A ranty, funny, dead-serious intersectional feminist blog.

Posts tagged “poetry

Bree’s Story

Guest post by Bree

Painting by Georges de La Tour

Painting by Georges de La Tour

When I used to imagine what rape would be, I’d think of a masked man taking you into a back alley and beating you senseless to get what he wanted. As scary as that is by itself, it was scarier for me to realize that rape could come from someone you already knew…perhaps even someone you were dating already. That’s what it was in my case.

I started dating a boy when I was 13. It’s not shocking to say that at that age a boy would already be pushing for sex, and certainly not shocking to say that at that age I didn’t want to. At first It was mostly pressure, him touching, me pushing away and saying no, after a small fight it was stop and later resume again thus causing a bigger fight. But things kept getting progressively worse, he became more aggressive, the fights getting worse after I said no, him being more physical, then it started actually happening. After all the “no’s”…it no longer became worth the effort to fight anymore. This happened for years, getting worse progressively. It began happening in front of his friends, they would watch, not saying anything, then practically high five him afterwards.

I wouldn’t admit it to myself back then. I didn’t tell anyone about it or talk about it at all. He told me I was obligated to do those things because I was his girlfriend, and that’s what girlfriends do, whether we want to or not. It wasn’t until years later when I met someone who tried (and did) eventually save me from this that I was able to admit the dreaded “r” word and realize what it was that really happened to me. I still live with PTSD, I live with the flashbacks and mental scars while I am sure he is somewhere playing his xbox right now with a smile on his face. When I finally left he told his friends I “cheated” so no one would believe my story of the abuse from the boy on the pedestal.

After I started healing I got back into my writing poetry, and then I went on to spoken word. Anything to talk about my story and get it out of my system. I worry about the other girls out there who are in my situation…dating their rapist, and thinking its justified and not rape because they are dating…it’s not true ladies, the sooner you realize that, the sooner you bloom as well.

It gets better–you just have to fight for it.

1-800-656-HOPE


Bree is a poet/spoken-word artist. Visit her website for more of her work.

If you need a safe place to share your story, please visit my Facebook page and contact me via the Message button. ~Rosie


Updates:

Here’s a short film by Jodi Martinez featuring Bree and her story:


Related:

On MMAS:

A Brief History (the Bad Parts version)
I Am Jane Doe
Letter from Another Jane Doe

From the blogosphere:

She Was Asking For It
Respectful discussion is welcome and encouraged. When in doubt, see the Comment Policy.


How Complex Our Predicament…

Poem by MMAS reader Karl Jesse, published with permission.


AlliesWhen I was young, I thought this would get easier,

when I was young, I didn’t care.

The other was a fascination.

A mystery I wanted to swim with.

Now, seeing how complex is our predicament,

I begin to understand.

But I am not afraid.

Because I have walked with you.

Talked with you.

We have wound together.

Stronger, wiser, inseparable.

Something I will never forget.

No, it never got easier,

but it sure got a lot more interesting.


“Train Your Heart Like a Dog.”

Writer Jonathan Carroll posted this on Facebook yesterday. I think it’s beautiful, and it hit close enough to home that it felt almost written for me.

Image

Photo: Lucienne Bloch

leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.

~Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell by Marty McConnell

Fabulous.


Note: I originally attributed this to Frida Kahlo based on the original post (apparently this poem is quite popular on tumblr and this is a common mistake). I also left out the line breaks (which I have now inserted). Apologies to Ms. McConnell. Read more of her poetry here.


Detachable Boobies

I’ve come across a couple of really irritating ads lately. Maybe you’ve seen them. I wanted to write something about them, but they’re just so ridiculous, and while I was annoyed and bothered, I was not inspired. But this morning I woke up with a song running through my head, and that old Wanda Sykes routine snuck in there, too, and I knew what I had to do. I had to dig up the lyrics to an old favorite and breathe new life into them as I have done below especially for you. Why rant when you can SING?!

Detachable Boobies
(with apologies to King Missile)

I woke up this morning with a bad hangover
And my boobies were missing again.
This happens all the time.
They’re detachable.

[background singers repeat: “detachable boobies” (THIS IS YOUR PART!)]

Axe: “Office Love”

This comes in handy a lot of the time.
I can leave them at home, when I think they’re gonna get me in trouble,
or I can rent them out to Madison Ave, when I don’t need them.
But now and then I go to a party, get drunk,
and the next morning I can’t for the life of me
remember what I did with them.
First I looked around my apartment, and I couldn’t find them.
So I called up the place where the party was,
they hadn’t seen them either.
I asked them to check the vegetable crisper in the fridge
’cause for some reason I leave them there sometimes
But not this time.
So I told them if they pop up to let me know.
I called a few people who were at the party,
but they were no help either.
I was starting to get desperate.
I really don’t like being without my boobies for too long.
It makes me feel like less of a boobie-haver,
and I really hate the way my clothes fit without them.
After a few hours of searching the house,
and calling everyone I could think of,
I was starting to get very depressed,
so I went to the Hurricane and ate breakfast.

8 airbags! Classy, Mercedes.

Then, as I walked down First Avenue towards Pike Place Market,
where all those people sell used books and other junk on the street,
I saw my boobies lying on a blanket
next to a penis.
Some guy was selling my boobies.
He had got them cheap off an ad exec who had a whole bunch for some reason.
I had to buy them off blanket guy. My own boobies.
I took them home, washed them off,
and put them back on. I was happy again. Complete.
People sometimes tell me I should get them permanently attached,
but I don’t know.
Even though sometimes it’s a pain in the ass,
I like having detachable boobies.

[background singers repeat “detachable boobies” and fade out]