Nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent.
Audio files for this poem/performance (recommended): mp3 | m4a
For the Little Girl with the Unicorn Skirt
When I was eleven my father brought home boxes, lean,
crisply wrapped in silver and green,
carefully placed them in the den
and called me in.
Happy Birthday, honey: in each box a chemistry set
- two of them.
Having watched me in the backyard measuring sand,
dissecting flowers and mixing mud between my two hands
carefully spreading it into every cup and pan
stolen from momma’s kitchen-
although the neighbors labored under the impression
that I was simply a baker and maker of pies,
he understood my obsession -
saw the world unfolding green in my eyes
and knew I was a scientist.
And when I tried out for the softball team
even though I threw like a girl with no self-esteem
he took me aside, bought me a glove,
showed me how to catch and dive, to learn to love
how to hurl that leather sphere
up, up into the atmosphere;
He taught me the physics of the game and tossed me the bat -
the bat that should have been too heavy -
Hit it out of this world, he said. I know you can do that.
And when the ball and bat did meet
he knew, and I knew, that I was an athlete.
When the van broke down and he tore out the seats
he made sure I was beside him, wrenches and screwdrivers gleaming in reach,
taught me to disconnect the wires, unbolt the alternator,
disassemble it with grease-streaked hands; check the rotor, stator.
Don’t be afraid, he said, a car is just a piece of art,
an engine, composed of science - you just have to take it apart.
From there he taught me, take after take,
how to remove the oil pan, change a tire, replace the brakes-
he never wanted me on the side of the road
dependent on a man who might grope me, or rape me, to stop or offer a tow.
And while the boys next door thought it was odd,
laughed at my hair and cheeks striped with grime and sod
little did they know that I was on my way
to becoming a goddess
of the machine.
This is not to say that my father
didn’t let me play in girlish ways.
He was a pragmatic man,
he only wanted me to understand
that Barbie didn’t have to wear dresses
or grow out her tresses
if she didn’t want to -
she could have any job she wanted
because she was capable,
because Ken is never a necessity-
just an accessory-
and she had no need to accessorize for him,
to prop him up or hide in his stead
You can stand on your own, my father said.
Now I want you to understand
that my father was not a perfect man -
he occasionally made the distinction
between black, white, and tan
and for that there is no excuse I can make for him-
he came of age through the revolutions,
saw the evolution
of the sixties and seventies
and the plight of women and minorities.
One thing he understood was that the world
thought that little girls should only do good
as good was defined -
child-rearing, housekeeping, hanging laundry on the line.
You can do so much more than that, he told me.
And in all these things, he gave me a gift
because in my mind there was a cataclysmic shift,
and I learned that no task, no challenge, no job is too hard,
you just have to take each step apart
like the pieces to a car,
or the forces on a ball,
or the chemicals in a reaction.
Through him I learned that to be a girl
in this world meant not that I lacked the ability
but that I simply had to overcome the authority
that said I could not, would not, should not,
be the amazing being that I am.
So when I see you, little girl,
squatting on the playground with your straggling curls
digging into the clovers and dandelions
in your bright pink skirt
lined with rainbows and dirt --
when I hear your daddy, meaning well, tell you
be a good girl, don’t get filthy, come here, let me fix your hair--
I want to remind him that you don’t need
luck or wishes or Prince Charming on his steed
and you don’t need a clean skirt or a pretty face
to be a force of nature.
I want to see you get your hands dirty as you tear down walls with me,
your skirt black with mud as you charge through life with me
walk without fear and overcome strife with me.
I want to watch the world recede from you as you lead,
tall and powerful, and I want you to learn that there is no need -
no need -- for you to be good - not when you are already great.
And as you play in the dirt, drawing hearts in the sand,
know the world lies before you like the grains in your hand,
and that you can move it, shape it, however you please
because you are powerful; you are all that you need.
I know, because my father taught me that.
~
This has been my entry for Week 4, Season 9 of therealljidol, and my poem for day 6 of NaPoWrimo. :D