An open-form poem
We stand up and speak out, in voices scratchy and riddled with slang-we cry
“consent, consent and equal pay.”
Those older than us, scoff and pull our knees off the ground, they tear our signs and say,
“don’t you have another boy to throw away?”
“You don’t know your rights, who do you think you are? You work as a waitress and have acne, you must be mad to think your voice counts.”
But don’t forget to vote on Election Day.
“When I was your age I was steady- with a good job, a steady girl, and those loans paid off.”
“You are not steady, it’s because you are lazy. Too much sleep and rap music is what is making you unsteady.”
Pastors and preachers and priests, say this generation is violent and lazy
and video game sales have risen.
These kids have no sense of reality, they are emotional and gay and trans and lesbian
We cannot block their cries out any longer
Because they are us.
They are black and white and brown and feeling.
And they are us.
Our sisters, our brothers, our friends, our lovers,
our people are dying.
In shootings, hate crimes and in standing up.
“all these young people are killing the brick and mortar stores”
you are killing my people.
We have tasted reality and we will not hold back.
And we will stand. We will rise.
Our feet will be unsteady,
but we push
and pull
and advance.
No more we will be silent.
I have a dream.
If no man walked the streets, I’d wear a pretty dress at dusk and stargaze in the park.
But my fear of jeers and violence holds me back-
the dreaded “hey baby,” pounds in my head.
Let me wear a dress and let me not be catcalled.
“You cut your hair.”
“It’s just a phase to cut your hair.”
“What if your future husband likes long hair?”
“Are you trying to say something with that hair?”
“Boys don’t like girls with short hair.”
As sad as it is, my story is not unique, all my friends have a story like mine. We sit at tables and drink our nonalcoholic drinks, carefully watching for the man who saw us come in.
We share tips on how to fit our keys between our knuckles, on how the elbow will hurt the most, in
the face, stomach and groin.
We share our shame the ***** feeling after a man purposely touches your arm as you brush past him,
the shame you feel after you decline him, and he mocks you with words like
“you were ugly anyway.”
The shame you feel when he respects your instance that you have a boyfriend, more than he respects your right to say no.
The shame is better than the potential risk of him finding out you are single; a solo woman is easier than one who has a man.
“c’mon baby, I know you want it.”
A stubborn “no” makes him declare over you;
“*****, no man would love you anyway.”
The boys loved me until I learned to love myself.
And then I was labeled,
bossy.
stuck up.
prissy.
Then they grew up and found it enchanting.
A strong woman was desirable.
Attractive.
****. Alluring,
A challenge.
They loved it until they realized it wasn’t a front, that I wasn’t secretly insecure, they wanted me until they realized I didn’t need them.
I was raised in privilege. No gangs to fight, no mouths to feed, my rent was paid, and clothes bought new.
Am I untouched?
Has my white-fair skin erased for me, the everyday danger my brothers and sisters of color face?
bulimia,
anorexia
and blades
they will not touch me on this pedestal of privilege.
Isn’t that what they say?
You have good grades and both parents, depression and anxiety don’t hang out in the Hamptons
Our boys are starving- abs are easier obtained with lack of food, then with diet.
Let them be beautiful.
Let them be soft.
Let them be boys.
Shame on us for telling soft boys to “man up” when they cry and then raging when our husbands and boyfriends won’t show emotion.
We are a generation saying
No more.
This must stop.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
This is not how we will be.
We’re self-named, untamed, untouched, unridden.
Scandal. Closed doors and stilettos. Parking under street lamps and groups because there is safety in numbers.
Hiding their tears and fighting to prove they are men, toxic masculinity is all over them.
This generation of children is saying no more. We are labeled feminist, weak and selfish.
We are told
“don’t be so mean,”
“keep your pretty mouth shut,”
“you run like a girl,”
Weak, powerless.
Lazy, insecure.
Rebellious, fickle.
Ungrateful, unpatriotic.
These labels surround us.
But they are not us.
And we will stand. We will rise.
Our feet will be unsteady,
but we push
and pull
and advance.
No more we will be silent.
Paragraph of Explanation:
This poem is an open form poem in the style of Allen Ginsberg. I participate in a movement of using poetry as a voice for activism, hence this very political poem. To quote myself (is that even a thing) from my comments on the “what movement would you start/participate in” assignment; “Teenagers should be able to talk about social issues within the medium of literature without it being labeled as “angsty” or “moody.” This is a poetic rant against all the people who think that teenager’s opinions are not realistic or “real” opinions, on: toxic masculinity, school shootings, racism, bigotry, violence and sexism against women.
I used italics to showcase the lines that were supposed to be significant. I used alliteration, assonance, rhyme, allusion, slant rhyme and repetition. I quoted Martin Luther King's “I Have a Dream,” “and it occurs to that I am America” from Allen Ginsberg’s “America.” The “Knees off the ground” alluded to the peaceful protest of the NFL, “We’re self-named, untamed, untouched, unridden.” is from Moonlily by Marilyn Nelson. The scandal line is a nod to the recent rise in women speaking up concerning the harassment in Hollywood. Stilettos is for the issue of workplace harassment. And I have made my open form in the style of Allen Ginsberg and from a few modern poets who have written things concerning current politics.
It’s a call to raise our voices, that we will not be silenced, it’s a call to understand that we can change the world with our words and the fact that we will.
