My dad took me to see Bill Cosby in Columbus, Ohio when I was a kid. We used to listen to a record of him talking, which I could only pretend to find funny even then, but dad liked it and wanted to see him in person. The venue had really narrow seating, and although I could barely hear Cosby’s routine, I laughed for most of the show. I had brought a friend with me, who was heavier set, and she squirmed miserably the whole time, at one point looking pleadingly at me and whispering, “I’m trying to get comfortable.” Now, he’s in the slammer, and I get a little ill every time I think of Pudding Pops.
Not too long ago, Uncle Frank died. He terrorized three generations of women in my family. My mom was a little girl when he exposed himself behind a door jam, so that all she could see was his ghostly pale member protruding through the open walkway. She would laugh when she told the story but reminded us to stay clear of him. He was regarded as a family clown, but on his death bed, as my mom put it, he finally “got her.” As she sat at the edge of his bed to bid him farewell, his toes wriggled contentedly into her buttocks. He died with a smile on his face. We laugh, but it isn’t funny. Who knows what he did on his free time?
Continue reading “Falling Rocks by Natalie Weaver”
I had a completely different post that I was going to submit for my FAR contribution this month, but that went out the window on Thursday September 27th with the Supreme Court Justice Nomination hearings of Brett Kavanaugh and the testimony of Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford. And with the Friday’s senate committee’s vote to allow for Brett Kavanaugh to be one step closer to being sworn in as a Supreme Court Justice, I am reminded once again how important our work here on Feminsmandreligion.com is. It has put a spotlight on the pervasive and pernicious rhetoric that surrounds sexual violence, toxic masculinity, and hatred.
Continue reading “I Believe Dr. Blasey Ford by Anjeanette LeBoeuf”
I need the grandmothers to help me
re-member my rage.
Cross stitch. Double knot. I sew it back on. The raggedy parts I let fly loose
when I thought it was OK to not be “so angry.”
“Boys will be boys.”
And so then, girls will be angry.
And we will re-member—our rage.
I need the great aunts, and all the old women with the signs that read,
“We are still protesting this shit.”
I need them, this herstory to help me
re-member my rage, feel it strong and tight. Cross stitch. Double knot. Those women re-member
me. I am that woman. She is me.
Our rage is a song.
After all this time, we are still singing it. Our rage
is a river and we swim in it, even if it’s upstream. There is a fierce mermaid goddess,
Yemaya. She protects us. She knows
our rage is our best defense.
Our rage is a
swarm of bees. Not yet extinct. Our rage
is holy. Terror. Continue reading “Poem: #MeToo, We Re-Member by Marie Cartier”