It is me, woman
It is me, woman, on a celebratory day smirking at Facebook posts in the morning. I, woman, on my day, roll my eyes to ones that wish it to be happy.
It was me, woman, for 364 days of each year, having to justify my existence, became tired. I exaggerate you think. You, not just man, also woman. You, just like me, so accustomed to how it is, forgot to even imagine how it should be or how it can be. I, woman, forgot to speak out and stand for how it should be.
I, woman, awake every morning justifying on the way, my existence within the rush hour traffic to strangers, for I am not home looking after a child or taking care of a husband. Them, women, giving subtle hints with their body language towards their justification. “I must, for I have no money, neither does my family.” “I must, for I go to school. In my mind to be educated, to learn more, in your eyes to find a better man or a boy.” “I must, for this justifiable reason.” “I must, for that justifiable reason.” The musts are visible but the invisible is what feels like humanity’s treason.
I, woman, cannot see “I want” in the sweaty, stinky, deadly bus that drives us, women, amongst men. Men... no subtle hints, only obvious realities “I am sleepy.” “I am uncomfortable.” “I am horny.” No justification necessary.
It is me, woman, who takes justifiably longer to get ready, who must not show at the office much femininity. They might think preferably none. Don’t wear a short skirt, low cut top, high heels, is that make up??! Do you think you are coming to a club? It is me, woman, on the other side of the coin falling on the same spot. You look like a man, wax that stash, pluck that unibrow for crying out loud, do I see chin hair?
It is me, woman, working harder, speaking louder trying to justify my seat at the table. For the people whom I must please or who must please me, want when they look across, a strong man to see.
It is me, woman, who asked for it. It? What is that “it” you, man and woman, think? No, no I am not talking about “it”. I, woman, asked to be belittled, ignored, disrespected, to be used as an ornament or rejected. I, woman, am not home where I should hide, I am out here so I must abide. I, woman, must have known it would be hard, it is my fault that I am scarred. I asked for it.
It is me, woman, who is asked, as a child who finds the word “woman” naughty, how many children of my own I want. It is me, woman, when still today the answer comes out none, scolded and shunned. I, woman, must want a child for that is why my body exists and as we speak my biological clock ticks.
Wait is that it? Justification for my existence found! How could I not think of it? Of course, woman, dumb.
If I, woman, join the mothers demographic, could I please belong at rush hour traffic. Who am I kidding, my existence in this bus is pornographic and/or apologetic.
I, woman, on this evening smile as I am on the rush hour bus ride. I am exhausted but I smile, for the bodies of us, women who remembered or were reminded, shout “Very tired, soo sleepy, I AM, I WANT”
I am not a poet. This is not a poem, it was written on International Women's Day.