What I must be
Because I throw up when I read about men who torture captured hawks and falcons, because I grieve the fifty species we lose every day with real tears, because every bloody deer and porcupine, red fox and grey fox, coyote, skunk, and grouse makes me question where we need to go and why we need to get there so damned fast, because I don’t want to lose the polar bears, because I name our factory farms “evil,”
I must be a misanthrope.
Because, dreaming, I invoke Anat and Kali, because I love women and their strength and endurance, because I love what they hope for fight for wait for love for, because I want no woman to bear a child out of guilt out of the desire to be a “real” woman out of a need to please anyone else, because I want Woman to mean Human as much as Man does,
I must be a man-hater.
Because I yearn to curl my body around unprotected children, because I want to take their bruises and broken bones, because I want to rescue my young self along with all the others, because I want the world to hear the stories of incest and all the subtle shadings of abuse,
I must hate adults.
Because I pray for justice in my homeland and justice in all lands, because I call and write my representatives to tell them we must not torture, we must not invade, we must not blockade the food and medicines, because I believe in reparations for slavery and genocide and concentration camps and reservations because I think we live in a racist society because I think maybe other places do it better,
I must be a terrorist.
Because I am angry, because I am not comfortable, because I grieve and rage, because I can’t get away - don’t want to get away - from the voices of the suffering,
I must be hysterical, a “pessimist,” a cynic, a Jeremiah.
But if I forget thee, O polar bears and ivory-billed woodpeckers, O you imprisoned and tortured millions; if I forget thee, O my sisters and children, you who struggle to trust to love to know pleasure to expect kindness; if I forget thee, O Iraq and Afghanistan, refugees and survivors, you who’ve been marginalized, betrayed by your country, whose suffering has been ignored rationalized made light of -
- then let my voice be silent and my right hand wither, if I do not remember thee, O my family.
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"We are a gentle, angry people, and we are singing, singing for our lives." - Holly Near
I must be a misanthrope.
Because, dreaming, I invoke Anat and Kali, because I love women and their strength and endurance, because I love what they hope for fight for wait for love for, because I want no woman to bear a child out of guilt out of the desire to be a “real” woman out of a need to please anyone else, because I want Woman to mean Human as much as Man does,
I must be a man-hater.
Because I yearn to curl my body around unprotected children, because I want to take their bruises and broken bones, because I want to rescue my young self along with all the others, because I want the world to hear the stories of incest and all the subtle shadings of abuse,
I must hate adults.
Because I pray for justice in my homeland and justice in all lands, because I call and write my representatives to tell them we must not torture, we must not invade, we must not blockade the food and medicines, because I believe in reparations for slavery and genocide and concentration camps and reservations because I think we live in a racist society because I think maybe other places do it better,
I must be a terrorist.
Because I am angry, because I am not comfortable, because I grieve and rage, because I can’t get away - don’t want to get away - from the voices of the suffering,
I must be hysterical, a “pessimist,” a cynic, a Jeremiah.
But if I forget thee, O polar bears and ivory-billed woodpeckers, O you imprisoned and tortured millions; if I forget thee, O my sisters and children, you who struggle to trust to love to know pleasure to expect kindness; if I forget thee, O Iraq and Afghanistan, refugees and survivors, you who’ve been marginalized, betrayed by your country, whose suffering has been ignored rationalized made light of -
- then let my voice be silent and my right hand wither, if I do not remember thee, O my family.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
"We are a gentle, angry people, and we are singing, singing for our lives." - Holly Near