Almost halfway through the month already. Wow. Sometimes it goes so fast. So today I was struggling to write. I decided to do this thing, then that, and then another thing, avoiding the writing. It wasn’t that I didn’t have ideas; I have a million ideas. It wasn’t that I have writer’s block. I am writing quite a bit. I think it’s the knowledge that I am committed to write, that I am writing because I’m expected to. Oh, I want to, yes, but…there is something that happens when you have to write, or think you have to write. Fear not, I did write. I wrote a strange, rambling poem. I’m not sure it works. It reads strangely to me. I shall post it, then tomorrow, after I sleep, I could read it again. Maybe it’ll sound different in the light of day.

WHAT I LEARNED

I don’t remember how old I was
When I learned
I must smile constantly.
I must dress to please.
I must never speak unless asked a direct question.
I must never step out of my proper place.
I must never succeed…unless it is childbearing.
I must never win.

I was taught to be dumber than a man,
Submissive to a man,
Secondary to a man,
Wife to a man,
Mother to a man,
Cook, housekeeper, and sex doll for a man,
Attractive to a man,
No one without a man.

The lessons didn’t take.

A man doesn’t want a smart woman?
Fine. I don’t want such a dumb man.
A man wants a quiet woman?
Okay…if he’ll be quiet himself.
A man prefers a good cook?
I can cook…why can’t he?
A woman who dresses feminine?
What the hell does that mean, anyway?

What a man wants is irrelevant,
Unless you are that man.
Doing what I want is not selfish,
It is what men do.
Being who I am does not make me
A shrew, a harridan, a virago,
A ball buster, a nutcracker,
A bitch.
It makes me…me.

I don’t remember how old I was
The first time I told a man
He was wrong.
The sky did not fall.
He learned something he didn’t know.
I hope I was younger than six.
But I don’t remember.