Street art in Havana, Cuba 2016. Artist unknown When I was seventeen my boyfriend punched me in the face
He said my platform boots made me too tall
I recoiled at first,
shocked at the overt manifestation of violence with which he invoked in a feverish attempt to make me small
Then I hit him back
And vowed that I would let no man strike me again
And after all was said and done and blood was let in bathroom stalls
I wore those boots with pride as I walked /part dragged myself through the next year of my life
Fierce. I repeated like a record needle hitting fine cat hair
Maybe I was slow to the roll
Because the pride I carried was measured at my refusal to harbor someone’s fist on my skin
And I did not realize that They [Man] did strike…again and again and again
With words and gropes and looks and uninvited hands on hips as I danced at the shows
Always these hungry, entitled jabs insisting for our vulnerable bodies
To be smaller
To refuse boots that make you taller
To acquiesce because your strength should be born in the ability to nurture fragile egos
Caught in a trap of masculinity that your own height wishes to eradicate from the worlds they push their flesh upon
While they [perhaps subconsciously?] wrestle to take you down
And here’s the part of the conversation that I really hope you hear
I do not offer this small piece of recollection to encourage pity or fear
But reflection
Let me be clear
We have sped our trajectory into an abyss
Created by our own inabilities to recognize the violence inherent in the everyday
Our refusal to accept that we are implicit in conquest when we are silent in the face of such violence
And violence is not solely a fist on a face
Violence is in this profoundly disturbing insistence on homogenous beauty
That asks bodies to break themselves
To remove ribs so that width may be deterred
To lighten skin so that radiance can be reified as that which only certain hues may have
To widen eyes so that we may look innocent and curious as opposed to infuriated and awakened
Violence is on the streets and in the bars and in the homes and bedrooms
When bodies are forcibly maneuvered into particular spaces designed for shitting
When dancing becomes dangerous, an interpretation of invitation to touch that form which never asked for such intrusions
When words are screamed from windows rolled down
When keys are clenched in fists because – and please don’t make me repeat this again –
Wom/e/y/n are fucking scared to walk home alone at night and you ask of us to make sure we keep ourselves safe instead of demanding a stop to violence that makes hands shake even when they are holding mace
Violence is on the tip of our tongues always as we cut ourselves down
Consigned to the myriad of ways that the everyday tells us to
HUSH
CROSS YOUR LEGS
DON’T CUSS
Violence is the person standing in the hot shower screaming that they’ve survived
Water scorching red tendrils on the skin
Because the pain is both a reminder that they are alive and a slight consent to the trauma that repeats to them that they must burn
Violence is in the tens of thousands living on the street
Kept from sleeping on benches or in doorways to shield themselves from the rain
By sharp metal spikes that would puncture such weary skin
Violence is in the constant craving of property and profit that has pushed these bodies to the margins
And the eyes that anxiously avoid their gaze when they stand with their cardboard sign or approach asking if you might spare a dime or even, god forbid, just a moment of your time
Violence is in the people on the street who giggle or stand idly by
As a man runs after a woman and locks her neck as he pulls her hair
Violence is in the blame we place on bodies without a state
This fucking wonder wall we keep hearing so damn much about
Some giggle or roll their eyes and make some comment about the world going to hell
Others raise their fists and scream YES, YES
Keep them out
Refusing to recognize that the wall has deflected them too
Violence is in the conversation that we aren’t having
The one where a presidential nominee is about to stand in court
For raping a young girl (and this isn’t the first)
Violence is in the media spin
How quickly we forget
Weapons of mass destruction
Wars waged on lies
September 11 …
1973
Peace prizes wrapped in drones
Violence is in our air
Programmed in our speech
In the exasperation in writing about something so damn pervasive that you cannot even begin to attend to every form of pain that you read, see, or hear about each day
It's greatest victory our distance from one another following repeated attempts to nurture a culture of fear
Predicated on mythos formulated by hierarchies that the reinforce this illusion of superiority
That asks
No…
Demands
That so many of us
Divided by differences that if spoken about could attack ignorance
