Fifty

Heavy weight heavy wait
To sit, to still in broken gait
Knees are bent and calloused
Yet heart turns in malice

Heavy weight heavy wait
To sit, to still in broken gait
Stirred to zeal and lust
Fifty left in disgust

Heavy weight heavy wait
To sit, to still in broken gait
Autonomous metal to skin
And no one wins, no one wins

Heavy weight heavy wait
To sit, to still in broken gait
And I and all in mourning
Singing songs that won't end

Heavy, just heavy

—Don Nocon

Being Feminine

Post by Rebecca Farlow

So I went camping this weekend, and in the space of three days, was twice stopped by men helpfully telling me that I was entering the women’s bathroom. Imagine that! Me, a woman, going into the women’s bathroom. I’d like to say that I graciously turned to each man and said, in a calm, yoga-instructor voice, “Why, thank you. I do appreciate that you’re here to help me navigate these complicated restroom choices.” But alas, that’s not what happened. I should mention that I hate camping and was already angry in both situations. To the first man, I turned, stared, and said, “Yep.” The second one, who caught me at 2:30 PM on the final day of the trip when I hadn’t yet had lunch, just got a really long glare. Neither man apologized.

As a woman, I’m deeply hurt when people assume I’m a man. It doesn’t matter that there might be valid reasons for their assumptions: I’m 5’11” with broad shoulders and have short hair. However, my features are not masculine, and I have breasts. That’s right, I said it. Breasts, breasts, breasts. And it’s not like it happens to me every day, or really, very often at all. But every time it happens, I question myself. Am I not feminine enough? What does that even mean? Should I grow my hair out just so the people rude enough to question my gender won’t say anything?

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