it is tiring, being endless political just as someone existing. my teacher asks me if iβm writing more of thatΒ βfeminist poetry.β a lot of it is just talking about me, being a woman, being afraid in the city. i write about walking a line, about how i am expected to choose between home and work, how each comes with a slew of its own insults; how it feels when i am wearing shorts and there are too many men outside. these are just facts of my life. someone in the comments says,Β βwhere are woman even coming up with these crazy generalizations in their feminism?β
i hold hands with the prettiest girl iβve ever seen and someone sighs when they see me.Β βdo they have to make everythingΒ gay?β she asks her friend, loudly,Β βlike, do you have to force those views in my face all the time?β i canβt stop blushing. my girlfriend holds my fingers tighter, tighter, tighter, until my knuckles are white, and i let her. somehow, this is us, protesting.
my fatherβs cuban blood stains my skin, i think. when i am honored with a position in the deanβs private council, a boy sneers,Β βyou only got in because youβre hispanic.β did i? i spend the rest of our meetings wondering if i was selected for my stellar academic record, for the multiple recommendations, for the clubs i lead - or if i was just a move the dean made, to make use of me. when we all take a picture, the dean brings me in the front. in the first three we take, i am not smiling.
it is odd.Β βi exist.β i say,Β βi deserve to exist.β
βoh my god,β he groans,Β βwe get it, youβre a feminist.β
