Women's Writes - Works

Tonight I have nothing to say.
The shape of the world is strange.
The smell of the world is different.
The taste of the world is bitter.
Tonight I have nothing…nothing.     

Once upon a time…that was the story she heard as a little girl. Once upon a time, there was a woman…a great woman, a tall woman, a woman who had everything. Once upon a time, a woman ran for president, and actually got votes. In fact, some rumors claimed she got more votes than the male candidate.

A poem about him…that special man. You know, the one we all wish we never met.

The pundits have determined that the fight is between the middle-of-the-road and the radical. Biden and Klobuchar represent the first; Warren and Sanders represent the second. One woman, one man in each camp. The pundits reporting on the South Carolina primary advised Warren and Klobuchar to withdraw, to allow Biden and Sanders to fight it out for the nomination, throwing their voters into one or the other camps. This makes sense, if you think about it, but…wait, what?

It was midnight. The office was dark, except for the small light burning at her desk. The last page…the last paragraph…the last word. It was done. Lisa tried to remember how many days she’d been working on this, but her brain seemed frozen from exhaustion. She flipped off the light, slid her feet back into the shoes under her desk, and escaped at last, ready for bed.

Kathleen locked the door of her office for the last time, resisting the urge for one last look around. There wasn’t anything left to see. All her things, her special touches accumulated over the years, were packed and in her car. It was just a bare office now, a desk and some assorted bookshelves and cabinets, ready for her predecessor. If she started down nostalgia lane, she would never make the party. It wasn’t good to be late when you were the guest of honor. Everyone would be waiting.

The sound of the guns grew closer. The cannons in the distance still roared, but more frightening were the close battles. Who was winning? The small hut shook with the force of the explosions that hit too close for comfort, and the women clapped their hands over their ears to protect them from the sound, so loud it hurt. Somewhere in the huddle, a child began to cry, her wails joining the general noise surrounding them. Annalee motioned to the girl’s mother; she needed to keep the child quiet.

Whitney stood out in a crowd, and she knew it. At six foot three, people noticed her. No matter how she tried to hide, everyone saw her. Scrunching down only made her height more obvious. Today, though, no one looked her way. She moved into the lobby with a confident swing in her step, hands hanging at her sides, without a single whistle or wow, look at that woman escaping anyone’s lips.

Getting the idea of making it part of the continually swelling Feminazi cycle gave me the ability to get it written. The impetus was seeing too many plays where the idea of surrogacy was presented as some sort of beautiful thing that some middle class woman did for her middle class friend, when the reality is much worse. Often the women are poor, and need the money. Feminazi comes out better than many of them do because she has a support system that can help her out, but it still isn’t a particularly healthy or desirable situation for a woman. So I wanted to tell the story more…realistically. I now present for you: Feminazi has a baby.

Badger was late today. Where was he? She was getting hungry, and she knew she wouldn’t get dinner until he was home. He liked to eat dinner with her. He said she made him happy. He was such a happy Badger now that he had Hope, that’s what he always said to her. She hoped nothing was wrong to make him an angry Badger. Sometimes when he was angry, he forgot himself and hurt her. But when he was a happy Badger, everything was good.

Maybe today, a poem. Maybe today I’ve been thinking about a lot of things that have been happening to me lately…and a lot of things that have happened to other women I know. Maybe today, I can ask questions that will actually have answers. Or maybe not.

Her hiding place had been discovered. What was she going to do now? She held her breath; the footsteps passed by. He hadn’t found her. She flattened her body smaller and tried to imagine herself squeezing through the crack at the back of the room, small, smaller, small enough…no, of course she couldn’t. That was ridiculous. But she couldn’t sit here all day, either. Sooner or later, if he kept opening doors and looking under furniture, he would discover her.

A priest is seated in one side of the confessionals. He rises, and moves out of the confessional. A shadowy figure sneaks up behind him and stabs him. He dies.

Oh, God, he said it. Most of the men left it unsaid, but he had to go there. The lamest line he could have started the conversation with, and he had to reach for that one, stupid phrase. The phrase she hated most in the entire world. She had no idea how to answer such a question. Should she deny she was pretty? Or should she try to explain it away, to explain that pretty women could be smart, talented, capable? Or just…make a joke? That last was impossible. She had never been able to think of a good joke to answer that question.

Without him, she’d had some wonderful times. She thought things would only get better with him. How could she have been so wrong? Her life, so stable, so ordered, so rational, was now the biggest mess she could imagine. Nothing he did worked out, and he was so good at leaving the messes for her to clean up.

Men were definitely in the minority in this waiting room. Taking a quick inventory, I determined that men made up less than ten percent of the waiting group. Young women were scattered around the group, mostly alone or with another woman. Many of the women were accompanied by older women, perhaps their mothers. A few women waited with women their own age, and it was difficult to determine which was the patient and which the friend. The few men who were there shifted their weight uncomfortably, feeling out of place in this congregation of women. This was a place meant for women, and their nervous energy showed they understood that.

A poem about the United Nations? And Saudi Arabia? What in the world can she be thinking?

The entrance to the tunnel was her only way out. She clawed at the sides, hoping to widen the space because it was too small for her to move forward any further. She worked furiously, not caring that the rocks were ripping her hands to shreds, not noticing the dirt filling her mouth and eyes. The more she worked, the narrower the tunnel seemed to become. Still she dug and clawed, hoping to move forward at last.

Most people are aware of Jacob as the man who worked fourteen years to earn the wife he wanted, battled an angel, and gave a coat of many colors to his son Joseph. But most people are not aware of Dinah, the daughter of Jacob. In fact, when I discussed this play with a friend of mine, told her what I was writing, she denied that any such story existed. Most of the plays I’ve written in this series are met with the same disbelief. “Nope, no such story. I’ve read the Bible, and I never saw it. So not there.” If you doubt my veracity once reading this story, go get your Bible off the shelf, blow off the dust, and open it to Genesis 34. I think you’ll find…well, the story of a woman, and how the world responded to her in the brief time they bothered to notice her.