Being loved by a woman
For my women friends, for every woman out there
I noticed only recently that I have been completely shielded from the people around my in the world. Not just with my phone screen, but with anything. A book. Writing. Sketching. My coffee. Even my shoes. Though I was almost constantly around people, a barrier existed somehow. I wanted to be with people not simply around them.
As I came to that realization, the sun finally crept up and cleared the gloomy English sky. Glorious spring, here it is. Nearly there. The hot sun immediately warmed me, and I began walking slower to savor it. Across me, there was an uneven bench directly in the ray’s path with an old woman sitting there absolutely bathed in the sun. She had her legs crossed and eyes closed. No phone, book, or paper. No purse, headphones, dog by her side. No leftover coffee beside her, groceries, or a wallet. Nobody looked at her it was a city after all, people had places to go.
Just before I passed by her, she opened her eyes and smiled at me, before going back to her lull. I wondered then, was she savoring the sun better than me? And was the sun hitting her because she was simply there, or had its been path rerouted to the bench she was on? She was glorious.
“My own experience is that night and day are more alike than different - in which case they couldn't possibly be opposite.”
― Andrea Dworkin, Woman Hating
What’s feminism to you?
I’ve lately been diverting from my usual type of books, mostly fiction or nonfiction that was real enough but just enough fiction so that I could dream up my own reality, and reading more feminist literature and real essays. I find recent books on feminism more relevant to my reality, my current world, so I often neglected reading about the past altogether.
The strange thing that happens when abandoning the past is you fail to realize how deep the wound goes. Sure, the patriarchy has existed and I’ve been marching with women since Roe v. Wade was overturned, but the women who have marched before didn’t do it to be relevant, but to be in the books.
This isn’t a feminist essay, I say that because I don’t feel I’ve read or studied enough to talk about feminism under a political spotlight. Being a woman means to be political no matter where you stand, you are always on one side of a fight. When I first said that I was a feminist in front of all the men in my family when I was just fifteen, I understood just by their mocked laughs how much womanhood meant to me. Which is what matters. To be loved, to be taken in the arms of a woman. Do you know what that’s like?
Have you been touched by a woman who loved you?
In all my years I have been broken as many times as I have been healed, and all the times I have fallen, it was always in the arms of another woman. Sometimes you will cry for hours, before uttering a word, you will look at her face and she will smile then mouth “I know”, and like that, you will break before her and she will put you together.
When you have anger brewing, you lash out and break the vase or the window. The woman won’t flinch or look away because she knows, just looking at you, she can steady you.
The way she laughs for you, when you are so terribly boring. Because she cannot stand the thought of you thinking you are unworthy, uninteresting, lame and dull.
When you look away, she will pick out the stem that was caught up in your hair before someone notices.
The way you slip and say something untrue, but she corrects you when the crowd is far away.
She will tighten your tie. You won’t have to say anything. Straighten your collar. Pour you cold water.
When everyone is preoccupied with the birthday cake, she will straighten the plate. It was just askew and she does it because she wants the moment you snap that photo for everything to be perfect. Just right.
You mentioned how you hated small peas, so she picks them out one by one before your plate leaves the kitchen.
Then if you can’t read the word, she simplifies it, doesn’t dumb it down.
When you have unbearable pain, in every inch of your being, that you cannot stand straight, she will undress you. Ease it. Numb it. Nurture it.
She won’t want half the story. All of it. Say it like you were saying it all.
Have you seen the way she looks at you when she’s in love with you? How could you possibly think there is something more divine than when a woman loves you. She sees only you. In her eyes, it’s almost like a lens that just focuses on you. She won’t even take a photo of the sunset, she sacrifices missing it.
Do you ever lay down? Sleep on her chest, on her breasts while she touches you. “I’m here my love, it’s okay” she whispers. Unwinding every tangled piece of you, every numb part of your skin becomes alive. The way a woman loves, the way a woman remembers to love, is transcendent. There is something in the smile too. When she sees another woman across the room, she understands where her heart is and nudges it gently. She weighs her own sacrifice and it amounts to nothing if it means seeing the one she loves happy.
She will remember the hour, minute, the second if you want. The way your hair curls in or curls away. She will bring the one book you mentioned in passing, you might’ve forgotten. She hasn’t. She never will.
To love by women
When walking in the dark, and only a woman in the distance smiles, you follow her because together you’re safer. And she will protect you, or die trying.
In the bathroom while you contemplate your worth, twenty women will walk in and you will leave feeling like you could conquer it. All of it.
Fixing your smudged lipstick.
Crying when you win.
Cursing when you lose.
Carrying furniture. A painting. A child.
Feeding pigeons. Even when she wanted that baguette.
