Switchette

“The men are talking now,” is a phrase that I’ve heard
for 21 years too long now and I’m beginning to wonder
when it will be my turn to talk and who is actually listening.
Yes, this is a poem about feminism and if you’re already tired
of reading about it then be quiet, because the women are talking now.

I’ve noticed that whenever someone calls themselves a feminist
there are already questions about what’s happened to them
in their past, who hurt them, if they ever had a good relationship
with their father, already waiting on the tips of tongues
of those who don’t listen but wait for their turn to talk.
“Feminist”, she calls herself and immediately after that word
leaves her lips there are sounds of agonizing moans
from not only men but the women in her life that she once thought
were her idols. Now she can’t say feminist without saying
that she’s sorry or that she doesn’t mean to offend anyone.
I’ve been asking myself for awhile now when did progress
mean torture and when did wanting to better not only yourself
but the women who you have watched struggle
while holding their rightful tongue, mean too sensitive
of a subject to touch base on?

This is not only for me but this is for the women I’ve seen
walk to their car with four keys in between each space
of their fingers, wanting to make it safe home but having to worry
about even making it alive out of the darkness.

“A man must have really hurt you for you to hate men so much.”,
but even if a man has hurt me in the past I am the one who must have
agitated him and deserved the bruises along my cheekbone.
I should have been the one to shut my mouth while he spewed
emotional violence towards me, but being the woman that I am,
being how all women are, I just didn’t know when to stop.
Because growing up as a young girl we are taught by those
who have used their fists to prove their point, that there is nothing
worse than ending up alone, and that we need to do
whatever we can to make a man love us, even if that means
having to change who we are completely for their satisfaction.

“Feminism,” I say in a whisper in hopes that no one will hear me
and try to tell me that I have no right, or that because it hasn’t
happened to me, or that I have it good and have no right
to complain, or that I am complaining and not teaching
and that whenever I say the word entitles that I hate all men.

“Feminism,” leaves his mouth and he laughs as he tells
my cousin and I that he would punch a girl in the face
if he couldn’t get in trouble for it. He looks at me straight
in the eye and winks and I can actually feel myself holding on
my keys tighter, pulling my beer closer, looking around the room
to see the safest and most efficient exit before he calls me a slut
for wearing a skirt and not fucking him like my outfit said I would.

I have my fathers number on speed dial,
my oldest brother knows where I’m at all times just in case,
my mother tells me not to stay out too late,
my sister tells me that I should take it as a compliment,
my friend is fucking her boyfriend in the other room
because his ex girlfriend was at the party too.

“Feminist,” I say out loud to myself when I’m in my bed,
proud and unalarmed.

“Feminist,” I call myself with no hesitation, no fear, no turning back.

“Feminist,” the word that only those who really know what it means
will call you and make you feel as if you really are doing something right.