by Renée Watson
“You wanna sit?” Isaac asks James. I stare in his direction and can’t believe he asked James to sit with us.
James looks around the cafeteria for a minute, then back at us. “Sure.” He puts his tray down and slides his basketball to balance between his feet. He lets his book bag fall to the side between Isaac and him, and he’s sitting right next to me. Our arms would be touching if I’d stop being such a weirdo and start eating, but instead, I take a couple gulps of my iced tea and just sit. His tray has two burgers and a taco resting on top of each one. He starts to devour them.
“You wanna take a breath?” I ask, watching him in wonder.
“What? I’m hungry,” he says, laughing. “I gotta get my energy up for our run this afternoon. I was thinking we could just run down to the Chipped Cup and get a doughnut today. We could get there and back easy.”
“You two are going out this afternoon?” Isaac asks, looking at me like I’ve left something out of the story. “I didn’t know you two were . . .”
“Gym class. We’re running partners until the end of the month,” I say, realizing that I’m already kind of sad that the month will end.
“For Halloween, we should run up and down 181st and get candy at all the stores. That’d be so cool,” James says, polishing off his first burger.
“So for gym class everybody just gets to run around the city and do whatever they want?” Isaac asks. “Uh, why did I take gym in the tenth grade? All we did was play volleyball and do burpees. This sounds way better.”
“Yeah, well, we’re really supposed to stick to a specific route, but we have it down to a science, so as long as we go twenty minutes in one direction, we can get back in time. The other day we caught the M4 down to Jackie Robinson Park to get on the swings and check out the empty pool and then raced the bus back.” I start laughing, thinking about James fake crying behind me, complaining about his ankle and limping along. “We’ve been pushing the limit each week.”
It’s true. Every time we get outside, we come up with a new plan and some new way of seeing the city. And we talk. We talk about when we were little, we tell stories, talk about the things we wanna do when we graduate. Somehow we never run out of things to say. I think that’s the reason I like him the most.
“And I also get schooled on about a hundred issues that are important to women today,” James says, smiling at me. “What do you always say? Down with the . . . down with the . . .”
“Patriarchy,” I finish, punching him in his ridiculously muscular arm. Oh, his arms, another reason I like him.
“Down with the patriarchy. That’s what you say, right?” James looks at Isaac. “The patriarchy is a system where men have all the power. And we’re a big part of the problem,” he adds, showing off.
“Oh, I know all about the patriarchy,” Isaac says. “And yeah, man, we’re definitely part of the problem.”
“Yes, I am so glad you two are seeing the ways of the world. Now if I could just convince everyone else, we’d be all good.”
“Well, get to it,” James says. “What’s the plan for your next post? You were all fired up about all those magazines we saw a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh yeah, it’s coming. Watch out for it. And I’m also writing a piece about the princess industrial complex,” I say, starting to feel comfortable and finally eating my food like a normal person.
“The what?”
“The princess industrial complex. The way the media convinces us that we should dress and act like royalty so we can get popular, get the guy, have a true love story, and on and on. It’s a setup.”
“Yeah, well, my mom is obsessed with the princess industrial complex. I think it worked on her, because she loves all that kinda stuff, so I guess I never thought it was that big of a deal,” James says.
“Oh, it’s totally a big deal,” Isaac says, shaking his head.
“I guess for me, it was just a way of telling me how to dress, how long to wear my hair, the kind of things I should say and do. It’s this whole idea that if you are a certain type of girl, you will always win, you know what I mean? And it starts when girls are as little as two and three years old,” I say.
“No way,” James says, finishing his last bite of burger, wiping his mouth, and looking around the cafeteria. I’m not sure what, or who, he’s looking for, but I keep on, trying to make my point.
“Yes! My little cousin is five years old, and she thinks that girls should wear dresses, her favorite color is pink, and she told her mom she wants to grow her hair long like Rapunzel so she can swing from it,” I say, looking straight at James now.
“Well, that’s just good thinking . . . she’s using her hair to get places.” He laughs. “No, no, I see what you’re saying. I do. I just don’t know if it’s that big of a deal. It seems a little over the top.”
“Uh, no, it’s real. All the princesses I grew up with were thin and white and had long straight hair—all of them. I didn’t see myself in them. That’s the main problem—when you don’t have any diversity. You just have these generic models of women, marketed and manufactured to little girls all over the world, who are meant to value and want to look and act like those women. And what if you don’t look like them? Then where can you even see yourself?”
“I just didn’t think any of it was that serious, but I get your point.”
“Yeah, it affects men too . . . because it makes you think that’s what a woman is supposed to look like and act like. And all these princess stories include being saved by men—sometimes by a kiss, or sometimes by true love. That sends a message that women literally can’t save themselves. Look at freakin’ Rapunzel! She has to get a man to CLIMB up her hair to save her. There is nothing more sexist than having a man use a woman’s body part as an accessory to save her. It’s ridiculous,” I say, looking up and realizing that James is standing and gathering his bag and tray.
