Untitled

trying not to resent her because i traded my childhood for hers.

and it's almost funny. it would be funny if it didn't make me so sad it would make me sad if it didn't make me so angry it would make me angry if it didn't make me so tired

most of my friends don't take my hand's offering, and that's okay. my little sister sometimes doesn't, too. the point is to be there, not to be acknowledged. if one of my friends would offer their hand, i would latch onto it.

you aren't going crazy simply because you have a uterus and a mind.

The list can go on. Suffice to say, you're not punching Nazis. And I can tell you that saying it does nothing except make Jewish, Roma, and BIPOC folks thoroughly pissed off.

my father is not a terrible person. i am very well-off. very lucky. very privileged. he treats us like playthings. mats to roll up and put away or bring out when it suits him. i have never felt as objectified as i am around him. physically. verbally. emotionally. we are pawns, my mother and i.

i don't like cooking for my father. i do like cooking--food is a love language of mine. i got that from my mother. i like cooking for people, a lot. i'm jewish, i know death and i know food. i'll always cook or bake for my friends or family. but when i cook for my father, i feel like my mother. "how many eggs do you want?" "three," he tells me. i make the best scrambled eggs in my family. i'm proud of it. my dad asked me if i would make scrambled eggs for him. i didn't want scrambled eggs. so i made three for him. i scraped the bottom of the pan with the spatula. as i'm turning the yellow around carefully to keep it fluffy, my dad sits at the dining room table on his computer. i feel like my mother. "how many eggs is that?" "three," i tell him. "you didn't want any?" no, i didn't want any. he would know if he had asked.i make scrambled eggs for my father. i cover the pan so it stays hot. "you didn't use oil?" i thought he would like that i didn't use oil. no, i don't use oil when i scramble eggs, because it's okay if they stick to the pan a little. it's easy enough to get off with a sponge. no salt or pepper either. i thought he would like that, too. "i'm having pasta." eggs have protein. (so does cheese in the pasta.) he tells me, "always protein over carbs." but i didn't use oil. he eats the scrambled eggs out of the pan, pouring hot sauce right on it. he cleans the pan. i clean his dishes, and the mess that he made where he ate. i don't like cooking for my father.

i have never known anything else. i do not know how to exist in this world as a girl in any other way. it is being afraid of men, you understand, that turned into hate. it is tiring to be a girl. it is tiring to be afraid all of the time. to be hateful is to be protective of myself. the hate doesn't replace the fear, they are both still here. one is an outer shell that protects me. the other protects me too. so yes, i am a man hater. i hate men. but feminism did not make me hate men. men did.

fury. fury. i'm drowning in it all the time. my girlhood--i was told, i was told my girlhood would be filled with giggles and pillow fights and first kisses and braces and elective classes and locker combinations. i was told--i don't remember who told me, maybe it was the movies or the books, it probably was--maybe it was my relatives, or my older friends, or--it was all of it, i guess. and it's wrong. it's wrong, and that just makes me madder. i'm young. i'm a girl. i don't know how to drive. i can't vote. i still, with misogyny and rape culture ingrained into the very air that i breathe, i still don't know if my first assault counts. the first time i was sexually assaulted was only two grades later. my girlhood is supposed to be naive, for crying out loud. i am supposed to be--i thought i was supposed to be doing bad lip syncing. but one of my great mothers was married when she was my age. another was raped. another had a child. another died. another was raped. another was killed. another was raped. another was beaten. another was raped. girlhood has never been about sneaking out late at night and learning what love is and learning how your body works--how your body feels. it has always been about fury. fury for yourself. for your younger self. for your great mothers. for your mother. for your sisters. fury, fury, fury, fury, furious about this girlhood that i was never going to get in the first place. who told me about this girlhood? who lied to me? i feel stolen from, i feel robbed of something that was never mine in the first place.

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