Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience – Beth Daniel

As the incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty, and community.

                

In this spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems of resistance, power, and resilience.

We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, explicitly condones or implies a call for violence, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.

For guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post. 

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A Voice That Shakes:  A Letter to My Daughter Following the 2016 Election

by Beth Daniel

Dear​ ​Ella, 

There​ ​is​ ​a​ ​scar​ ​above​ ​my​ ​pubic​ ​area 

where​ ​you​ ​were​ ​pulled​ ​from​ ​that​ ​tiny​ ​opening. 

As​ ​I​ ​laid​ ​crucified,

bound​ ​to​ ​a​ ​cold​ ​metal​ ​table 

​you​ ​came​ ​into​ ​this​ ​world, 

screaming​ ​til​ ​your​ ​voice​ ​was​ ​shaking.

Bloody, 

railing​ ​against​ ​your​ ​forced​ ​evacuation, 

I​ ​heard​ ​my​ ​voice​ ​in​ ​you​ ​then. 

My​ ​darling​ ​sprite,

you​ ​have​ ​the​ ​voice​ ​and​ ​you​ ​have​ ​the​ ​fight 

Fierce​ ​was​ ​the​ ​first​ ​adjective​ ​I​ ​used​ ​to​ ​describe​ ​you.  

Fiercely, you​ ​fought​ ​the​ ​swaddle, 

Your​ ​tiny​ ​legs​ ​and​ ​arms​ ​would​ ​flail​ ​about. 

You​ ​always​ ​escaped. 

You​ ​would​ ​not​ ​be​ ​confined.

You​ ​were​ ​born​ ​wild. 

You​ ​were​ ​born​ ​free. 

I​ ​knew​ ​then,​ ​as​ ​I​ ​know​ ​now, 

you​ ​were​ ​born​ ​prepared​ ​for​ ​the​ ​fight. 

I​ ​know​ ​this​ ​as​ ​y​ou​ ​stomp​ ​your​ ​feet 

declaring​ ​your​ ​toddler​ ​right 

for​ ​one​ ​more​ ​story​ ​or​ ​one​ ​more​ ​Doc.​ ​Mcstuffins. 

  

I​ ​know​ ​this​ ​as​ ​you​ ​demand​ ​to​ ​wear 

two​ ​different​ ​flip​ ​flops 

with​ ​socks 

in​ ​November.

I​ ​acquiesce​ ​saying,​ ​“Your​ ​body,​your​ ​choice”. 

And then my​ ​mouth​ ​drops​ ​as​ ​you​ ​repeat​ ​it.

A​ ​question​ ​first,​ ​“My​ ​body,​ ​my​ ​choice?” 

I​ ​smile​ ​and​ ​nod.

You​ ​begin​ ​to​ ​chant,​ ​“My​ ​body​ ​my​ ​choice” 

“My​ ​body​ ​my​ ​choice”, 

My​ ​body,​ ​my​ ​choice”. 

  

Then​ ​November​ ​8,​ ​2016​ ​happened. 

The​ ​boys​ ​that​ ​have​ ​stood​ ​in​ ​locker​ ​rooms​ ​being​ ​boys 

won​ ​the​ ​presidential​ ​election. 

  

As​ ​talk​ ​of​ ​pussy​ ​grabbing​ ​became​ ​excused​ ​as 

“locker​ ​room​ ​talk’

and​ ​excused​ ​as​ ​boys​ ​just​ ​being​ ​boys, 

my​ ​scars​ ​begin​ ​to​ ​open​ ​and 

this​ ​country​ ​drops​ ​acid​ ​into​ ​those​ ​scars.  

these​ ​scars​ ​were​ ​left​ ​by 

boys​ ​just​ ​being​ ​boys. 

  

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

Dan​ ​in​ ​the​ ​6​^th​​ ​grade.

in​ ​the​ ​​library​ ​at​ ​school 

he​ ​grabbed​ ​my​ ​newly​ ​formed-nothing​ ​to​ ​C​ ​cup​ ​overnight-breasts. 

Without​ ​a​ ​voice, 

awkward,​ ​a​ ​child​ ​in​ ​a​ ​woman's​ ​body, 

I​ ​allowed​ ​it​ ​saying​ ​nothing. 

While​ ​Dan​​ ​claims​ ​his​ ​victory​ ​in​ ​the​ ​boys’​ ​locker​ ​room, 

I​ ​cover​ ​by​ ​body​ ​in​ ​the​ ​girls’​ ​locker​ ​room. 

I​ ​learned​ ​the​ ​shame​ ​of​ ​having​ ​curves. 

  

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

Wade​​, 

on​ ​the​ ​floor​ ​of​ ​his​ ​apartment 

as​ ​he​ ​raped​ ​my​ ​19​ ​year​ ​old​ ​body. 

I​ ​was​ ​silent​ ​for​ ​months​ ​after. 

