Poetry. Feminism. Dharma.
Ask me what I mean
when I tell you I'm a feminist.
"Bra-burning
excuse-making
man-hating
harpy!"
That's too easy.
That's a trope.
I mean I broke
free from the ideas
forced in youth:
That a woman's purpose
is to love and support
a man. Cannot
bear his own children
(so you must)
Cannot be his own
"helpmate"
(so you must)
God created man to rule
and to provide.
A woman's place
is by his side --
Complementing.
Complimenting.
Only --
Years passed. No one's
life was less without me
in it. I had failed
my Woman's role.
But was it me? Or
could it be
the job itself?
I did not ask for consignment
to this shelf, but
learned to grow,
expand, and
thrive;
question teachings,
become my own provider
and the chief decider
of my fate.
Got drunk off knowledge
of Good and Evil
without a man to tell me
how it tasted
or that I was a Woman wasted.
They say that we are more
than the sum of our parts.
But what about
when some of our parts
have been taken,
forced,
forsaken
to the whims of others?
I tell you I'm a feminist
because I mean
no man will own me,
tell me what I can and cannot do
for his pleasure;
Stick his hands in places
I don't want them,
tell me to honor my betters,
elders,
leaders
while they take the pieces
of me.
Until you've walked in Women's shoes,
been paid a fraction of your worth,
inhabited the dearth of safety,
sanctity,
selfhood,
Don't tell me that I'm
mad for wanting more
For wanting Equal,
to make the calls
for my own Self.
Not for you.
Not for all men.
It's not a sin
to embrace the radical idea
that my dharma
rivals yours.
That when we divvy up the chores
I will cook you dinner
because I love you,
but not because I'm meant to.
These are the things
you'd know by now
if you'd ever asked me
what I mean when
I say that I’m a feminist.
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