A Woman
A Poem By Brigid Cooley
Society tells young girls that in order to be a woman of worth, they had better walk tall.
Their hips had better sway as the wind blows their hair out of their faces.
"Women look better with long hair."
"Women seem more confident in heels."
"I can't believe you're eating that whole hamburger; do you know how many calories are in that?"
"People will take you more seriously when you have red lipstick on."
When I was a girl, I bought into it.
When Society's woman walked by, I would whisper to myself, "That is who I want to be when I grow up."
Nowadays, for every rule Society throws at me, I answer back with a question.
"What about the women who can't walk tall because she is weathered and need a break?
"The woman who clings to her cane with her gnarled hands; is she not a woman to you?"
"The mother whose hair falls out a bit more with every chemo treatment she undergoes; is she less beautiful to you?"
"The women who choose to raise the children that you continue to call clumps of cells; are they not heroes to you?"
I'm growing up now.
I walk in flats mostly because I'll fall down if I wear heels for too long.
The foot I put forward isn't always my best one, and sometimes I trip over it.
I forget to put on makeup more than half of the time, and when I do, I forget to wipe it off at night.
I've cut my hair short in silent rebellion.
Recently, I clumsily cracked out of my cocoon and looked at myself just to see a woman looking back at me.
Not a woman who has it all together, no.
Not a woman that Society hangs out with on the weekend.
A woman who cries too often and, at the same time, not often enough.
A woman who breaks sometimes and forgets to pick up all of the my pieces when I leave.
A woman who can achieve what she believes.
A woman.
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