“I am right there with you,” Isaac says. “Because for guys . . .”
“Hey, sorry to interrupt, and I’m totally with this—we can talk about it on our run today, but I gotta get out of here. I’m meeting a . . .” Meg walks up behind James and puts her hands over his eyes.
“Guess who?” she says. He swings around and puts his arm around her waist. It’s not really in a boyfriend/girlfriend kind of way, but it’s definitely more intimate than anything we’ve done together.
“You all know Meg, right?” James asks.
“Of course I know them,” Meg says. “Isaac is in the ensemble with me. How’s Jasmine doing, by the way?” she asks, eyeing me. She knows we’re best friends, and also that the blog post was written with Meg and Mr. Morrison in mind.
“She’s great,” I say. “Totally great.”
“Tell her I read her post, and that I had no idea she would take everything so seriously,” Meg says, lacing her arm behind James. He looks uncomfortable and starts to walk away, but she pulls him back. “You can also tell her that all stereotypes come from some form of truth. So they had to be based on something. Maybe Jasmine just looks the part.”
“Nope, nope,” I say. “Stereotypes are all fake. They aren’t real. They’re a way to lump people together and create bias about a whole group. That was Jasmine’s whole point. And it’s not a joke. None of it’s a joke. Her feelings, my feelings, are real. And if you think it’s no big deal, or that stereotypes can’t hurt people, then you’re part of the problem.” I stand up a little too fast and stumble as I try to collect my tray. James puts his hand on my elbow, but I brush it off.
“Me, part of the problem?” Meg calls after me, and I can hear her laugher echoing through the lunchroom as I walk away.
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Posted by Chelsea Spencer
Princess Industrial Complex: What I learned from Rapunzel
Women with hair that is a long blond rope
have magical, mystical powers,
& can do most all things,
but they will always need to be saved
by a swashbuckling, bumbling man.
Rapunzel is thin as nothing,
paper fine, petite & small design.
She will learn when you cut your blond locks,
your powers will vanish & your tresses
will turn a drab & lifeless lackluster brown
(and short), but she will learn that princes
sometimes prefer brunettes & all will be well.
But here is what I say.
Hair can be an animal sometimes, up and off
your precious, precocious head in a flash.
Reckless & jumbled.
Women aren’t fairy tales, fluff, filtered
into fugitives trapped with their own powers.
My own hair is repugnant & revolting,
it’s ruthless & ravenous—relentless
slithering, sly & slick, bodacious & funky.
Yeah, repugnant as in take your breath,
lungs, heart. My hair won’t be your swing,
your sexy, can’t be teased or trotted out, your
perfection is not attached to my skull. Back up.
You can’t dye me to fit your pleasure.
I’m not sunflower, pure diamond, hot toffee,
sparkling amber, auburn dream, platinum crystal,
vanilla icing, caramel kiss, copper shimmer.
I’m not sprayed or straightened. I’m a bully.
My hair’s got you in the corner. Don’t dainty me,
don’t gel me up for the perfect curls.
Don’t you dare try to climb up me—to save me.
I’m keeping myself alive just fine.
-------------------------------------------
magicalme liked this
loulou commented: The PRINCESS INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX!
WHOA! I have never heard it compared to other industrial complexes—like this whole system that is set up to teach women how to act, how to think, what to wear . . . whoa! I am shook by this! I just looked through my old Halloween costumes and I was some type of princess from ages 3-9. What is that?! Wish I had been almost anything else. This is deep!
sophiamays commented: Same for me. I would ONLY wear dresses in pre-school because I thought girls were supposed to look pretty all the time, and in middle school, I stopped answering so many questions because I was nervous about being too loud or a know it all. Was princess culture—being quiet, calm, pretty—a part of that?
ginawilson72 liked this
wondergirl commented: Agree princesses are super problematic, and I’m so glad your school has a space for you all to write and critique what is happening in your worlds. Bravo!
writelikeagirl commented: Thanks so much!
firenexttime reposted from sophiamays
brandilux commented: Can I use this in my media class at school? We are studying how racist and sexist the media can be—it’s soooooo corrupt! I mean, look at the kind of girls they celebrate and put on magazines and in commercials. Always the same color, always the same size. I know people are trying to change that, and sometimes it happens, but not nearly enough. We need to be out there even more! I’ve even started to write some of my own poems. Thanks for the inspiration!
writelikeagirl commented: Yes, yes! Please spread the word!
marymarymary liked this
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Posted by Chelsea Spencer
Beauty Magazine Redux
Beauty Magazine—Found Poem
You won’t be able to stop checking out your butt, but
be brave this year. This year look Hot! Hot! Hot!
in your jeans. Girls Gone Wild (for less). Less
is more. More is more. But how far must a girl go
to get his attention? Hot Abs. Hot Arms. Hot Thighs.
How far must a girl go? His attention? How hot hot
hot is his attention—girl? Get Instagram Instaglam. Oh!