Avoid boots that make us taller
He said my platform boots made me too tall
I recoiled at first,
shocked at the overt manifestation of violence with which he invoked in a feverish attempt to make me small
Then I hit him back
And vowed that I would let no man strike me again
And after all was said and done and blood was let in bathroom stalls
I wore those boots with pride as I walked /part dragged myself through the next year of my life
Fierce. I repeated like a record needle hitting fine cat hair
Maybe I was slow to the roll
Because the pride I carried was measured at my refusal to harbor someone’s fist on my skin
And I did not realize that They [Man] did strike…again and again and again
With words and gropes and looks and uninvited hands on hips as I danced at the shows
Always these hungry, entitled jabs insisting for our vulnerable bodies
To be smaller
To refuse boots that make you taller
To acquiesce because your strength should be born in the ability to nurture fragile egos
Caught in a trap of masculinity that your own height wishes to eradicate from the worlds they push their flesh upon
While they [perhaps subconsciously?] wrestle to take you down
And here’s the part of the conversation that I really hope you hear
I do not offer this small piece of recollection to encourage pity or fear
But reflection
Let me be clear
We have sped our trajectory into an abyss
Created by our own inabilities to recognize the violence inherent in the everyday
Our refusal to accept that we are implicit in conquest when we are silent in the face of such violence
And violence is not solely a fist on a face
Violence is in this profoundly disturbing insistence on homogenous beauty
That asks bodies to break themselves
To remove ribs so that width may be deterred
To lighten skin so that radiance can be reified as that which only certain hues may have
To widen eyes so that we may look innocent and curious as opposed to infuriated and awakened
Violence is on the streets and in the bars and in the homes and bedrooms
When bodies are forcibly maneuvered into particular spaces designed for shitting
When dancing becomes dangerous, an interpretation of invitation to touch that form which never asked for such intrusions
When words are screamed from windows rolled down
When keys are clenched in fists because – and please don’t make me repeat this again –
Wom/e/y/n are fucking scared to walk home alone at night and you ask of us to make sure we keep ourselves safe instead of demanding a stop to violence that makes hands shake even when they are holding mace
Violence is on the tip of our tongues always as we cut ourselves down
Consigned to the myriad of ways that the everyday tells us to
HUSH
CROSS YOUR LEGS
DON’T CUSS
Violence is the person standing in the hot shower screaming that they’ve survived
Water scorching red tendrils on the skin
Because the pain is both a reminder that they are alive and a slight consent to the trauma that repeats to them that they must burn
Violence is in the tens of thousands living on the street
Kept from sleeping on benches or in doorways to shield themselves from the rain
By sharp metal spikes that would puncture such weary skin
Violence is in the constant craving of property and profit that has pushed these bodies to the margins
And the eyes that anxiously avoid their gaze when they stand with their cardboard sign or approach asking if you might spare a dime or even, god forbid, just a moment of your time
Violence is in the people on the street who giggle or stand idly by
As a man runs after a woman and locks her neck as he pulls her hair
Violence is in the blame we place on bodies without a state
This fucking wonder wall we keep hearing so damn much about
Some giggle or roll their eyes and make some comment about the world going to hell
Others raise their fists and scream YES, YES
Keep them out
Refusing to recognize that the wall has deflected them too
Violence is in the conversation that we aren’t having
The one where a presidential nominee is about to stand in court
For raping a young girl (and this isn’t the first)
Violence is in the media spin
How quickly we forget
Weapons of mass destruction
Wars waged on lies
September 11 …
1973
Peace prizes wrapped in drones
Violence is in our air
Programmed in our speech
In the exasperation in writing about something so damn pervasive that you cannot even begin to attend to every form of pain that you read, see, or hear about each day
It's greatest victory our distance from one another following repeated attempts to nurture a culture of fear
Predicated on mythos formulated by hierarchies that the reinforce this illusion of superiority
That asks
No…
Demands
That so many of us
Divided by differences that if spoken about could attack ignorance
Avoid boots that make us taller
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