Adolescence
Maybe she could like being a woman, she stands at the mirror and thinks:
These new wide hips might be good, maybe
sexy in tight jeans or her school uniform.
As she puts her hands on them, she ponders how they feel:
substantial, alive
rooted
strong, even.
She has a body made for earthly things:
for ice cream and fruit in the summer,
spontaneous rough-housing,
being held tight,
the comfort of a blanket on bare skin,
for dirtying, bleeding, burning
and healing, in time.
Her body has a quiet power distinctly human
a power pulled up from the earth and perfected in her posture; the breath of life.
But she is not a woman.
she is still a girl, perhaps not responsible enough yet
for this heirloom,
or mature enough to understand it:
the vibrator, hidden under an old T-shirt in her sock drawer,
next to the diary that divulges its use.
These earthly things are small and unimportant, she tells herself, rolling her eyes at
the lip gloss girl’s twitterings on boys and Katy Perry,
she sees her life in other images:
thick novels prominently displayed on her bedside table (this week, “The Gulag Archipeligo”),
accolades, honors, groundbreaking something-or-other,
high heels clicking in marble hallways,
the shuffling of important papers in board rooms,
a halo of highlighted hair.
Or failure, maybe
frames without diplomas
empty rooms, mediocrity
She looks back at the mirror, pulls her stomach in, and can see
the outline of her rib cage, her hip bones
not prominent, but there.
They seem to be pointing toward
somewhere more ethereal, free from these earthly things
a power more god-like than human, they tease her with freedom.
she sighs,
steps away from her spot at the mirror,
and into a self
that is still, somehow, a stranger.
Feminist
The word, they’ve heard
describes some whiny bitch
with her hands on her hips, stamping her feet like a two year old,
conjuring up injustice out of the air.
because
when I mention “feminism” at the dinner table one night, casually,
my brother asks me if I’m a lesbian, and
my dad says I’m too pretty for that,
jokingly, of course, always jokingly.
I guess I do not need to wrap myself up in this word,
to use it as protection.
I guess men didn’t catcall me
on the way to school when I was twelve, saying
Hey Sexy, I’d tap dat ass girl, look at dem double D’s.
I guess I wasn’t taught to hate my body
because girls can’t walk alone at night , of course, girls need protection, not adventure.
cover yourself up, keep your head down, don’t trust strangers
don’t speak too loudly, don’t take up too much space, boys are only after one thing.
I guess I wasn’t taught to keep silent in middle school
when the boys jumped up and down in their seats in math class,
cracking “make me a sandwich” jokes, calling out answers,
as I sat, silent, trying to calculate the calories in my lunch, but
girls aren’t good at math anyway.
I don’t say any of this.
I don’t want to be a two year old, stamping my foot,
conjuring injustice out of the air.
Margaret Heftler, Age 16, Grade 11, The Dalton School, Gold Key