Fashion, beauty & body tricks. Tricks of the beauty trade—
Bikini Body Confidence. Blitz. Glitz. Gutz. Butz & Bendz.
Slutz & Steady Glamor. Sexy cuts. Sexy tone. Sexy sexy
sexy sexy sexy sexy. Sexy. Amazing shine. Shine & get
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skin. Party boobs. Party bod. 763 fashion tips & beauty
tricks. Boost your bra size in one month. Boost your hot
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659 new luscious lip colors. Learn to kiss. Sexy like.
This issue is for YOU.
This issue is for YOU—
Is this issue
for YOU? Who
is this issue for?
How about—
Arithmetic paradoxes & aerial coordinates & butterflies.
You won’t be able to stop mastering quadratic equations.
This year be Brilliant! Brilliant! Brilliant!
How ’bout his attention is secondary
to your valedictorian speech,
class president, National Honor Society, so let him choke
on your algebraic dust. His attention? Over it. Girl.
Get Instagram Instasharp. All knowing & resourceful. Oh!
Coding, programming & tech tricks.
Tricks of the job trade—
Yoga Body Confidence. Smartz. Slickz. Prowess.
Prodigy & Precocity. Brainy moves. Brainy body confidence.
Brainy flair. Brainy knack. Brainy. Brainy.
Brainy. Brainy—Brainy. Get the grades.
Get a 4.0. Get the gold medal in the 400-meter dash.
Get jacked biceps. Get the glory.
Get 625 genius moves for YOU.
763 ways to find & pleasure you. Learn to love
your boobs. Bod. Homage the muscles in your mind.
Boost your IQ in one month. Boost your peptides,
peripheral nervous system. Learn how to be a CEO, CFO,
executive direct like a boss. Do it all Brainy like.
No, this is the issue for YOU—
-------------------------------------------
bepretty commented: I am ALWAYS THINKING THIS HERE!!!!!!!!
wahibabeee commented: truth telling—that is all. and you all are on a roll. i am loving all these posts and poems. thanks for starting these conversations. and it’s gonna make me look at magazines in a whole different way—it also makes me want to get in the system to try and change it!
marymarymary reblogged this
mattcooper commented: Interesting read—I never thought about this
mslucas commented: This is one of my favorite poems so far—very cool.
writelikeagirl commented: Thanks so much for reading our posts! Be sure to check back often. We’ll be posting 1-2 times every week!
tamirb commented: guys have it just as bad—write one for us!
brooklynforever liked this
brandilux commented: YES! I saw a quote in my Media Studies class that said: A Woman’s Place Is in the Resistance. And you both are doing it! I looked through some of my mom’s home and garden magazines and used your poems as inspiration. Here’s mine:
A woman’s place is not:
in the kitchen
or in the garden
or in the bedroom
or cleaning the bathroom
or cleaning the counter.
She’s not an Easy-Bake Oven
or a dollhouse
or a doll.
A woman’s place:
is in the resistance
is in the existence.
I exist.
writelikeagirl commented: Oh, we LOVE this poem! Thanks for sharing. Maybe when we bring Write Like a Girl to the world, you will come and write with us! Yes! Keep sharing.
jrock liked this
wahibabeee commented: You know I’ll be coming back to this blog. This is the
only relevant blog at Amsterdam Heights anyway. Who cares about photos of the basketball club or the Environmental Club? This is where it’s at!
writelikeagirl commented: Thanks! We’re not trying to put any other clubs down, but we appreciate your comments. Come back soon!
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Posted by Jasmine Gray
What It Be Like: on being a girl
It be like men telling you to smile when you’re all out of sunshine. Like your mouth being more familiar with saying yes than no. It be like hiding sometimes, wrapped in puffy coat, too-loose dress, nothing clinging or low cut. It be like wanting to be seen and not wanting to be seen all at once. Like knowing you have the right answer but letting him speak anyway. It be like second-guessing your know-how, like fact-checking your own truth. It be like older women telling you how to get a man even if they don’t have a man, even if you don’t want a man. It be like learning how to play hard-to-get, how to entice, how to be sweet honey always. It be like being told you are too sweet, too loose, too woman and not enough girl, too girl and not enough woman.
It be like knowing all the world is expecting you to be nurturer, when maybe you want to hunt. It be like a wild flame trying to burn, burn while everyone else wants to extinguish it. It be like being told it’s okay to cry, but it never be like rage unfiltered, anger expressed.
It be like trying so hard to hold everything in: emotion, brilliance, waist. Breathe in always, never let out.
It be like stomach cramps and bloated belly, like cravings and moods that change like spring days. It be like trusting the mirror when it shows you your beauty. It be like trusting your heart when it tells you who to love, who to walk away from. It be like knowing you can always start again, that you can always create and make something because you are made for birthing.
It be like meeting other women—older and younger, living and no more breath. It be like their spirits are inside you, remaking you into something better and bolder every time you say their names, read their poems, learn their legacy. It be like knowing you are what praying women had in mind when they travailed for tomorrow.
It be like knowing you are a promise, a seed.
