Women's Writes - Works

“No, I’m a goldfish. A genie granted me one wish, and I told her I wanted to be a human woman for just one night. I was tired of drinking nothing but water. I will turn back into a goldfish as soon as curfew arrives.” She turned her back on him.

The funeral had been…surreal. People Dawn hadn’t seen in years coming up to console her. For what? She hadn’t seen her mother since she was eighteen. Mother never called, and Dawn never called. They didn’t have anything to say to each other. They each nursed their own wounds and didn’t share their pain with anyone. Until the day Mother reached out to Sheila, her best friend that she drove away five years ago, told her never to come back. Sheila arrived at the house to find Mother hanging from a hook in the kitchen. She was too late. All she could do was be with her as the ambulance took her to the hospital where she died.

Nevertheless, she persisted.
They told her no, you can’t vote.
Nevertheless, she persisted.
Now she can vote.

DR. K: And in conclusion, my research has demonstrated that there is clearly an unconscious bias when reviewing female resumes. The tendency to call back those with male names while rejecting identical resumes with female names is so far above the level of chance that there is little reason to doubt the unconscious sexism. This bias is compounded when the name on the resume suggests that the woman is a person of color. When resumes are reviewed blind, the disconnect between the number of men called for interviews and the number of women called for interviews disappears, and people of color are as likely to get called for an interview as white males. My suggestion is that all human resources reviews are conducted blind until such time as society has been able to adjust these biases. In this way, we will be able to determine if the reason women are more poorly represented in certain fields is an inherent feature of being a woman, or if it is a culturally determined obstacle placed in the way of women. This would also have the effect of helping to rectify the often unconscious bias against people of color.

I am the beneficiary of patriarchal culture.
Men put me on a pedestal.
Men worship at my feet.
Men work long hours to feed and clothe me.
I do not have to work for myself.

Ever since she was a little girl, this was the world she wanted. The world of high powered deals and fast-moving business. She went to work with her father and watched as the men in expensive suits made things happen, and she fell in love. Her whole education had centered around preparing her to enter the world she felt instinctively was where she belonged. Now she was here. Only twenty-five, newly minted MBA, top of her class, with three job offers even before she graduated. She took the one that seemed the best fit.

One thing I did learn a long time ago about being a woman: whatever you choose, whether it is how you dress, your hairdo, your shoes, your occupation, your housework, even your name, you will be wrong. There will be someone on hand to say no, you’re doing it wrong. You are too feminine. You are not feminine enough. You are too smart. You aren’t smart enough. You are too pretty. You are not pretty enough. You are just…wrong.

A day.
One day.
One out of 365.
Our day.
My day.

She clutched her books to her chest and didn’t look to the left or right as she tried to find her first class. She hoped she wouldn’t have to ask anyone; they all looked…cruel. Unfriendly. She heard catcalls and whistles as she charged through the hallway.

The men pawed through the rest of the stuff. Coins lying loose in the bottom of the purse, the book she was reading, the book she lost before she finished reading it, three photographs of Kaitlin’s dog, and…the man picked up the box of tampons, realized what they were, and dropped them as if they burned him. “Eww!”

He wanted her job, and it would be easy for him to get it. Ever since he started, Angela looked over her shoulder, watching, waiting, expecting the ax to fall on her head. He was everything the company looked for in an executive…young, tall, muscular…he looked the part. She could hear them saying it behind her back. “Straight from Central Casting.” She’d heard that so many times…and they knew she heard it. They meant her to hear it.

Emily sat. Yes, she did mind, but none of her protests in previous meetings had led to anything other than a chastisement that she shouldn’t talk so much…yeah, she just said eleven words…and that she needed to allow the men on the team an opportunity to express their ideas. Except…Caleb wasn’t expressing his ideas. He was expressing her ideas. And doing it badly. He explained the reorganization plan, but he got it twisted around and backwards. She would be sent back to her desk to ‘work on it some more and see if you can make it actually work’.

If I had a dollar
For every time someone
Grabbed my ass –

I cast a vote.
Not my first.
I cast a vote,
My first.

You tell me to be patient.
Things will come in time.
Nothing can be rushed,
And everything has its day.

A text from my mother reminded me my time was running out. Oh, she didn’t nag or anything. She was just asking what I was writing. I dashed off a flippant reply and kept my eyes on the road. An exit announced a town…and that’s what it said. A town, 5 miles. I checked the map. There was no town listed. It must be small. Okay, I’ll give it a shot. If there was nothing, I would be back on the highway in no time.

Burglar, her cat, stared in confusion as she threw the magazine across the room. She resisted the urge to leap after it and stomp on it, strangle it. “It’s just paper and ink”, she reminded herself. No, she’d really like to strangle the person who wrote the article, the one suggesting women depart clinical medicine for the world of alternative medicine. The article explained that alternative contained the essence of the feminine, the spirit of the divine mother goddess that lurks in all women, and that evidence-based medicine – the article called it “patriarchy medicine” – was a trap to lure women into the patriarchal, imperialist, colonialist western lie.

SHE is lying on the sofa, face down, hands dangling. She is asleep…or is she stoned? It’s hard to tell. Empties surround her – empty perfume bottles, empty nail polish bottles, empty compacts, empty make up cases. She has clearly been on a binge.