Making your cake. From scratch.
You see a man across, she knows you like him, so she screams for him to notice you. And you feel embarrassed but grateful she said something at all.
If the ice cream ruins your shirts, she wipes yours off first.
Burning matches and fingernails.
Am I pretty? You’re a goddess.
Planting your favorite flower.
Pulling the carrot from the ground.
Nails get filled with soil and dirt, but by dinner, they are in diamonds for you to hold.
Lighting up your cigarette first.
Brushing your hair back because she loves to see your face, uninterrupted.
Organizing your books.
Your music.
Your shoes.
Your coats.
Hating your music and your movies, but saying they’re worth it. For you.
Love notes.
So many fucking love letters.
Running to the mirror to put on a bright red lipstick just to kiss your letter. So you will trace the outline of her lips.
Unbearable heels. Unbearable hair. Bearable for your eyes, for you to kiss it all.
When she says “look at me”
The way she touches your hand, when you say you are broken.
When she hugs your shoulder.
Never a failure in her eyes.
The thing she does where she gathers your shirt in her fist and touch your hair as you hug.
There was rain, she said it was beautiful. She was sick the next day, but she took care of you.
When she smiles.
When you look twice at the perfume bottle, she puts it in the basket.
When you say you don’t feel good, she puts down your hair and sits you in her chair to make you beautiful.
When you read together, she will remember the quote you pointed to.
The scene in the movie that made you cry.
When you fell.
When you stood.
When you learned to walk.
She’s made a mental book of everything.
When the doctor wants your history, instinctively he looks at her. Even you look at her. Your own history, the one with your allergies and illnesses, all in a folder with her.
Birthdays, anniversaries.
“He doesn’t like white wine, we’ll take red”
The little wave from afar at a little baby who smiles at her because she is beauty.
When her hand touches grass.
Flowers.
A bird’s nest.
Crying at the sight of an old man all alone, even though he might be pleasantly happy but the possibility that he isn’t betrays her.
Carefully touching your cheek. You see how her finger lingers under your eyes?
She is taking you in. Every second. The woman you love, will see you, and smile for you to keep going, taking you in all the time.
“They were more severely infected than the men, because while men were always getting furious, they calmed down in the end; women, who appeared to be silent, acquiescent, when they were angry flew into a rage that had no end.”
― Elena Ferrante, My Brilliant Friend
Have you known what it’s like to fall in love with a woman who will do anything for you? Do you know how the Earth shakes for it? How the cubs cry for it? A woman is in your arms, and she will do anything to bring you joy. In her wisdom, battles, silent labor, she does it for you. The way a woman touches your hair, and smiles, the way she talks, her tone different and soft. She won’t accept your flaws, she will see them. Like a hand that tightens a wrinkled face, she will brush it all away.
Remember it all. The way your mother cried lying next to your father, but prepared your favorite breakfast nonetheless. When your wife leaves a kiss on your cheek as you leave the door. When your daughter hands you a rock, only it’s not a rock she says, it’s because you like this color. When nobody showed up because nobody had faith you would win, but in the crowd, someone screams, and you recognize your sister. When you lay down in the middle of the night, alone, forgotten, you know all the women remember you, right?
When nobody understood why you were angry. When you wanted to leave that man. When you wanted to run away from that wedding. When you felt like killing him. When you couldn’t stand the voice of your children. When your water broke. When they told you your child was gone. When you couldn’t find your parking spot. When you couldn’t find the way home. When you said no, but you didn’t say it enough. When you wanted to write a poem. When you couldn’t find a valentine. When you were sick. When you were dying. When you were crying. When you were heartbroken. When you were engaged. When you wanted that trip. That bag. That dress. When you had a bad date. When you felt ugly. When you saw the wrinkles on your neck. When you failed. When you first landed that job. When you thought it was perfect but it wasn’t. When you got married. When you were disappointed. When you were afraid of being judged. When you were a coward. When you were lost. When you wanted to kill yourself. When you hated the world. When you loved the sea. When you climbed the mountain. When you learned to drive.
Have you known, when it was all over, what it was like to be loved by a woman?
There is such beauty in the way they move. The women. They’re loud. They don’t sit up straight all the time. They don’t cook, not all of them. Some of them are marvelous swimmers. They climb. Stitch. Paint. Dance. Read. Dream. Write. Cry. Break. Love. Create. Plant. Harvest. Fight. Lead. Learn. Teach.
And they love with all their hearts. And if you were a man who fell in the arms of a woman who loved him, you know what it’s like to feel that you’ve conquered everything. If it weren’t for my women friends and soulmates, I would be nowhere.
i might just keep coming back, you struck me once again.
YOU're a fucking Genius
Holy shit. (Excuse my French)