Marissa Glover
The Worst Thing to Have Is a Vagina
You would snuff us out in the name of something holy,
controlling women’s bodies like they belong to you
like you own them like you paid for them like I am my beloved’s
but he is not mine—he is Solomon, King of the kingdom
and I am not wise enough to choose
so a judge rules that doctors can keep cutting
women’s bodies, even the young girls who were tricked
into visiting the clinic—young girls too young to vote,
young girls too young to know men
will lie with their eyes wide open, with their hand over their heart
and on the Bible, will lie about anything—to win elections,
to make a deal, to get you to let down your guard
or your pants or this sacred dress you wear to honor the god
who men say made you wrong, made you to burn white-hot
and that is wrong, made you to swim with pleasure and that is wrong--
don’t worry they will fix it, they will fix you
but they won’t fix pregnant even if a man made you lie there
and take him, made you say thank you—pregnant is not a problem
you are the problem your vagina is the problem you need to say you’re sorry
apologize for this body, apologize for wanting, apologize.
controlling women’s bodies like they belong to you
like you own them like you paid for them like I am my beloved’s
but he is not mine—he is Solomon, King of the kingdom
and I am not wise enough to choose
so a judge rules that doctors can keep cutting
women’s bodies, even the young girls who were tricked
into visiting the clinic—young girls too young to vote,
young girls too young to know men
will lie with their eyes wide open, with their hand over their heart
and on the Bible, will lie about anything—to win elections,
to make a deal, to get you to let down your guard
or your pants or this sacred dress you wear to honor the god
who men say made you wrong, made you to burn white-hot
and that is wrong, made you to swim with pleasure and that is wrong--
don’t worry they will fix it, they will fix you
but they won’t fix pregnant even if a man made you lie there
and take him, made you say thank you—pregnant is not a problem
you are the problem your vagina is the problem you need to say you’re sorry
apologize for this body, apologize for wanting, apologize.
Commentary
Marissa on "The Worst Thing to Have Is a Vagina":
I’m grateful to Christine as editor for including my poem “The Worst Thing to Have Is a Vagina” in this issue of Kissing Dynamite. I usually name poems after I’ve finished a draft, knowing that I’ll likely change the title several times before publication. As I toyed with different titles for this particular piece, I knew I wanted something to express a recurring feeling: It doesn’t matter your age, how pretty you are, or how rich, or your nationality, skin color, or status—the worst thing in the world anyone could possibly be is a woman. Unless you’re fortunate enough to live with Diana on Themyscira, but even that doesn’t end well.
As a white woman, I have learned that the common “stain” of womanhood is compounded by other markers, and the baseline mistreatment of women increases exponentially with each additional identity. Ultimately, I settled on “vagina” instead of “woman” for several reasons. For starters, the poem deals with abortion and female genital mutilation and without the vagina neither issue would exist as it does now.
I wrote this poem when I was feeling particularly impotent and full of rage. I intentionally use the word “impotent” here because so much of the recent news that makes me angry is caused by an abuse of male power—often sexual power—and perhaps could be abated if more men were literally impotent.
Many women feel this sense of powerlessness mixed with anger, even though we have more power now than at any other time in history. It bears noting that women in America are especially powerful when compared with other nations. Yet, even in America, it seems men still have the power to decide a woman’s destiny. To tell us what we can and cannot do with our body. And this ought not be.
The first draft of this poem was more explicitly tied to the news articles that inspired it. In later revisions, I took out the hyperlinks and the direct mentions because I didn’t want to anchor the poem to a time or place or single event. What happens in the poem happens all over, and has for centuries, so I wanted to free the poem from a specific setting.
With a vote of 60 to 35, you would snuff us out
in the name of something holy, controlling women’s bodies
like they belong to you like you own them like you paid for them
like I am my beloved’s but he is not mine—he is Solomon,
King of the kingdom, and I am not wise enough to choose
in Ohio or Michigan, where a male judge rules
that doctors can keep cutting women’s bodies, even the young girls
who were tricked into visiting the clinic. Young girls too young
to vote in Michigan or Ohio or anywhere in America—
Personally, I believe that every human holds intrinsic value—from the preborn to the elderly, from the disabled to the inmate on death row. I also believe that because humans possess their own dignity and are due our respect, we should recognize their autonomy and power of choice.
This magazine space is not large enough to debate all the nuances and complexities of such volatile topics like abortion, free will, and human dignity or discuss how to regulate individual choice in a civilized society. I’m not an expert on any of these topics and would not dare act like one. I’m merely stating that while I believe in Life, I also believe there is a danger in any government having the right or the power to police women’s bodies. Or men’s bodies, for that matter, though I don’t know any politicians who would conceive such an idea.
Confession: I almost kept this poem to myself. I was afraid to send it out. I’m still wary of its publication. Why? Because I’m not one of the many women affected by either of these laws. I don’t want to be accused of cultural appropriation, of speaking out of turn; I don’t want to be told to stay in my lane.
