it is tiring, being endless political just as someone existing. my teacher asks me if iâm writing more of that âfeminist poetry.â a lot of it is just talking about me, being a woman, being afraid in the city. i write about walking a line, about how i am expected to choose between home and work, how each comes with a slew of its own insults; how it feels when i am wearing shorts and there are too many men outside. these are just facts of my life. someone in the comments says, âwhere are woman even coming up with these crazy generalizations in their feminism?â
i hold hands with the prettiest girl iâve ever seen and someone sighs when they see me. âdo they have to make everything gay?â she asks her friend, loudly, âlike, do you have to force those views in my face all the time?â i canât stop blushing. my girlfriend holds my fingers tighter, tighter, tighter, until my knuckles are white, and i let her. somehow, this is us, protesting.
my fatherâs cuban blood stains my skin, i think. when i am honored with a position in the deanâs private council, a boy sneers, âyou only got in because youâre hispanic.â did i? i spend the rest of our meetings wondering if i was selected for my stellar academic record, for the multiple recommendations, for the clubs i lead - or if i was just a move the dean made, to make use of me. when we all take a picture, the dean brings me in the front. in the first three we take, i am not smiling.
it is odd. âi exist.â i say, âi deserve to exist.â
âoh my god,â he groans, âwe get it, youâre a feminist.â