a place of rage

It’s raining. Again. I had just worked myself up for a run in the park; I stopped running about 5 years ago, and that paired with owning a car is partly to blame for my current physical state (affection for cake is the other part). I’m about ten pounds overweight, and the physical therapist I saw last week thinks my quads aren’t strong enough and that’s causing my back pain. So I went to the park the next day and ran for a few minutes. I prefer to power walk, but it actually felt good to move faster than usual. Ever since spring started, I’ve been struggling with the necessary exposure–no more bulky jackets and thick sweaters to protect me, and no more cold temps to keep idle men off the street. This week I finally broke down and pulled out my shorts. They’re not real shorts–they’re leggings that end just below my knees–but that’s still more skin than I normally show. Ever since I moved to NYC fifteen years ago, I’ve refused to wear short shorts. It’s just not worth it, because some men take that as their cue to act completely ignorant. And when I’m trying to be healthy and work out, the last thing I need are idiots hissing and leering and jeering at me as I try to get from point A to point B. Today–it’s raining. Again. I had a letter to mail, so I decided to just power walk around the block, stopping at the mailbox along the way. I’m almost home–and it’s RAINING. I have the light, I’m crossing the street. A black limo cab is honking endlessly, but I’m not looking at him, I’m wearing workout clothes, I’m nearly home–I’m CLEARLY not trying to hail a cab. That asshole then proceeds to turn and very nearly hit me. Even another man stopped at the light said, “Damn!” I cursed but not loud enough to start anything. Last night the security guard in my building who’s been stalking me off and on for nearly a year knocked at my door. “I found this on the floor in the lobby.” It was a letter returned “undeliverable” by the post office. Why are you at my door? Why didn’t you leave it on the table with all the other rejected mail, or give it to me when I passed you in the lobby an hour ago? I didn’t say anything, just closed the door, locked both locks and put the chain back on. I GOT that chain b/c of him. I slept with a knife next to my bed for almost a month because of him (he knocked at my door at 11:30pm to hand me a flyer about increased heating oil prices). I am MOVING b/c of him. And when I complain to the co-op board, they say I am being “too sensitive,” he’s just expressing “grandfatherly concern.” He’s obsessed, and will do anything to force me to deal with him. So from now on, unless he’s yelling FIRE, I won’t open the door. Earlier in the week I was starving, and really wanted a hot dog, but had to stop and consider: is it SAFE to eat a hot dog in the Village? Not on the street it’s not. I almost NEVER eat in the street b/c of all the disgusting things some men will say once they see your mouth open. After another lovely day in Brooklyn, I’m smiling and heading to the train until I pass under some scaffolding and run into three construction workers. There goes my smile. I don’t hate men. Lots of people, women especially, think feminists hate men. I don’t. But I am so f-ing THROUGH with this BS. Too many men use whatever power they’ve got to terrorize women in endless ways. Why can’t they use all that imaginative power for something else?! Like a cure for cancer?!? Turn on the TV: there’s a movie about a young woman stoned to death in Iran. Open a book (Mare’s War!), and there’s a young girl fighting for her life because some no-good man wants access to her mother, her little sister, AND her. The exterminator just came to the door, and he’s a nice guy–a genuinely nice guy who can do his job, make a little small talk, and MOVE ON. No stalking, no groping, no menacing, no flirting. I’m trying to make a list of “good guys” so I can stop myself when the rage starts to boil over. It’s not fair. It’s just not FAIR. Ok–here’s another good guy: my young friend left behind a two-year old daughter, and b/c of her poor health she wasn’t able to care for her so the DADDY stepped up and HE cares for the child. Obama–good guy. I watched a special on PBS last night about four gay men and their drive to become fathers–ALL OF THEM: good guys. I have to do something with all this anger. Either go back out and run in the rain (but not in this white t-shirt, or forget about it), or find a movie that celebrates men acting right. Or read some essays by June Jordan. Don’t know if I can write myself. Not in this mood. I usually write poetry when I’m pissed off. But how many rants does the world need? Maybe listening to some Janelle Monae will lift my spirits again. I’ll stop now.

“Poem about My Rights”
by June Jordan

Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can’t
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can’t do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this…