When​ ​I​ ​finally​ ​spoke​ ​and​ ​told​ ​my​ ​mom, 

cheerleader​ ​for​ ​the​ ​locker​ ​room​ ​boys, 

she​ ​told​ ​me​ ​it​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault. 

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

Clint​ 

my​ ​boyfriend​ ​who​ ​spent ​4​ ​years 

calling​ ​me​ ​ugly, 

calling​ ​me​ ​fat, 

calling​ ​me​ ​stupid, 

and​ ​telling​ ​me​ ​I​ ​shouldn't​ ​write". 

I​ ​left​ ​him,​ ​but​ ​not​ ​before​ ​he​ ​left​ ​me​ ​merely​ ​a​ ​shadow​ ​of​ ​what​ ​I​ ​was.  

I​ ​was​ ​broken​ ​and​ ​I've​ ​spent​ ​years​ ​picking​ ​up​ ​those​ ​pieces.  

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

a​ ​man​ ​I​ ​met​ ​online, 

a​ ​stranger​ ​I​ ​invited​ ​into​ ​my​ ​bed. 

He​ ​began​ ​to​ ​hurt​ ​me​ ​and​ ​wouldn’t​ ​stop. 

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

A​ ​stranger​ ​on​ ​New​ ​Year’s​ ​Eve 

Drunk-I​ ​allowed​ ​him​ ​to​ ​pull​ ​me​ ​into​ ​a​ ​closet 

And​ ​force​ ​his​ ​dick​ ​into​ ​my​ ​mouth. 

  

It​ was​ ​my​ ​fault.  

I​ ​shouldn’t​ ​have​ ​dressed​ ​so​ ​provocatively, 

  

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault, 

I​ ​shouldn’t​ ​have​ ​been​ ​with​ ​a​ ​man​ ​twice​ ​my​ ​age. 

  

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault, 

I​ ​should​ ​have​ ​recognized​ ​the​ ​emotional​ ​abuse. 

  

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault, 

For​ ​being​ ​a​ ​slut. 

  

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault, 

For​ ​getting​ ​drunk. 

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault.  

Boys​ ​will​ ​be​ ​boys 

who​ ​talk​ ​in​ ​locker​ ​rooms​ ​about​ ​my​ ​breasts, 

about​ ​my​ ​body, 

about​ ​what​ ​they​ ​are​ ​owed 

because​ ​of​ ​what​ ​my​ ​body​ ​did​ ​to​ ​their​ ​cocks. 

At​ ​least​ ​this​ ​is​ ​the​ ​message​ ​sent 

and​ ​the​ ​message​ ​that​ ​was​ ​perpetuated 

by​ ​our​ ​country​ ​on​ ​November​ ​8,​ ​2016. 

Weary,​ ​sick,​ ​and​ ​scarred  

I​ ​feel​ ​defeated  

Then,​ ​Ella,​ ​I​ ​hear​ ​you, 

Your​ ​tiny​ ​2​ ​year​ ​old​ ​voice​ ​chant,​ ​"my​ ​body​ ​my​ ​choice", 

“my​ ​body,​ ​my​ ​choice”, 

My​ ​body​ ​my​ ​choice”. 

I​ ​remember​ ​22​ ​year​ ​old​ ​me 

standing​ ​on​ ​the​ ​lawn​ ​before​ ​the​ ​Lincoln​ ​Memorial  

full​ ​of​ ​hope​ ​and​ ​revolution.  

Before​ ​those​ ​boys​ ​robbed​ ​me​ ​of​ ​that​ ​voice. 

I​ ​hear​ ​my​ ​voice​ ​in​ ​you​ ​again.  

I​ ​remember​ ​the​ ​voice.  

I​ ​remember​ ​the​ ​fight. 

So​ ​I​ ​pick​ ​up​ ​my​ ​spear. 

I​ ​sharpen​ ​my​ ​sword.  

I​ ​dust​ ​off​ ​my​ ​shield. 

And​ ​I​ ​head​ ​to​ ​that​ ​long​ ​forgotten​ ​battlefield  

with​ ​my​ ​tiny​ ​two​ ​year​ ​old​ ​warrior​ ​at​ ​my​ ​side.  

Dear​ ​Ella, 

may​ ​you​ ​never​ ​meet​ ​Dan​, 

Wade​, 

Clint​, 

that​ ​guy​ ​online, 

or​ ​that​ ​guy​ ​in​ ​the​ ​closet. 

If​ ​you​ ​do, 

please,​ ​remember​ ​no​ ​matter​ ​what​ ​society​ ​says, 

I​ ​have​ ​taught​ ​you,​ ​your​ ​body,​ ​your​ ​choice.  

You​ ​were​ ​born​ ​wild.  

You​ ​born​ ​free.  

You​ ​will​ ​not​ ​be​ ​restrained.  

Most​ ​importantly,​ ​you​ ​were​ ​born​ ​with​ ​a​ ​voice​ ​that​ ​shakes.