A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.

Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)

When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.

Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.

Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.

Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.

Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.


'My Perfume Doubles As Mace,' theappleppielifestyle. (via theappleppielifestyle)

(via the-m00n-and-m0re)


You know how you always see posts on tumblr that say things like “smile at a stranger, it could save a life”, or that post about the guy who left a note before jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge that said if a stranger smiled at him while he was up there he wouldn’t jump? Well I always thought that was bullshit. How could one smile or one interaction solve the lifetime of problems that a suicidal person faces? 

But somehow I ended up on this website and saw this comment (post-wisdom teeth surgery… I’m bored and drugged lol). This guy isn’t someone on tumblr trying to be deep (no offense), he’s a real person who’s telling the raw truth, and I bet he doesn’t think he has an audience. “Every interaction like this pushes me one step closer to the edge,” is the part that made me think.

My dad has a theory about asking people working cash registers, and other jobs like that, about their lives. He says that too often they’re treated like machines, just there to give you your change, and not like real people, and that even if you’re polite to them and say please and thank you, you’re not really solving the problem. So he always asks them about their day, when their shift ends and how long they’ve been on it, whether they like their job, etc., and if the person opens up and doesn’t seem to mind, he asks even more personal questions. My dad usually ends up with some type of personal connection with the other person within a minute or less, like about their mutual love for a TV show or how he’d worked a similar job before. 

One time my dad took me to an appointment, and when I came out of this 5 or 10 minute appt he started telling me about the receptionist. She had lived in the South all her life with 6 siblings and had just moved here to take care of her sick mother and to be with her brother, who was in rehab. She’d told him where she went to school, what kind of degree she’d gotten, what her life goals were, and even about her abusive boyfriend, who had been the one who convinced her to move. He gave her advice on her problems, and I bet it really made her feel like someone cared. I always thought it was kinda creepy but also kinda nice that he finds out so much about these people’s lives, but after seeing this guy’s comment, I can see that my dad is so right to talk to people the way he does. 

Just thought I’d share so that maybe another skeptic of deep tumblr people will be converted on this subject.

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.


Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” (via 4bbie)

(Source: oliviacirce, via 4bbie)