Down there
by
Sandra Cisneros
Yes,
I want to talk at length about Men-
struation. Or my period.
Or the rag as you so lovingly put it.
All right then.
I’d like to mention my rag time.
Gelatinous. Steamy
and lovely to the light to look at
like a good glass of burgundy. Suddenly
I’m an artist each month.
The star inside this like a ruby.
Fascinating bits of sticky
I-don’t-know-what-stuff.
The afterbirth without the birth.
The gobs of a strawberry jam.
Membrane stretchy like
saliva in your hand.
It’s important you feel its slickness,
understand the texture isn’t bloody at all.
That you don’t gush
between the legs. Rather,
it unravels itself like string
from some deep deep center—
like a Russian subatomic submarine,
or better, like a mad Karlov cackling
behind beakers and blooping spirals.
Still with me?
Oh I know, darling,
I’m indulging, but indulge
me if you please.
I find the subject charming.
In fact,
I’d like to dab my fingers
in my inkwell
and write a poem across the wall.
“A Poem of Womanhood”
Now wouldn’t that be something?
Words writ in blood. But no,
not blood at all, I told you.
If blood is thicker than water, then
menstruation is thicker than brother-
hood. And the way
It metamorphosizes! Dazzles.
Changing daily
like starlight.
From the first
transparent drop of light
to the fifth day of chocolate paste.
I haven’t mentioned the smell. Think
Persian rug.
But thicker. Think
cello.
But richer.
A sweet exotic snuff
from an ancient prehistoric center.
Dark, distinct,
and excellently
female.
Rage
Can I just be angry? Without being shrill, hysterical, screechy, hormonal, jealous, envious, attention-seeking or spoiling for a cat-fight? It’s not because it’s that time of the month. It’s not because I’m not having enough sex. I’m just angry. Sometimes at injustice, sometimes at your bad behavior, sometimes at the world. That’s all.
And which flavor of racism would you like today?
Segregated living spaces topped by diverse public spaces and some mixed social interactions with a small side of inter-racial couples? You should try Chicago.
Multi-cultural, integrated living spaces with a thin crust of overwhelmingly white public spaces topped by strictly segregated social interactions with no inter-racial couples to mix things up? You should try Toronto.
Disclaimer: You will still find some white men hanging out with south-east and east Asian women in Toronto. You have been warned. Why is that the most common inter-racial couple, you ask? I have no effing clue.
Disclaimer 2: And whichever flavor you should choose, we will still stare at your outrageous big brown breasts and snigger. Quit whining.
bell hooks
every time i read something she has written, i come away a changed person. every time.
A class apart
In my country, my class markers are loud and clear. People will take one look at my hairstyle, clothes and walk, listen to a couple of sentences I speak, and, instantly, arrive at the conclusion that I am upper class (therefore, law abiding, eminently trustworthy and capable of watching over your bag, children, groceries and whatever else you want a kindly stranger to keep an eye on for a couple of minutes). However suspect those assumptions may be, they kept me insulated in my privilege.
And, now, suddenly, in the land of the brave and the free, I am only black. I am only worthy of purses-clutched-closer, men-running-across-the-road. Threatening-black-person, potential-criminal.
Lady-like
I am so very lady-like. What an awesomely hyphenated word-phrase. I have red-painted nails. I have anger-coated lips. I have indignation-lined eyelashes. And such ideologically-laden hips. *snort* Lady-like.
Fearless
Dear man who was walking gigantic dog at 11.45 p.m. and ran across the road to the other side when he saw a skirted stranger approach,
I love you. The darkness holds fewer terrors for me after you helped me realize that I am darkly threatening myself.
Kisses,
The dark-skinned stranger in a skirt
Out of the house of bondage
by Thavolia Glymph
Cambridge University Press, 2008
Read it if you know what’s good for you. Through the accounts given by former slaves to interviewers, we hear of the mistress who put out an eye of her slave at the dinner table, the one who whipped a slave to death and buried her with the living child she gave birth to during the whipping, the one who tied up her slave and put snuff in her eyes thereby blinding her.
The annoying-as-hell myth of the charming, gracious Southern plantation mistress is finally laid to rest.
But what about gender?
Private rant at the white guy who asked this question at a workshop on race:
Yeah. What about it? Why do you ask that damn question each time someone’s discussing race or caste? How come nobody’s asking ‘what about race?’ or ‘what about caste?’ at all your lily-white/upper-caste feminist conferences? Huh?
Also, what’s the deal with the ‘what about class’ question? You’re not even Marxist. Why do you care?