I don’t reckon myself a savior or the only one with a voice. Nor do I presume to think that without me, women in Ohio and young girls in Michigan have no hope. But what kind of person am I if I stay quiet? I’ve never been abused by a priest or molested by Michael Jackson, but I bet those young boys wish someone would have spoken up on their behalf—would have said anything at all.
I’m often reminded of Pastor Martin Niemoeller’s famous quote:
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
We can say we’re for freedom of religion; we can say we’re for free speech; we can say we respect other cultures and beliefs. And all of that is well and good and to be commended. Until religion or speech or cultural beliefs harm another human being—for being gay, for being black, for being disabled, for having a vagina. When we say we’re for women’s rights and yet allow these laws to continue oppressing and harming women through violence, we make hypocrites and liars of ourselves. And this, too, ought not be.
I’m grateful to Christine as editor for including my poem “The Worst Thing to Have Is a Vagina” in this issue of Kissing Dynamite. I usually name poems after I’ve finished a draft, knowing that I’ll likely change the title several times before publication. As I toyed with different titles for this particular piece, I knew I wanted something to express a recurring feeling: It doesn’t matter your age, how pretty you are, or how rich, or your nationality, skin color, or status—the worst thing in the world anyone could possibly be is a woman. Unless you’re fortunate enough to live with Diana on Themyscira, but even that doesn’t end well.
As a white woman, I have learned that the common “stain” of womanhood is compounded by other markers, and the baseline mistreatment of women increases exponentially with each additional identity. Ultimately, I settled on “vagina” instead of “woman” for several reasons. For starters, the poem deals with abortion and female genital mutilation and without the vagina neither issue would exist as it does now.
I wrote this poem when I was feeling particularly impotent and full of rage. I intentionally use the word “impotent” here because so much of the recent news that makes me angry is caused by an abuse of male power—often sexual power—and perhaps could be abated if more men were literally impotent.
Many women feel this sense of powerlessness mixed with anger, even though we have more power now than at any other time in history. It bears noting that women in America are especially powerful when compared with other nations. Yet, even in America, it seems men still have the power to decide a woman’s destiny. To tell us what we can and cannot do with our body. And this ought not be.
The first draft of this poem was more explicitly tied to the news articles that inspired it. In later revisions, I took out the hyperlinks and the direct mentions because I didn’t want to anchor the poem to a time or place or single event. What happens in the poem happens all over, and has for centuries, so I wanted to free the poem from a specific setting.
With a vote of 60 to 35, you would snuff us out
in the name of something holy, controlling women’s bodies
like they belong to you like you own them like you paid for them
like I am my beloved’s but he is not mine—he is Solomon,
King of the kingdom, and I am not wise enough to choose
in Ohio or Michigan, where a male judge rules
that doctors can keep cutting women’s bodies, even the young girls
who were tricked into visiting the clinic. Young girls too young
to vote in Michigan or Ohio or anywhere in America—
Personally, I believe that every human holds intrinsic value—from the preborn to the elderly, from the disabled to the inmate on death row. I also believe that because humans possess their own dignity and are due our respect, we should recognize their autonomy and power of choice.
This magazine space is not large enough to debate all the nuances and complexities of such volatile topics like abortion, free will, and human dignity or discuss how to regulate individual choice in a civilized society. I’m not an expert on any of these topics and would not dare act like one. I’m merely stating that while I believe in Life, I also believe there is a danger in any government having the right or the power to police women’s bodies. Or men’s bodies, for that matter, though I don’t know any politicians who would conceive such an idea.
Confession: I almost kept this poem to myself. I was afraid to send it out. I’m still wary of its publication. Why? Because I’m not one of the many women affected by either of these laws. I don’t want to be accused of cultural appropriation, of speaking out of turn; I don’t want to be told to stay in my lane.
I don’t reckon myself a savior or the only one with a voice. Nor do I presume to think that without me, women in Ohio and young girls in Michigan have no hope. But what kind of person am I if I stay quiet? I’ve never been abused by a priest or molested by Michael Jackson, but I bet those young boys wish someone would have spoken up on their behalf—would have said anything at all.
I’m often reminded of Pastor Martin Niemoeller’s famous quote:
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
We can say we’re for freedom of religion; we can say we’re for free speech; we can say we respect other cultures and beliefs. And all of that is well and good and to be commended. Until religion or speech or cultural beliefs harm another human being—for being gay, for being black, for being disabled, for having a vagina. When we say we’re for women’s rights and yet allow these laws to continue oppressing and harming women through violence, we make hypocrites and liars of ourselves. And this, too, ought not be.
Biography
Marissa Glover teaches and writes in the United States, where she spends most of her time sweating. Currently the Co-Editor for Orange Blossom Review and the Poetry Editor at Barren Press, Marissa was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize by The Lascaux Review for her poem “Some Things Are Decided Before You Are Born.” Her poetry has also appeared in Stoneboat Literary Journal, After the Pause, Gyroscope Review, War, Literature & the Arts, and New Verse News, among others. You can follow Marissa on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.
|