In Memory
Up until five days ago, this poem was something else.
It was an angry response to a ‘counter argument’ I have gone through so many times.
As I sat at my computer on Friday, I read a headline on my phone
About a high school girl stabbed to death
For saying no to a boy who asked her to prom.
I was not surprised.
I have read articles and stories like that before.
I was sad and my heart ached when I looked at her picture,
Sun shining bright behind her, smiling selfie.
Witnesses say that he came up to her in a stairway
He asked her to prom, she politely declined.
He lunged for her and started to strangle her and he pushed her down the stairs and he stabbed her.
She died thirty minutes later. It wasn’t even eight in the morning yet.
You would think, because you’re good, that everyone mourned.
But no, that’s when they came out from under their rocks.
I have seen blame before.
“She was asking for it.
Look at the clothes she was wearing, she was flirting, she was alone, she left her drink, she wore too much makeup, she was drunk, she wanted to make out, she wore a hijab, she was too angry…”
But then people started saying that this girl, this child, sixteen, should have been nicer.
And I really, really shouldn’t have been surprised.
Because it’s not new.
The headlines twisted to make it seem like a fight, a “dispute”.
This isn’t new.
“She should have been nicer to him and he wouldn’t have snapped”
You know what they say about nice guys? They finish last.
Does anyone talk about nice girls?
Nice girls are a mask.
Lips painted fear eyes dusted with glittering anxiety looking for an escape
Being nice is a response to both fight and flight.
To fight we have to smile and play along
To flight we have to smile and play along
Pretend we have a call, say we have somewhere to be, say you are just fifteen, and say you have a boyfriend.
She had a boyfriend.
Then and only then will they maybe, hopefully leave you alone.
You can’t just say no.
You shouldn’t oppresses your oppressor.
Don’t bully your bully.
Should not fight fire with fire.
As if we held a flame thrower
But in reality, we are fighting a forest of flames and in between our blistered fingers is a burning match
And it just went out.
I was taught that I should smile and try to compliment my bully
That didn’t prepare me for rape threats.
I was taught that I should go and find an adult.
That didn’t prepare me for when that adult joined my bully and turned on me.
I was taught that when a boy was mean to me, that he liked me.
That didn’t prepare me for the last five years of my life.
My story is not my own, it is shared by every woman I have met.
Put women into a room and they will begin to talk about the first time they became an adult.
The violence we experience comes in different shapes and sizes, every micro aggression builds up. We share it.
My poem, this poem, used to be a response to men asking me why ‘feminism allowed for women to harm men’. It was a response to men asking me why society not only allowed it, but encouraged it.
Marissa Alexander faces sixty years in jail for firing a gun.
Instead of pointing it at her husband, she pointed the barrel in the air and gave one shot.
She did not break skin, spill blood, or take a life.
While adult men who follow young black boys in dark hoods
Are painting pictures and doing signings at gun shows.
And I am asked about ‘self-defense’ for men.
Self-defense is about as rare and mysterious as aliens and unicorns.
There was a sighting over Florida last July, and over Washington D.C 13 years ago.
Self-defense is for men in suits. Self-defense is for pale skin. Self-defense is for men who love women. Self-defense is for people of the cross while stepping on the stars and moon. Self-defense is for men with their bags of money, black oil staining their fingers. Self-defense is for job makers. Self-defense is for European. Self defense
Should be for
Fighting against abusers.
But instead women are behind bars, brown eyed boys are in the ground, same gender couples are face down in dirt, and drones are being dropped on white houses.
What about men? Men who are raped by women?
On an article about a teacher who raped one of her students, this is what men had to say.
“He should have liked it. I would have liked it. He’s just saying its rape because he’s gay. He’s just saying its rape because he couldn’t perform. How could he be raped? Women can’t rape. Women are too weak”.
From the stories of men who told their friends, families, police, and their schools about what happened to them, they were overwhelmingly told something along the lines of “Men are supposed to like sex.”
The men who are abused by other men?
They aren’t criminalized for what happened to them.
They are not to blame.
For the graves growing inside young boys and teens and men who kept quiet for decades
Everyone waters their flowers and weeps.
Everyone cries for them and mourns.
For the girls who are dead inside there is nothing but acid rain and gravel.
Violence is out there, and it is an epidemic.
