“It’s always surprising to me how many young women think they have to be perfect. I rarely meet a young man who doesn’t think he already is.”
– Hillary Clinton
I wasn’t sure how I felt about the above lines when I read them but I certainly didn’t like them.
I come home, tired, exhausted, deadbeat with genuine anxiety
And mental flurry pounding my brain, I ask for food and am scorned at
Like I have a perpetual blood stain
Guilty of crimes I have never thought of committing
But the feminists still come raging my way.
How do I tell them that even on my best days
I’m a ‘male chauvinist’ at the very least
and a yahoo rapist at the most.
That if I am not dressed with a pretentious dignity
And bear a skin tone multiple shades darker than normal
I am irrefutably assumed to have mischief up my sleeve,
But I’ll be spared if my attire is instead something formal.
That I won’t get my child’s custody, when I deserve it
Because I wasn’t born a nurturer.
That apparently I didn’t know an abusive relationship
For I am not one and could not be.
But I’d like to tell them about my college girlfriend
Whose words still sting against my skin like a whip.
I have my daughter telling me-
Daddy, it’s not the same!
She looks me in the eye and I can’t help but
Notice the emerging resentment in her exclaim.
I try to explain that the door can open both ways
Expectations and conformity have reigned our world for
Centuries and we are still its slaves.
I truly believe that these feminists are waves of change,
And as impossible and strange it may sound,
I can still be a feminist in my own personal ways.
But my fight for gender equality sometimes seems to lack the heat
Is it because nobody seems to see me cry
Is my gender somehow less elite?