megandthewaves

Wondering & wandering

The Vanishing Women

This post was inspired by the above YouTube video posted by Jessica Levenson on Upworthy. For those too lazy or without the bandwidth to watch it, the video shows American student, Lily Myers, articulating poignant truths about men and women.

It got me thinking so much about the relationship between women and size that I felt myself unraveling quicker than a measuring tape at a fat camp. It made me think about the women I know who have shrunk, literally and figuratively, into themselves while all around them men grew into gargantuan slabs of humanity. It reminded me of my own slight stature, and the way men and women have related to me because of it. I have been short and petite my whole life, as has my sister and my mother. It’s genetic, and as countless people have told me, I should “be grateful”.

I should not complain about being unable to find clothes that fit my proportions, and definitely not vocalise my inability to reach anything higher than the third shelf in a supermarket. In fact, I should consider myself very “lucky” that I’m so small, since A. “Men are likely to find you more approachable than taller girls”, B. “Small girls are cute”, C. “You’ll always look younger you are” and D. “Men will feel an instinctive need to protect you.”

Plus I’ll no doubt have “lighter periods”, “never have to worry about dieting” and “any boy, no matter how strong, can pick you up without trouble.” Yes, I have been told all those things by people who failed to notice their patronising tone and the undercurrent of pedophilia souring their every syllable. Because in a society that praises the female disappearing act, being short or looking younger than you are or have a higher-pitched voice or smaller feet is supposedly an advantage.

It doesn’t take a lecture on Nervous Conditions to establish how sickening this symbiosis between weight, size, womanhood and sexuality actually is. Below is the rant I can’t quite articulate without that crutch called free verse.

Growing in towards the feelings we chew
like the food we throw up or
the dessert we spit out, we
shrink shrink shrink
into ourselves
and away from the space in which we’re not allowed to
exist.

Away from confrontations,
inwards like a dying vine that wraps itself around our figures in
wire and elastic and suffocating materials that hold up our breasts and suck in our bums,
and create dips in the waist that aren’t there but we’re told should be.
Sorry sorry sorry.

Covering the nipples in the bikinis and vests and underwear
that sexualise our human form,
we hide discomfort or cold or goosebumps in case
these should be considered signs
of our arousal.

Swallowing the low-kilojoule wine in thirsty gulps,
falling into misery and pain and solitude,
reveling in the drunkenness which we are permitted and which is intensified
by the empty stomach
we took our first sip on.

Secretly hating each other:
dreaming of misfortune while our brothers and fathers and boyfriends and husbands
clap each other on the back
and shake hands
and reach for the bill and the beer and the burger
that is theirs to pay and drink and eat,
while we cast our eyes down to the floors we’ve been trained to clean
the towels we know to pick up
the dirt we’re brought up to notice,
the dust we spend our leaves sweeping away,
away away away
from us.

Small and alone in the feelings that not even we understand,
that we choose to ignore as we congratulate friends
on their collarbones and jutting hips and sharp ribs,
when we punish ourselves for the breasts that aren’t perfect circles
and the labia that won’t hide inside of us like the rest of our reproductive organs,
when we grab our stomachs and thighs in angry fistfuls
and resolve ourselves to painful hours of hatred,
or pick and tear and shave and wax away every trace of the hair that could be considered masculine.
Hide hide hide,
disguise.

And then we’re back to our salads
and our fruit
and our low-GI
organic
healthy meal
that leaves our bodies when the last carefully chewed mouthful is swallowed.
Out through our mouths or in the gym or,
and here the collective shudder,
in the natural way that food leaves our bodies
but that we won’t name or admit to,
disguising sounds and smells and sights from male partners,
should they accidentally realise that our bodies too digest food.

We hold each others’ hands while we walk to the bathrooms
to do the secret, private things
that women do away from the giant omniscient
God
of
Men,
that banishes us to mirrors and stalls and bathrooms
to cover up imperfections because we’re not perfect,
with the concealer we spent our lunch money on,
and to insert the tampons that cost more than the meal that we skipped.
burrowing away the fact of our womanhood:
the blood we’re taught
to hate
and despise
and dread
and scrub
lest someone sees and knows we’re human.

 

 

 

Incidentally, Lily Myers won ‘Best Love Poem’ for her performance of ‘Shrinking Women’ at the 2013 College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational.

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6 comments on “The Vanishing Women

  1. Deva
    October 23, 2013

    Oh how I would love to see this poem performed Meg, though it would require a bravery I do not yet possess.

    • megandthewaves
      October 23, 2013

      Thank you my friend. Way back when I had arrogance and ignorance on my side I used to perform poetry but haven’t for at least ten years.

  2. Pingback: Getting published #1 | megandthewaves

  3. Charmante Pearce
    November 1, 2013

    Amazing my friend! So proud of you and it’s being published 🙂

  4. Zelda
    November 1, 2013

    You are so very talented, Meggie.

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This entry was posted on October 22, 2013 by .
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