It is beating and raping and stalking and harassing and stealing and destroying. It is burning down houses and building borders and it is lack of education and blame.
How do we expect violence to stop when people who perpetuate abuse are on our televisions? They laugh about rape and beating black people. They create movies about women and are called feminists while they raped their family. They push commercials out telling us to destroy our bodies, that we are not good enough. That we need to shrink and bleach and clean and scrape ourselves until we are nothing more than dollar signs.
Shows and songs and movies put beautiful girls on shelves, prizes to be won when boys do well and we wonder why male entitlement exists. Why men think they can want and get and deserve.
How can we expect this to stop when our politicians act like doctors and the hand of God? When all it takes to silence opposition is to push a button. When media spreads false information like an infection?
When our government is so busy creating an “us” and “them”?
When we teach girls that what happens to them is their fault. When we teach only one way to rape and only one type of rapist. Not about silence and coercion and persuasion and drugs and drinking. When 2/3 victims know their attacker. We are taught that the only no is loud and screaming and fighting. That they are people waiting in the shadows in dark alleys. Not family members, teachers, police officers, soldiers, government officials.
Nice girls.
Stay small. Don’t take up space. Don’t speak too loud. Don’t be too mean. Don’t dress that way. Don’t act that way. Don’t be that way. Don’t believe that way. Don’t be.
Nice girls.
Please. Take up space, be big and small and in between. Whisper and scream and shout and laugh. Be mean and be kind and be you. Dress how you want to dress. Act whatever way, don’t harm. Be that way, be you. Believe me. Believe yourself. Believe what you want. Live, please, be.
My poem used to be witty and angry and biting.
My poem used to be mine.
My poem, just like the plague set upon women, belongs to all of us.
My poem is Maren Sanchez.
My poem is the list of women murdered by men, and blamed for what happened to them.
My poem is now resignation.
This poem now has a life of its own.
This poem is begging you to stop interrupting us when we say we are hurting.
This poem is asking you to start listening to us when we say what happens to men and why it happens.
This poem is asking you to stop hurting us.
This poem is asking you to sit down and shut up and listen and learn and repeat and teach.
This poem is begging you to stop hurting us.
Please stop tearing us apart, we are already small enough.
It was an angry response to a ‘counter argument’ I have gone through so many times.
As I sat at my computer on Friday, I read a headline on my phone
About a high school girl stabbed to death
For saying no to a boy who asked her to prom.
I was not surprised.
I have read articles and stories like that before.
I was sad and my heart ached when I looked at her picture,
Sun shining bright behind her, smiling selfie.
Witnesses say that he came up to her in a stairway
He asked her to prom, she politely declined.
He lunged for her and started to strangle her and he pushed her down the stairs and he stabbed her.
She died thirty minutes later. It wasn’t even eight in the morning yet.
You would think, because you’re good, that everyone mourned.
But no, that’s when they came out from under their rocks.
I have seen blame before.
“She was asking for it.
Look at the clothes she was wearing, she was flirting, she was alone, she left her drink, she wore too much makeup, she was drunk, she wanted to make out, she wore a hijab, she was too angry…”
But then people started saying that this girl, this child, sixteen, should have been nicer.
And I really, really shouldn’t have been surprised.
Because it’s not new.
The headlines twisted to make it seem like a fight, a “dispute”.
This isn’t new.
“She should have been nicer to him and he wouldn’t have snapped”
You know what they say about nice guys? They finish last.
Does anyone talk about nice girls?
Nice girls are a mask.
Lips painted fear eyes dusted with glittering anxiety looking for an escape
Being nice is a response to both fight and flight.
To fight we have to smile and play along
To flight we have to smile and play along
Pretend we have a call, say we have somewhere to be, say you are just fifteen, and say you have a boyfriend.
She had a boyfriend.
Then and only then will they maybe, hopefully leave you alone.
You can’t just say no.
You shouldn’t oppresses your oppressor.
Don’t bully your bully.
Should not fight fire with fire.
As if we held a flame thrower
But in reality, we are fighting a forest of flames and in between our blistered fingers is a burning match
And it just went out.
I was taught that I should smile and try to compliment my bully
That didn’t prepare me for rape threats.
I was taught that I should go and find an adult.
That didn’t prepare me for when that adult joined my bully and turned on me.
I was taught that when a boy was mean to me, that he liked me.
