there has been a lot of pain these past few weeks.
a lot.
a lot of silencing pain.
that is, a pain that makes it hard to speak.
hard to remember what to say–hard to remember why any of this matters.
the number of times i’ve sat at this computer, looking at my “add new post” page…only to finally click “log out”…uncountable.

***

i laugh sometimes because there is some stupid naive belief put forward by stupid naive feminists that the extent of marital trouble comes with “will those rotten men ever do housework ever?”

i laugh because the real problem that too many women, probably most women in the u.s. struggle with is not so much an issue of work, but an issue of who has best trained themselves to starve.

an old running fight between W* and i: why sweet jesus, WHY did he go out to eat? go out to eat=buy a couple of burritos off the dollar menu at mc donalds. the money he used on those burritos could’ve bought our kids real bread instead of homemade shit.

but you know, W* couldn’t go all day without eating right? he needs *some* nourishment–the last thing we needed was for him to pass out at work and lose his job. right?

except–all the time i’m thinking–WRONG. *I* go all day without eating. i do it goddamn it, so why can’t he?

so we fought and fought and fought over the 2-6 dollars he would spend when the aches got too bad. both of us knowing but neither of us saying–hey, we’re fighting over who is better at starving. we’re fighting over why *he* won’t submit his belly to the cravings when *i* will.

***

figure the gender dynamics of that one out stupid naive feminists. oh, and guess what, right answer =/= W* should train himself to starve too.

***

things are better now. so much better. we always have food in the house, and we don’t have to beg family for money or head to food pantries to do it. and i got a job. a steady job that i believe in with every fiber i have. W* is happy with his job, i am happy with mine, the kids have food, and we don’t worry anymore about being kicked out of our house.

but once you go that low–once you know what it means to be that alone, that *desperate* do you, can you, ever really relax?

***

the problem with “get off your ass and do it yourself, stop bitching, stop complaining, stop crying racism, stop stop stop, pull yourselves up by your boot straps and just DO IT!” is that, well, there’s the practical issue of who the hell is going to *buy* the shit that you self publish? the feminist you piss off by calling her stupid and naive? the white person you pissed off by calling racist? the man you piss off by saying fuck you to? the government that you piss off by naming?

the women of color that are fighting with their partners, fighting with themselves… doing everything they can to control the ache?

***

ah well. that’s capitalism for you! three cheers!

***

a dream: to be a writer. like so many other women, writing writing writing every single day. working hard, staying up late, going to school, working two jobs while in school and being a parent. writing writing writing writing.

a dream: to make it so every single broke ass woman of color is a writer in her own way. speaking. voice. taking up space. laughing and screaming with joy while she does it.

a dream: a little hard work and elbow grease, and everything will be fine.

***

reality: fighting, starving bellies, untreated depression, writing fighting fighting fighting writing untreated anxiety fat wrapped in fat for breakfast writing sugar twisted around sugar for dinner kids screaming kidsbosspartner fightfightfightfight….

***

reality for a dream–is it worth it?

***

worrying about the individual way to get our individual partners to get off their individual asses and do the dishes is not going to make it so that more women can speak. it’s not going to make it so that society listens and cares when ALL women speak, not just the ones that say things the way capitalism wants to hear it said.

***

the day will always come, always, when a woman realizes living her dreams means forever confining herself to the field, picking the fruit other women’s realities are built on.

***

let me say it now so that you don’t have to: bitter, overly dramatic, angry, hostile, alienating, drama queen, accusatory, unclear, jealous jealous jealous jealous.

yes yes, i know, i know.

i am all that and more.

thank you for reminding me.

***

i work so that I can write now. but i do not forget–at one time–for most of my life–i survived because i wrote.

and i think of those women, those girls, that don’t slice themselves, that don’t overdose, that don’t let a man beat them, because they have a voice that helps them bear it. a voice that writes them into reality, lets somebody know that is something horrible does happen, they existed.

they were here, and they breathed and they laughed and they loved and they dreamed and they knew reality.

they dreamed even when they knew reality.
they dreamed because they knew reality.

***

Speak.
Speaking.

***

because one day all of us will realize that there is a *choice*:

working in the fields, picking the fruit for other women’s reality

looking up

or organizing a new world into existence.

from the bottom and to the left.

***

reality: we’re not as alone as we think we are. and we’ve stared down a barrel with worse things that $1600 at the end of it. some day reality won’t suck so hard–until then, there’s us.

it’s the best thing about being us.

***

dedicated to my love, mi amor, adele who reminds me every day what radical love truly is.

***