Note: In the wake of Donald Trump's most recent slew of disgusting comments towards women, and in the defenses I have seen made over them, I wrote this poem. The items in italics are actual quotes from the mouth of the actual republican candidate in this election. Keep that in mind.
On The Prospect of Being A Woman in Donald Trump's America
I am a woman, and I am not beautiful.
“I really understand beauty.”
Some of you who hear me say this may disagree,
Possibly because you are literally my mother,
Or you maybe happen to find my personal brand of appearance
Attractive, or perhaps you wish that I could love myself
And find beauty elsewhere in my being other than
The surface of my skin.
“You know, it doesn’t really matter what the media writes about you as long as you have a young and beautiful piece of ass on your arm”
None of you are wrong, as beauty lies in the
Eye of the beholder, but in the gaze of the public,
Under the checklist on the rubric of
American beauty standards,
I am not beautiful.
“My women are the most beautiful.”
I wish it didn’t matter.
Sometimes I am brave enough to think we may be
Nearing the time where not only is beauty allowed to be
Diverse and not formed in a certain plastic mold,
but in the image of Humanity herself.
And then I turn on the television.
I open a newspaper.
I peer into social media.
And there he is.
“I do own Miss Universe, I do own Miss U.S.A.”
His wide wrinkled lips spread open,
His harsh grating, uncouth voice spilling out,
His words a million straight-razors loosing the cages
Of the animals who have waited for him,
As his vitriol oils the rusted vocal cords of like-minded
Scum who suddenly feel emboldened enough
To crawl out of their shadowy, damp caves
And spit on, beat, verbally abuse, urinate on, rape
Those they have hated quietly for so long.
“When you’re a star, they let you do it.”
I am white.
I am Christian, able-bodied,
Straight,cisgender, from a suburban family. And still, even I, nearly the picture of privilege,
l have reason to be frozen with fear at the prospect of
Eight years, eight horrific, frightening years,
At the prospect of a Donald Trump presidency.
“I’ve had a beautiful campaign.”
Because I am a woman, and all of us
Who happen to be female have every reason to want to
Purchase pepper spray, and hold our keys between
White-knuckled fingers crossing dark parking lots alone,
Especially with that man so dangerously close to
Sitting, smug and orange, in the oval office.
“This is nothing more than a distraction.”
Those of us who are perceived as beautiful risk being reduced,
At the blatant example of the potential President of the United States,
To their body parts, laid out like a buffet for the hungry eyes
And the reaching, greedy fingers of lecherous men.
Because, after all, isn’t it only natural?
“26,000 unreported sexual assaults in the military-only 238 convictions. What did these geniuses expect when they put men and women together?”
And those of us who are not seen as sexually desirable
Will be crushed under heels of dress shoes and work boots alike,
In the company of drugstore brand cigarette butts,
Because our faces and bodies do not please them,
Hushed up because no one likes to look at us,
So nothing we say, feel, need matters.
“This was locker room banter.”
And our country’s daughters who deserve respect and equality,
Will look into the reflective glass of Donald Trump’s empty eyes,
And begin to watch their reflections warp until they are nothing more
Than whatever inconsequential pieces of them are left after his pet buzzards,
lovingly named Misogyny and Chauvinism pick over them,
Reducing them, these precious young women of incalculable value,
To quiet piles of
Bone and
ash and
Dust.
“We’re only getting started, and it’s going to be beautiful.”
"We're only getting started."
