We were trained to fit better. To dumb down, slim down, shut up. To undo our personal catastrophes in quiet, with a delicate touch. To agree, to conceed, to cooperate. To flinch when we gave our names. To say everything with a look, to say nothing aloud, to pray for forgiveness rather than ask for permission.
We were trained to pocket the problems, to walk quicker, to drop our throats into whispers when we say what happened to her. We were not trained on how to help her, just how not to become her, a voiceless scream, a crime that belongs to nobody. To fit in by blending, by not being victim, by pretending not to feel weak.
We were trained to eat less where they could see, to collaborate, to look down, lie down, give up. To nurture, to accept responsibility for, to nurse wounds. To deliver the word “no” so delicately it is a leaf that barely breaks the water, to deliver our proudest achievements with a shame and humility that breaks us. To accept that our labor is cheap, that we are a polical debate, that we are not invited to discussions of our worth, of our bodies.
We are taught to sit still, to cross legs, to swallow our fists. We are taught to accept the one girl that fits into the movie. That we, as an audience, are too many, have tastes that are too specific, that we should be content with our romance movies, that we belong to a niche where at the end we see ourselves get married.
We learn to hate pink, resent flowers. Chew our way out of cages. We take back our kitchens for the knives, we wear high heels to church, we tap long fingers on hardwood. We learn to fix the tire, to play the game anyway, to cut our own castles, to write poems. We learn to use our fists, to not apologize so often. To eventually be abrupt, to be fierce, to be wild and proud of it.
We learn to be witch, to be a sandstorm, to be hellhound. To love to be bitch.
