How do you Say Fuck You in Feminism?
By Amanda Cartigiano
I’m to be drop dead gorgeous, said my grandmother,
in all I do, but drop dead
is too dramatic, demanding, and dishonest
I’m taught how to do, what to do, how to be in ways that
Disrupts my comfortability, confuses regularity
Hairy legs, shave;
Shirt too tight, change;
Bad hair day, rearrange;
Thin physique, long hair, legs, blonde hair, shiny, black hair
If it was short, she wasn’t convinced, masculinity
at its finest
Break feminine rules; it’s been decided I’m single
and can’t own nice clothes, let me be in my body,
leave me alone.
My education delivered a proclamation, for me to neglect
biased lies of primary socialization.
People like me work in the back of K-Mart, wearing red shirts,
heavy vests, and khaki slacks with sneakers. She’s done
her research – she knows the dress code.
Twenty-five years of practice, difficult to break these tactics;
I re-educate, re-assure, re-assemble me in ways I make