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Monday, April 7 1:20 AM
I have built this room for us to dream
it is quite small, and there is this toilet here in the corner.
I am wondering what it means to be a woman
I have questions.
At times one’s gender is by choice, and for others it is relegated to the terroir of the matter-of-fact
I don’t like to be told what to do
how to feel, how to be
I want the adventure of finding out how
I like to do everything
My curiosity intact, there are questions
I have something to say.
I am wondering
What more about the struggle is there that I need to know?
Our expectations change; we change
To be a woman is hard, for many reasons
my experience as a young woman writer is still so different than my guy friends. And their experience
as men among men, who write, is equally complicated.
And likewise my friends who are both and neither.
But I am a woman, in a room.
I have spent a year of my life experiencing nightmares of being raped, have walked down the street where just the sight of my body causes onlookers to jeer, cackle, and declare awkward personal/impersonal statements
where, here I am, only going to the store
with clothes on.
Because I have at times trusted and distrusted the company of other women, slipping into friendship and guidance before whipped into obedience, another struggle
Because to be disingenuine is a crime
and because near sixty-years after the sixties
I am still being cat-called down the street
still fearing for the life of my literature
still aware of how difficult it is to be a woman, who writes.