Posted in Feminism, Updates and Musings

#MeToo (I’d like to hold the hands of all the people in a nightmare just now, if you’d like me to.)

TW: sexual assault

My voice is only an echo of thousands
which are only a fraction of the hundreds,
thousands, millions, billions of people
who could say with quivering or strength
certain and confused, beautiful voices
me too
And this is the way to sum up in two words
what there are no words for.
And we are the women and the gender queer
and the men folk and we are broken sometimes
and patched in places
and whole, whole, we are whole humans
and we are real.
Speaking or silent
Mourning or raging
unforgiving and reconciling
or all of the above.
And I have turned my stories into soil
to grow the flowers that are my strength
but at 2:45 in the morning
I do not remember this.
I wake not drenched in cold sweat but cold panic
the nightmare is that
tangle in the sheets
the nightmare is my stomach in my throat
and it tells me I am 20, 19, 18, 17 again
being held down by arms I trusted
16, 15, 14, 13
being yelled at by voices
I do not know
(voices that tell me exactly what I am worth:
one fuck and a dead body)
and I know it is not real in this moment
but my clenched jaw
and the curve of my spine to protect my heart space
and yoni power
and the gut ache
that wants to vomit out memories until they are unrecognizable
know that it is alway real
and it’s 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 years later
and it is real less often
than it used to be.
But it is real, still
and again
and still.

10.18.17

 

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Posted in Feminism, Poems

Letter to my growing womanhood | further acceptance of uncertainty

Dusky moonlight under the joshua tree, if I were to speak to you in half lit, ill-writ memoirs, my voice is husky even to stay still and I am all splinters and chaos but perhaps this is just the wind, for I sit still.  I look closer to the ground, sink in, take a microscope to my swelling heart, eyes well and fumble to grasp all the instances that came for her to beat just so.

Somedays, then, I cry.  I am afraid I do not cultivate my own garden enough, well, or well enough, even the tears help me to expand. So it is the days that I do not cry that are the scariest of all. But then, I bleed.

All scars, all blood. The color of heartbeat, the color of life, the the color of lust, I bleed, I bleed, I bleed, I bled.  I have not bled freely in months, I wonder where the blood went, I wonder if I have bled dry. I miss the blood.

I recollect, collect, know that I know how it feels to vibrate, vibrant, this is the quiet corner, corner myself in mind of my time of meeting you, first time. And I recall the scent of blood. Whetstone curdle cry, sharpen knife for the kill. To nourish the earth all things must die, to nourish the earth all things must live. To each of us our perfect time. Jack rabbit, jack nimble, jack quick, quick then, quicken, pause and I’ll light the candlestick and I’ll kiss wet lips and I’ll cradle me, cradle thee, cradle me, crack.

I, lost in thoughts, I lost then, but better to lose the thoughts to pass time than to lose a whole mind as pastime. Again to each of us in the perfect time. Always struggling to keep time, or release.  And I’m trying, or gambling–a gander, a goose, geese, a guess, and who will please me but I. Fly south with me, I am tired of being alone. Don’t follow me, I’d like best to on my own. Two feet, the moon waits closely to become the brightest circle in the sky. Call my blood, and she does.  Call my blood, it remains within my skin. Life, my blood, she is.

And I wait. Even in the waiting I calm myself to the garden. Breath becomes breathe becomes ease.

Here I grow again, here I grow. Here.

2.6.17

Posted in Feminism, Updates and Musings

As White Women We MUST Do Better

A reminder to myself and my fellow white sisters:

We must stand, now we know this.  We must march, we must call, we must make our voices heard, it is time. For many of us this is the beginning.  For many of us this is a turning point where we say “THAT’S ENOUGH” and we mean it. For many of us we know we will not sit down or stand down or be beaten down until we have been heard, been listened to and feel respected.  For many of us–young, white women, we were born into a world where our rights to health care had already been fought for.

But as white women, we must do better than this.  We must look and know that for so many people this is not the beginning. This is not the beginning at all, but another hurtle. As white women we must not say “this will be a long four years.” We must say “We’re in this. Until it is fixed. For all of us.”

