He drawls on
Picks the same three
All male, unlike me
The girls sit in silence
Watching as he
Does the problem
And another he does the next
But never me

I sit there
raising my hand because
When I call out
it's wrong
But when they call out
it's cool

Then I'm told
To participate more
I raise my hand most of the time
I'm called on least of the time

Sexism starts young
When boys expect all the attention
and girls know they will be unheard

Little Red was a fast runner; she sped round the track with surprising velocity. Freddi Wolf was a newcomer, with size and intensity. "What big shoulders you have," said Red. "And you’re towering over me." "Don’t worry," said Freddi; "I’m just a girl who tries hard; you  could probably beat me". "Your legs are quite hairy," said Red. "I don’t shave them with frequency." "And your voice is so deep." "No more comments! Have decency."  They both ran very fast, but Wolf took the win. He bared his white fangs when he collected his trophy. But he quickly changed his expression to a sheepish grin.

Never hit a girl. Plain and simple.

It's rude to call her names.
So don't.

No looking up her dress
or down her shirt like some pervert.

Quit staring. She's not a piece of candy.

Definitely, no touching,
unless you ask first AND she says "yes."

Finally, NO means "100% stop! Get away from me! And don't try it again!!!"

Any questions?

I live to defy what you taught me.


"Girls are weak"

I received the message. I rejected it.

With my chubby arms, the arms of a child, I picked up the table, twice my size, and carried it across the

yard,

forest,

desert,

ocean,

wherever it needed to go.

I basked in adult adoration of my strength. My sharp look scorching all who dared to offer assistance.

Kindness or a sense of superiority- motive be dammed.

I've grown up with the world as my witness.

I've learned to never ask for help.


"Girls are emotional"

Emotions are a weakness, for you think of girls as weak.

I must not be weak, for the world is watching.

And so, I've locked in the drawer of my mind every troubling thoughts, every emotion.

They are still there, unreachable. Rotting.


I grew up to be numb.

I grew up to be a hypocrite.

I would preach about the health benefits of crying. I would be horrified to listen to myself.

Forbidden to even share my passions by my own brain.

I'm fine-

I'm a mess-

at the same breath.

One is the lashing out of self defense,

The other is a painful admittance.

One is happily uttered when they catch my face,

The other is shamed and condemned.


I've grown up strong in every toxic sense of the word.

In my pursuit to defy what you dictated for me, I live my life as you dictated for yourself.


If the facade will ever go, it will not shatter nor dissappear.

If I will dictate my own life for myself, it will take as long as the rebuilding of the world.

A/N: This poem probably makes no sense but after listening to a few Blythe Baird poems I felt inspired to write something like this.



The life of a woman can be challenging
The life of a woman can be an uphill  battle that sometimes we just do not want to fight
Women can be born in hospitals
They can also be born trapped in masculine jail cells
Some people say that sexism is dead
But then they remind us to always carry pepper spray in the same breath
And I begin to wonder if being a woman is a curse or a blessing
Surely things had to improve by now
We are not in the twenties after all
But dread settles in the pit of my stomach like stones at the bottom of a river
When I remember reading that we had to invent nail polish that changed color in drugged drinks
Lipstick shaped mace
Develop apps to walk us home
And underwear designed to prevent assault
I wish I could go back
Back to a time before womanhood hit me like a truck
Back to a time before *******
And periods
Before I knew about all the sharp corners of the world
I often think of if I want to change the world
I do
And I do not
Somedays I want to write acceptance into existence
Some days I just want to hide from the weight of responsibility
Crushing me like a ton of bricks
I shudder as I remember the nights a man twisted my will by calling me, baby
Talking me out of conversations I knew I should have brought up sooner
I want people to see women as people
Most importantly men
We are not your  playthings
We are not objects you can twist and mold to your desires
We are not a piece of candy for your eyes
I want everyone to realize these things
But I will try and coat my words in sugar
I will try to make these words easy to hear
Easy to read
I will try and soften the impact of reality
I will try and make these words
This poem easy to swallow
Like a microscopic pill
I will try and make reading this easier than it is for us women to live

I am a smooth surface.
I am a number of hiding places.
I am meat, I am bone and
I am anything but my own.

Her eyes lit up as we drove into the farm
a gorgeous landscape of flowers and horses
a crowd of inviting people
who said they loved her
but hurt her
every day
I could see the frustration
as they told her no
to the simplest of things
because she was female
and watched as her younger male cousin
was always put on a pedestal
for all his "hard work"

This is the place she called home
because although it wasn't perfect
And it wasn't painless
It did hurt less than
The way "mom and dad" did
It didn't cut as deep
As the shards of broken glass
scattered through the kitchen did
It felt like love
compared to living with two
that despised each other
It may not have been everyone's joy
but it was paradise to her

We are not all seen equal
Not when blacks are seen as evil
Not when Gender-queers
Are simply 'insecure'
Not when women need to watch what they wear
Because otherwise men don't have to care

What if the next black child that was harmed
Was your own?
What if the next transgender beaten
was you brother?
What if the next woman defiled
was you?

Then would your views change?