Half the Hurricanes

by Evie Groch

Born a female, I was handed

a manual of low expectations,

and warned to adhere to them.

A bullseye of shame on my back

marked me a target for arrows of

insults, regrets, obedience, demands.

I was offered tools of my trades,

choices they called them:

            a typewriter and steno pad

            a starched white hat and thermometer

            a blackboard and a ruler

But the manual didn’t list them all. It never warned me about

            my appearance

            my dry cleaning costs

            my ignored voice

            my few publishing options

            my diminished reproductive rights

                                                                                                                       

Here I stand and wait.

Half the hurricanes bear our names,

a step up from having them all blamed on us,

but that is where equality ends.

Resentment planted a seed in me.

It fed on bitter nourishment

and thoughts of wrongs replayed.

Justice is a victim of inequity

and vengeance is its mate.

I’m still here and waiting.

When you try to mansplain to me

the stench of double-talk rises

and wakes me out of love.

We’re overdue for new

Thou Shalts and Shalt Nots.

Laments sent up to heaven’s door

evaporated on the way.

Are you with me? Not yet?

I’m still here and waiting.

You’re being addressed.

Don’t look away.

Face me, tell me why this is,

and then tell your mothers, wives,

sisters, daughters, nieces, granddaughters.

Answer carefully as you squeeze out

what is left of your words from an almost

empty vocabulary tube.

But I am still here and waiting.

You know what’s coming.

A look of mortification kidnaps your face

as you reach to cover the chinks in your armor

bracing for a joust.

I am here still and waiting.

Your stale advice of “give it time,”

“it’s God’s way,” and “look how far

you’ve come” attracts sneers like

decomposing clichés. It’s mean-spirited

and deserves to shrivel up like a slug in salt.

Yet I’m still here and waiting.

Are you ready yet?

Heed my words. They crescendo

from a whistle to a roar

and become deafening when unheeded.

Take them not in vain.

They are my legacy.

Stop battering me with your fists

dipped in self-righteous confidence

of knowing what’s best for me.

I invite you to stand by my side

and call me friend, sister, peer, equal,

names you would want the women

in your family called.

I’m still here and waiting. 

I’ll come round again whether

you are ready or not,

like the hurricanes which bear our names