7:35 p.m. - 01/16/03
you see, and to me, that's poetry too.
I am not an angry girl. I'm a girl who feels anger. There's a difference.
*
Alarm by Mary Brave
my surroundings lie
somewhere between sick and sickening
somewhere between sadness, screaming
tantrum-throwing and a groan
there's this poem
and boiling below all the injustice I must see
there's still me. I'm still aware
though callous Calvin Klein ads model not to care
though mastered masses maintain the status quo
we claim our helplessness not our despair
we use the proven slogan "life is never fair"
to excuse ourselves from progressing toward that goal
better keep our gazes down now
better keep our voices low
listen closely to the lullabies that play
so subtly while we fight to stay awake
keep one eye open when you're sleeping
one punch primed so your spirit doesn't break
it's not too late. this is our alarm.
my dear, there's no such thing as harmless hatred
no such thing as just a joke, just a jingle, just a word
every single song you've ever heard
shapes you, the words you listen to
instill inside a silence, if you refuse to speak,
so right now, I need you to shout
I need you to let your most dangerous angers
leak
out
here's mine. here's where my mind
goes when it refuses to toe the line
outside wal-mart between the carousel
and the claw machine, there's a metal scale
whose talons tear at me; it's fool-proof
or so it reads. it's perfectly capable
of quantifying me and spitting back a number
nice and round. it can condense me pound for pound
it dares define me by my weight
it lies: it tells me, you are too big to survive
on such an empty plate. go back inside.
pick up a few more products to amuse
your lazy self along the ride. it clues me in
to what I need so I stay stuck inside
that revolving door. call me insatiable.
I need more. more. more.
stored inside me there is endless energy
ferocity. elements and chemicals climb
in beakers between my muscles and my bones
I escape measurement. I echo like an earthquake
off the ground. coax my voice to taste the timbre
of new sounds. I escalate.
my needs know nothing of my weight.
my worth is not weighed in pounds.
do you understand? every way I turn
I'm cornered. I must defend the life
I'm meant to live.
I must defend my generosity, when
despite their pressure, I refuse
to give.
I come home exhausted
(the effort it takes to counter their conditioning)
I slip into a chair. click the television on
I'm only half-aware. I am weary.
I'm ready to relax. I'm not in the mood
to defend myself against a whole new set
of these subtle, sickening attacks.
example: she's belittled. beaten. raped.
she is a whore. she's a slut. overweight.
she stuffs food inside to silence her own need
for more. she's low on the totem pole. base.
she scrubs and paints and cuts apart her face.
surely someone in l.a. can repair. her teeth
her lips her thighs her skin her hair.
we're so busy watching weight we're unaware
we aren't defined by the poison they've placed
inside our minds. every thought inside us is electric.
consider that. I have a great relationship
with gravity. they call it fat.
ym (readership: women twelve to twenty-four)
wants to know how I handle those diet-coke cravings
when I just can't seem to take them anymore
let me tell you what else I can't take
what can simply screw itself for the fucking sake
of half the population (or more: I believe
in male feminists, men with open eyes
willing to join the war). I'm for
burning every Subway napkin, lighting a flame
under its calorie comparisons, its claim
that people are somehow lesser for enjoying cheese.
please. someone revamp lifetime tv.
television for women? when all we are is
lost, harassed, abused? these are the dramas
that amuse the women they invent. I suppose.
those women I know think it's an issue
when corporations misuse their power to impose
a standard of the extreme. we stifle our outrage
when we allow this to entertain.
we lose our right to stand in our own forums,
to explain in our own words. because yes
these tales of triumph over torture must be heard
but you have a voice, too. you have your own words
and the solution needs as many stanzas as you allow the injury
tell me of your pain, then start again with your recovery
our discovery is silenced. they've heard it all before.
but it will take more than a decade or two of new stories
to even the score.
there's more. if you need it, I'll explain
the story of the individual who drains
an entire bottle of diet pills in less than one day
going to exercise my inferiority away
I can't check my e-mail without the latest
e-diets ad greeting me, depleting me
it's a constant barrage. do I even exist
inside this? am I just a media-induced hallucination?
a mirage?
after years of Oxygen, I'm still gasping for air
still rearranging old mantras to read: is this
really fair? is this really all we are?
can we really cure our crises with a bimbo
and a brand new car? I'll show you the scars
cut into me by fashion magazines,
situation-comedies, commercials selling jewelry
and buying souls. this isn't less important
because it's been around so long. it's more intense.
it's equally wrong.
but momma's got the magic of clorox
and barbie's got the plastic smile
what else do we need? speak up
we've all been encapsulated
we all have the right to be freed.
one day, tears stinging all three of my eyes
I was ordered to realize that "I can't go off
in a corner and pout every time I face
something unfair." the truth inside a statement
spoken with such cruelty is rare. but it is true.
I can't run away. I have to scream my stories,
recognize the resistance, progress anyway
listen. you can hear the possibility. consider me.
consider what you have to say.
consider where you go when you can't run away.
what's left? the opportunity. what if
every so often a choosy *father* chose Jif?
a girl in touch with an entire spectrum of emotions
wasn't angry, unfeminine, condemned?
what if it wasn't always us against them?
we witness our history and use it to create our future,
our fate. this is what I know (now)
it isn't too late.
it�s time to let our voices loose.
shake out new surroundings with their weight.
*
chord
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