Jasna

Feminist manifesto

This didn’t start with me—
everything that happened prior
laid down on a foundation that I stand on,
trying to remember that every freedom I have
has been inherited from ancestors
who fought for me before I even came back into being,
from ancestors who burned bras and wrote books
so that I could know the real meaning of “woman.”

I remember my mother, the only mother on the block who worked.
I was a latchkey child and it sounded like a disease
until I learned to replace my resentment with respect
because it was well-known that she always made more money than my father,
that her benefits were the ones we used,
that she wore the pants,
won the bread,
kept us comfortable.
My Nana went to college—
unheard of, she said, in that day,
which was not so many days ago.
She kept the textbooks, has them still, they make her proud,
they make me proud.

And then there’s me:
a child grown watching these women that always had their
husbands around but never needed them,
never heard the word can’t,
never heard the word weak
and still
I was too loud and bossy,
I was inappropriate and unashamed,
always doing my own thing, disillusioned by the bravado of boys,
unwilling to play dumb or act interested if I wasn’t
dumb or interested,
tattooed the symbol for woman with a fist in the middle on my ankle
and thought my meaning was clear.
“You’ll never get a boyfriend acting like that,” said my Nana
“Should I buy you a copy of The Rules?” asked my mother
I said I’d prefer her to send me all my old issues of Sassy that are in
my closet still and finally they both asked—
“Honey, are you gay?”

No, Mom, I’m just strong.
No, Nana, I’m just aware
and I always thought you were too but
this just proves how far we have to go because
I don’t hate men,
but I’m not one,
and I don’t need one to make me whole
so I guess that makes me independent
and I guess that makes me angry
that I’m missing 25 cents on every dollar I will ever make
so I set my dreams on fire,
hoping the flames will burn down
everything that tries to slow me down
in the most awe-inspiring, neon-orange that ever shot off the head of a match
because I refuse to sit pretzel-locked into myself,
not giving anything away,
I am offering all of me,
cupping my hand and slapping wood to break silence,
I need to break silence and say that will all this…
I still get so scared.
With all this,
I avoid walking alone at night
in a skirt,
shorts,
sweatpants.
I look down when I see men,
a man,
a car.
And it gets so hard to remember—
so, for myself as much as you,
I say that it has taken me 25 years
to get where I am
and it may be 25 more
until I can fully embrace my big-breasted body,
pale like sun never touched me,
soft-bellied and wide-hipped
curving to thighs that get covered with blood every month
to remind me that life can be created in me
because I’m a woman
and damn,
that’s something.

© 2003 Julie Baldock