The only girl in a handful of backseat boys, I sit
shotgun without calling it. The song pounding through
the radio says Bitch every Bitch other Bitch word.
One boy assures me I am not like other girls.
Out of habit, I thank him for the compliment.
I listen to them speak of women like menus;
I cross my legs and nearly fold my voice
into a teal blue Tiffany’s box.
This is the part where I prove that I am chill.
I can hang, guys. Who says feminists are a buzzkill?
As we turn the corner, there is a gaggle of young
women. The driver of the car I am in leans out the window and spits
Eyes wide as dinner plates, they scurry away like shot
pool balls, as I have done so many times.
The whole van hoots, fist-bumps, hollers. There are not enough seats
for both a woman and the joke to fit comfortably in the car.
I keep my rant about feminism and rape culture
as a ponytail holder around my wrist.
In a fish tank of predators, I wonder if I, too, am a predator
When I get the courage to say something,
I am two weeks late and encouraged by Bacardi.
I start by assuring him that he is a Good Person,
which is why I’m telling him this in the first place.
I have to make this matter to him. I have to bring up
his sister, his mother, his girlfriend-
I have to make this accessible to him.
It is the dilemma of the woman who wishes to inform
the sexist, politely.
It is the dilemma of the woman
who wishes to be heard-
Let us give you this reality check
with a spoonful of sugar.
Let us make this easier for you to hear
than it is for us to live."
— SKIRT STEAK GIRLS by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)