Posts tagged feminist
You're Supposed to be Suffering

It’s hot. I’m wearing an old tye-dye dress and sneakers, my bangs stuck to my sweaty forehead. Photographs will later reveal I have the sort of bowl haircut stylists default to when you’re too young to know what you want, and your parents just want something cheap that won’t get gum stuck in it. I’ve come to a standstill on the sidewalk to watch a mosquito bite my bare calf.

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Skin Suit

I never felt comfortable saying “my body” or “the body”; it never felt like mine, yet it also seemed more personal than “the.” Growing up, it was commented on: you’re so skinny, so petite, what a tiny peanut, you should really eat more, better hang on to that figure. No one ever said anything about my 4.0 Grade Point Average, the poetry contests I won, or the dreams I had of escaping the life of expected bodily perfection. The taut form of my body was the accomplishment that mattered most. I was nothing more than a skinny girl who happened to be smart. Rewards came from my body, not from my mind. Compliments were paid to my tiny waist, not my intellectual pursuits. I wrapped my identity tightly in others' recognition.

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The Family Nest

Even in the musty Catskills cottage my parents rented during the summer I was coming of age, their bed was the place we went to heal. Even as tiny satin ballet slippers hung from the mahogany headboard and a pink chenille spread covered it, like a sticky sweet frosting, this lumpy mattress was where we found succor.

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I-O-U

Cameron, my boyfriend of six months, sits across from me in the cheap Canton Chinese restaurant we always eat at. The white-walled empty space fills with light through the windows and wood tables are vacantly spread out throughout. We look at each other blankly. The only sounds that come out our mouths are loud chews and slurps of stir-fry noodles hitting our lips with a long, hungry uncomfortableness.

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The Modern Art of Loving Yourself

Modern love doesn’t mean that it is a type of love we haven’t seen before, but it does mean that it’s a love that is still seen as radical by those it encounters. It makes people look twice when they see you walking down the street. It makes your friends comment “I’m so happy for you!” on your Instagram pics. It both surprises and entangles everyone it meets, creating an aura that they begin to crave as well. It’s the type of love they should really be making potions for.

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Stop Taking Your Pills

Let’s be honest: you’re not going to make collages or collect lucky pennies. That seems like a waste of time. You do, however, eat a weed brownie and read Claudia Rankine’s Citizen in one sitting at a bar. You wear high heels every day you teach so your students know what’s up. You get a birth control device implanted in your arm so you don’t have to remember to take pills.

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Room at the Inn

My water broke as I climbed out of bed on Christmas morning. I'd stayed up late the previous evening, listening to a reading of Dylan Thomas' “A Child's Christmas in Wales” on the radio. Afterward, I lumbered to bed and collapsed onto the mattress like a sinking ship. Less than six hours later, I was suddenly in labor with my first child.

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