Wanda Deglane
Wanda Deglane (she/her) is a Capricorn from Arizona. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and attends Arizona State University. Her poetry has been published or forthcoming from Rust + Moth, Glass Poetry, L’Ephemere Review, and Former Cactus, among other lovely places. Wanda is the author of Rainlily (2018), Lady Saturn (Rhythm & Bones, 2019), and Venus in Bloom (Porkbelly Press, 2019).
Find her on Twitter: @wandalizabeth |
I thank god you are not my daughter,
say the women walking briskly past me on
the street, the chaperones at my high school
dances, the mothers at my graduation. girl in
the low-cut tops, sin dripping from my skin like
sweat. God only knows girls need correcting,
the women think to themselves, and one like me
would soak up their beatings like air until their
hands became sore. I thank God you are not my
daughter, the women sing praises bowing servile
at the foot of their beds, because there must be
something wrong with girls like me, some feral
gene spreading mutant in all my cells that makes
boys look at me and think prey, that turns sweet
sons into rapists. The women kiss the heads of
their own daughters, mute and turtlenecked and
heads ducked, and thank God their girls were not
born temptresses. they know what it means to be
the yes girl, the ever-smiling wife. I thank God you
are not my mother, I tell them. I shirk the blame
from my crimeless shoulders, shed the shame like
ill-fitting burn wounds. I eat their disgust like a
fish hook embedded in my tongue.
the street, the chaperones at my high school
dances, the mothers at my graduation. girl in
the low-cut tops, sin dripping from my skin like
sweat. God only knows girls need correcting,
the women think to themselves, and one like me
would soak up their beatings like air until their
hands became sore. I thank God you are not my
daughter, the women sing praises bowing servile
at the foot of their beds, because there must be
something wrong with girls like me, some feral
gene spreading mutant in all my cells that makes
boys look at me and think prey, that turns sweet
sons into rapists. The women kiss the heads of
their own daughters, mute and turtlenecked and
heads ducked, and thank God their girls were not
born temptresses. they know what it means to be
the yes girl, the ever-smiling wife. I thank God you
are not my mother, I tell them. I shirk the blame
from my crimeless shoulders, shed the shame like
ill-fitting burn wounds. I eat their disgust like a
fish hook embedded in my tongue.
Commentary
Wanda on "I thank god you are not my daughter":
"I thank god you are not my daughter" was a very painful piece to write. In middle and high school, I was slut shamed incessantly. Slut shaming in general is so incredibly harmful, but it was even more so for me because none of the things people said about me were true. I don't think there's anything wrong with safe, consensual sexual activity, but the problem was, I never performed any of it. I was an eighth grader being slut shamed when I had only ever held a boy's hand before. In fact, a vast majority of the sexual encounters I later had were not consensual at all. An image of me was crafted based on wild rumors others spread or the way I dressed. Sometimes it was peers doing the talking, and other times, it was adults. My eighth grade teacher and the mother of my high school boyfriend would directly ridicule or harass me. Most often I would see the mothers of my classmates giving me a look, like "I know who you are." It was a mixture of disgust and pity and "thank god you're not my kid," like they could pat themselves on the back for raising good girls. I spent much of high school feeling like there had to be something wrong with me because the reputation never went away, only followed. I reasoned that, even though I knew who I was and what I did, there must be some truth to the rumors if so many people were saying them. This poem comes from a chapbook about my experiences throughout girlhood and puberty. I wrote a poem for my eighth grade teacher, as well as one for my high school boyfriend's mother, so now this is the one for all the mothers who gave me that look. Part of it was me taking on the persona of these mothers and how I perceived they'd be thinking. Another part of the poem is me renouncing that reputation, and the guilt and shame that came with it. It's me saying, "If you're going to look at me in such a dehumanizing way, I sure as hell wouldn't want you as a parent either."
EIC Christine Taylor on "I thank god you are not my daughter":
Wanda’s poem resonated with me immediately because I’ve been the object of mothers’ scorn because of my race and because I’m a heavily tattooed and pierced person. People buy into and perpetuate gross stereotypes, and I’ve been labeled as “dangerous” when I’m really just a book nerd and cat lover. I shared Wanda’s poem (anonymously) with a group of students at school who love poetry, and the poem also resonated with them and sparked a discussion about how they feel like they’re constantly trying to push back against negative labels. They spoke of the exhaustion of trying to maintain their reputations and the fear that they feel graduating into a world where women are not safe.
"I thank god you are not my daughter" was a very painful piece to write. In middle and high school, I was slut shamed incessantly. Slut shaming in general is so incredibly harmful, but it was even more so for me because none of the things people said about me were true. I don't think there's anything wrong with safe, consensual sexual activity, but the problem was, I never performed any of it. I was an eighth grader being slut shamed when I had only ever held a boy's hand before. In fact, a vast majority of the sexual encounters I later had were not consensual at all. An image of me was crafted based on wild rumors others spread or the way I dressed. Sometimes it was peers doing the talking, and other times, it was adults. My eighth grade teacher and the mother of my high school boyfriend would directly ridicule or harass me. Most often I would see the mothers of my classmates giving me a look, like "I know who you are." It was a mixture of disgust and pity and "thank god you're not my kid," like they could pat themselves on the back for raising good girls. I spent much of high school feeling like there had to be something wrong with me because the reputation never went away, only followed. I reasoned that, even though I knew who I was and what I did, there must be some truth to the rumors if so many people were saying them. This poem comes from a chapbook about my experiences throughout girlhood and puberty. I wrote a poem for my eighth grade teacher, as well as one for my high school boyfriend's mother, so now this is the one for all the mothers who gave me that look. Part of it was me taking on the persona of these mothers and how I perceived they'd be thinking. Another part of the poem is me renouncing that reputation, and the guilt and shame that came with it. It's me saying, "If you're going to look at me in such a dehumanizing way, I sure as hell wouldn't want you as a parent either."
EIC Christine Taylor on "I thank god you are not my daughter":
Wanda’s poem resonated with me immediately because I’ve been the object of mothers’ scorn because of my race and because I’m a heavily tattooed and pierced person. People buy into and perpetuate gross stereotypes, and I’ve been labeled as “dangerous” when I’m really just a book nerd and cat lover. I shared Wanda’s poem (anonymously) with a group of students at school who love poetry, and the poem also resonated with them and sparked a discussion about how they feel like they’re constantly trying to push back against negative labels. They spoke of the exhaustion of trying to maintain their reputations and the fear that they feel graduating into a world where women are not safe.