On Being A Girl
“I was thirteen years old the first time I was told that my unextraordinary hips had become love handles it was in that moment I became on object of perverse affection monkey bars were still my favorite and I’d do cartwheels until I was too dizzy to stand but when I sat I had to cross my legs because open was to mean invitation and I didn’t want to invite anybody to a party I had no intention of throwing” Why this poem? Why now? The older I get, the more I see it and the more I see it the angrier I get. I am objectified. I’ve been objectified since birth. Nearly every girl has. It’s little things you don’t notice when you’re little. Like being told to cover up so that boys can focus in school. Hide your shoulders. They’re distracting. It’s big things like, “well did you see what she was wearing.” I DON’T CARE. It’s never the victims fault. Women are taught from a young age how to make themselves invisible. We are taught to be “nice ladies” and to never be too loud. And to n