as part of his personal musical troupe, so I guess she doesn't get to speak her mind much, and has little freedom to live her life. There's also the pharaoh's wife, the queen, and even she dulls me sometime. She is witty and smart, and in the second position of highest power, but is nonetheless as oppressed as a slave in her own ways as a figurehead. Sure, that is how things were like back then, you can say, but shizz...I just want one of the female characters to just say
EFF THIS! SCREW YOU PHARAOH. SCREW YOU SICK BROTHERS LUSTING AFTER THE SAME WOMAN EVEN THOUGH YOU HARDLY KNOW HER (ps- which is NOT romantic at all).
Do you know what I went through? Do you know how wretched I felt? I feel like I did not deserve to eat, that should I deny myself a basic necessity in life to attain another more essential, beauty. That everything I was, everything I struggled for, all of my life could be summed up and judged within the first seconds you glance at me. That I only existed in discrete events in which I was seen, and not any other time when it really mattered, when I was really lovely.
That I could not love myself, unless I loved looking at myself, and I could not love, unless they loved to look at me. My ego lied in my looks, and my heart even at times would rely on looks. I could not speak or stand up, unless I was given permission. Even if I was given permission, I would not allow myself. How sorry I felt for my heart, for it was the well-spring of my love, my life, all I stood for, but I could not show it to anyone, and they did not wish to see it. In turn, it turned rotten, and began to show on my already scarred face, scarred from all the rubbing, scrubbing, exfoliating, and lathers of lotions I had bought to make myself lovely. In truth I was already lovely, and I knew it, but my job, my full-time every-day every hour every minute and every second was to make people know it, and that was to make them see it. But they never admit they saw it, they would lie. And I would try harder.
My sexuality? I had to strike a dangerous balance between looking fuckable but never asking for it. Games? Why do we even have to posit love like a game. Am I a game board in which he is suppose to win at? I was set up for the impossible. I grew too tired and too fed up, so I withdrew and denied myself from human relations all together. I thought that because I was strong, powerful, and lovely, that no one would love me. To have aspirations besides cooking or doing laundry for a man was pitiful for my youth and beauty. That I was going to do that some day, as if it was a life milestone and it was only a matter of time, a given. Seemed more like prison. But no, I was pressured to force for it to happen. When I realized this, I threw my hands up because of all the things I would give up, I would not give myself up. I would not give up what I've known my whole life, me.
Goodness! I just got back from the gym. One thing I don't like about the gym is that people care about how they look. Okay, I admit I also care about how I look to some extent, but some people have to have the dopest shirt while they're pulling weights or socks that match their gym shoes. Maybe I'm just being cynical here and it's just their form of expression. I'm guilty of sporting eyeliner when I go to the gym too, but I'm not decked out from head to toe in fitness-magazine-ready-photo-shoot clothes. I'm just going to give people the benefit of the doubt and say that they do this to feel comfortable when they're out, so they can exercise without feeling self-conscious. I think it just makes people like me- who look like they just pulled whatever shirt and shorts from their closet- look bad, and that is probably why I'm pissed. AND on top of that I'm a narcissist, so I always HAVE to be one of the best-looking people in the crowd (I know...it's pathological so I'm working on it). If you want me to turn on the looks, I'll turn on the looks, but it's a waste of my time!
I want a man with fervent passion. A mind for the seduction of the intelligent. Strong jaw with cutting eyes. He will take me out, walk me home, and kiss me goodnight to reassure me. He will not rush into the relationship, but move at a comfortable pace so I never doubt the relationship or his appreciation for me. He won't just buy me things, he'll make me things with his own bare hands, sing me songs, and whisper sweet poems to me as we lay out on the beach at an evening's night. When we play games and I win, I'll tease him playfully with a triumph. But when I lose, he pounds on my head. We fight like an old married couple, with love at the undercurrent of every biting word. When his fingers clutch my hair and nails scrape at my scalp, I feel a force into the ground. I close my eyes and recall the night we went dancing. He was reluctant, but saw the look on my face and gave in. He learned the moves quick and spun me around, joy that made my eyes sparkle that night. We're dancing. He takes the lead. He pulls me in, and I draw out. My neck through his arms and I stomp my feet. His fists to my skull, and I feel a pop of my nose. My tooth rips through my lips, now engorged and warm. Palm to cheek, and knuckle to jaw. It's the same warm fluid that blots my face. I open my eyes, though barely opened, to see my broken flesh. Red, the color of love.
Dedicated to those who are trapped. I know every day is a struggle.
Feminism is not a taboo, although it has been outed that way because we live in a patriarchal society. My fellow women (and men) who haven't declared themselves feminist, look around you. You're so blind to the societal definition of a woman that you follow it without thought. Think of all the harmful and painful beauty rituals you subject yourself to. Where did those come from? Why do you do these? To become more desirable? And to what standards? Waxing/shaving, bleaching, tanning, being as skinny as possible yet having the biggest boobs possible, etc...these ideals for women come from our porn-culture, and we live in a porn-culture because we live in a patriarchal society that defends porn to be a recreation- simply a playing of "fantasies" that are in fact, harmful to women (i.e....the ever-popular RAPE PORN...really??) Men impose these ideals of what a women should be, and we follow in fear of not being branded a "woman" and not be accepted or loved. I'm tired of it. I really am. To live in a world where MEN decide the rights of my body; to let MEN decide MY standards of beauty; to let MEN pressure me to exchange my ideas for their oppressive ones.
If it weren't for my fellow feminists who enlightened me, I would still be hating my size 4 body because I'm not a size 2, or a size 0. I would still be telling myself to smile when there is nothing for me to smile about because women should be friendly and welcoming. I would NOT be questioning why our culture teaches "how not to get raped" versus simply "don't rape". I would still feel grossly insecure because I haven't had a boyfriend in 4 years and think everyone would think I'm a lesbian. Don't get me wrong, becoming a feminist did not instantly change these long-held thoughts ingrained in me since I could see and hear as an infant. But it has opened my eyes to how much CRAP women are subjected to on a daily basis. And we deal with so much crap that being aware of these things drives me insane everywhere I go.