When we say “this white woman didn’t vote for Trump” this is the equivalent of saying “Not All Men,” or “All Lives Matter.” 53% of white women voted for Trump. Someone I know, someone you know, someone each of us knows voted him into office. We must shoulder this responsibility, educate ourselves and each other. We MUST hold each other accountable.

We must look our wounds in the face, our injuries that say “it has not been easy for me. I am not straight, I have been raped, I don’t get paid as much as men, I’m tired, I have a right to be scared,”
And then we must let those voices go. Cradle them, love them, hear their truth but do not let them deafen other voices, other needs.

We must fight not just for ourselves, but for all humans–for disabled people, black people, indigenous people, Muslims, LGBTQIA+ people, those in poverty, immigrants, people of color.

As white women we must be willing to be called out.  As white women we must be willing to see our privilege and dismantle it.  As white women we must know that it is OUR job to educate ourselves.  As white women, we MUST call each other out when our feminism is anything less than intersectional.

And we must fight not just until our safety is obtained but until ALL women–all  people know safety, know freedom, know equality.

Posted in Feminism, Paint and ink

My Identity Spectrum

Hello lovely people,

Happy (belated) New Years! I’m working on new projects and new blog posts that will hopefully be up soon!

In the meantime, I wanted to share something that my friend Sara introduced me to.  An identity spectrum is a way to visually represent the where you fall on different spectrums.  She and I each made one tonight and it was a lot of fun!

Here is a picture of mine:
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And here is a picture of hers:

10913597_693794090718968_677275546_n

You can come up with your own spectrums and put them down any way you want.  I’ll definitely be making another one in the future.

If you want to see how we heard about them, and/or get some inspiration for your own, here is a lovely video by Ashley Mardell: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycxZe6_4n6c
xoxo,
Zoë

Posted in Feminism, Poems

(I’d Rather Be) My Own Kind of Beautiful

I wrote this poem this week, because a lot of people have always told me how lucky I am to be thin. This kind of statement has bothered me more and more as I’ve gotten older, because, frankly, it’s pretty offensive.  It makes me feel tiny, and insignificant and as though it’s the only thing that people notice or value about me. While I know that people mean it as a compliment, what they’re actually saying isn’t so very nice. People can be too thin to be healthy, just as they can be too overweight to be healthy.  People are born in all different shapes and sizes, and that isn’t what makes us beautiful or not beautiful. Telling someone they’re lucky that they’re thin only reinforces our society’s pressure to be thin, and even phrased as a compliment these statements can reduce someone’s self-esteem.  So, before you compliment someone please think about what you’re really saying and remember: there are many different ways to be beautiful.

The amount of times someone–
usually a girl my age,
but sometimes 
an older woman–has said to me
“you’re so lucky that you’re skinny; 
you’re so beautiful.”
And I smiled docilely 
and accepted the compliment.

But the more times I heard these
“compliments”
they began to 
build up into a wall of undeniable panic
a frenzied question of
“would they 
still think I’m beautiful if I wasn’t
 so thin?”

Every morning, waking up
checking my stomach to body 
ratio:
am I still beautiful? 
Am I still thin?
At 16 the words were so connected 
in my mind.
I didn’t consider the words to be synonyms
when applied to others, 
but when it came to myself 
I did.
Every morning, waking up
looking in the mirror:
I didn’t think that fat would be the worst 
thing,
but the people around me
 did.

I finally started asking why
I had let this fear poison me.
I had let these facts about my body
be phrased in compliments and
let myself believe that if
I
 started looking different
no one would care to notice me.

To let thin define me would be
 senseless,
and I’m through with 
letting these limitations control me.
So, yes I am still “skinny”
but it’s okay, because I’ve
 set myself free
from these ridiculous notions that this
is what is most important about me.

So maybe I am smaller than you
 or maybe I’m not
but I hope you realize 
that it’s rather arbitrary 
to point it out,
because we’re
 not really supposed to be the 
same at all.
Our perception of beauty need not 
be so narrow
as to be defined by
“thick or thin.”
I won’t let mine be so limited.
And the next time someone
“compliments” me
by saying
“you’re so lucky to be skinny”
I’ll look them right in the eye and say
“I may be tiny in body
but I’m fucking huge in spirit.”