My previous post about race has me all riled up. Actually, it's not the post so much but the statistic--I'm still in shock. Shame on us, Minnesota.
Warning: Heavy Feminist Hand Ahead
Here's a poem by Joan Larkin:
with which you still hate
is a kiss for the fathers.
This is old-time, down-home feminism of those bra-burning, free-loving sixties. Larkin's poems are about rape and incest. Hers was a body that suffered the worst our culture has to offer women.
But take away the word 'fathers' and I can acknowledge how very hard it is to be truly 100% comfortable in this female flesh--flesh that both traps and baits, is desired and reviled, sells and is sold.
I threw out the family scale a few months back. Actually, John did it for me because I didn't have the strength.
Do I feel liberated? Well. . . . now I have a pair of jeans that I must try on every single morning to insure they fit exactly like they did the day before.
Boy, I need all kinds of revolutions today.