That didn’t prepare me for the last five years of my life.
My story is not my own, it is shared by every woman I have met.
Put women into a room and they will begin to talk about the first time they became an adult.
The violence we experience comes in different shapes and sizes, every micro aggression builds up. We share it.
My poem, this poem, used to be a response to men asking me why ‘feminism allowed for women to harm men’. It was a response to men asking me why society not only allowed it, but encouraged it.
Marissa Alexander faces sixty years in jail for firing a gun.
Instead of pointing it at her husband, she pointed the barrel in the air and gave one shot.
She did not break skin, spill blood, or take a life.
While adult men who follow young black boys in dark hoods
Are painting pictures and doing signings at gun shows.
And I am asked about ‘self-defense’ for men.
Self-defense is about as rare and mysterious as aliens and unicorns.
There was a sighting over Florida last July, and over Washington D.C 13 years ago.
Self-defense is for men in suits. Self-defense is for pale skin. Self-defense is for men who love women. Self-defense is for people of the cross while stepping on the stars and moon. Self-defense is for men with their bags of money, black oil staining their fingers. Self-defense is for job makers. Self-defense is for European. Self defense
Should be for
Fighting against abusers.
But instead women are behind bars, brown eyed boys are in the ground, same gender couples are face down in dirt, and drones are being dropped on white houses.
What about men? Men who are raped by women?
On an article about a teacher who raped one of her students, this is what men had to say.
“He should have liked it. I would have liked it. He’s just saying its rape because he’s gay. He’s just saying its rape because he couldn’t perform. How could he be raped? Women can’t rape. Women are too weak”.
From the stories of men who told their friends, families, police, and their schools about what happened to them, they were overwhelmingly told something along the lines of “Men are supposed to like sex.”
The men who are abused by other men?
They aren’t criminalized for what happened to them.
They are not to blame.
For the graves growing inside young boys and teens and men who kept quiet for decades
Everyone waters their flowers and weeps.
Everyone cries for them and mourns.
For the girls who are dead inside there is nothing but acid rain and gravel.
Violence is out there, and it is an epidemic.
It is beating and raping and stalking and harassing and stealing and destroying. It is burning down houses and building borders and it is lack of education and blame.
How do we expect violence to stop when people who perpetuate abuse are on our televisions? They laugh about rape and beating black people. They create movies about women and are called feminists while they raped their family. They push commercials out telling us to destroy our bodies, that we are not good enough. That we need to shrink and bleach and clean and scrape ourselves until we are nothing more than dollar signs.
Shows and songs and movies put beautiful girls on shelves, prizes to be won when boys do well and we wonder why male entitlement exists. Why men think they can want and get and deserve.
How can we expect this to stop when our politicians act like doctors and the hand of God? When all it takes to silence opposition is to push a button. When media spreads false information like an infection?
When our government is so busy creating an “us” and “them”?
When we teach girls that what happens to them is their fault. When we teach only one way to rape and only one type of rapist. Not about silence and coercion and persuasion and drugs and drinking. When 2/3 victims know their attacker. We are taught that the only no is loud and screaming and fighting. That they are people waiting in the shadows in dark alleys. Not family members, teachers, police officers, soldiers, government officials.
Nice girls.
Stay small. Don’t take up space. Don’t speak too loud. Don’t be too mean. Don’t dress that way. Don’t act that way. Don’t be that way. Don’t believe that way. Don’t be.
Nice girls.
Please. Take up space, be big and small and in between. Whisper and scream and shout and laugh. Be mean and be kind and be you. Dress how you want to dress. Act whatever way, don’t harm. Be that way, be you. Believe me. Believe yourself. Believe what you want. Live, please, be.
My poem used to be witty and angry and biting.
My poem used to be mine.
My poem, just like the plague set upon women, belongs to all of us.
My poem is Maren Sanchez.
My poem is the list of women murdered by men, and blamed for what happened to them.
My poem is now resignation.
This poem now has a life of its own.
This poem is begging you to stop interrupting us when we say we are hurting.
This poem is asking you to start listening to us when we say what happens to men and why it happens.
This poem is asking you to stop hurting us.
This poem is asking you to sit down and shut up and listen and learn and repeat and teach.
This poem is begging you to stop hurting us.
Please stop tearing us apart, we are already small enough.