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The fate of women in a men’s world |
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When the sun goes down and I am alone late at night and feel the need to hug someone and there is no one there the demons of my life come back to haunt me and I feel the tears that stream down my cheeks and sense the sobs that rack my body but I neither hear them nor know that I am crying.
I think of my mother who I never saw again since that day of the men who came to visit us and I wonder whether she made it, whether my being taken from her affected her so deeply that she lost the will to live, whether the loss of her child was something she could overcome.
We all struggle to survive. Men have this anger burning deep inside them and this hate towards women and it comes out when they take us. The act of love (or should I just say sex) makes them feel vulnerable deep inside and they resent this. As they take, they give, the moment they come they feel weak and they cover this with a violence that’s barely suppressed so that the act of love is an act of hate and it takes so much effort from a woman to soften this, take the rough edges away so that we, who are more fragile, do not get snagged on them and torn. It takes love from a woman (which a man absorbs) it takes giving, even within the boundaries of a bought love. |
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What happens between a woman and a man |
The first lesson I learnt about what happens between a woman and a man I must have been about eight, maybe nine. In the House of the Rose there was a courtyard and it was the duty of all the young girls to make sure it was perfect.
There were many trees and plants planted in a complicated design there. Roses, as you would expect, cherry blossoms that shed their petals each year. It was our job to tend the garden all year round, make sure it was perfect and we did it well. Working hard, about eight or nine of us.
In one tiny corner there were some white pebbles, really smooth and hard but light. They covered the base of a really old rose bush with wicked, curved thorns that never forgave careless movements. It was my favourite. I tended to spend longer there than on any other plant, shrub or tree in the courtyard, fancied sometimes that the rose bush whispered to me, told me things I did not understand but which were comforting. |
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When I was five a man came to see my mother. We were living in a house with one room. I remember that but I do not remember if I had a brother or a sister. When it was dark my mother would light a tallow candle and put me in a corner, behind a veil. She would tell me to lie still and make no sound and I would sit there, in the shadows while men came to see her.
They would spend time with her, in her bed and sometimes after they left she would cry and use the sponge and tub in our corner and compulsively scrub at herself. The eyes of a five year old see much that is not understood until later. Later it makes sense.
One man once used a stick to beat her and do other things to her. He must have paid a lot for my mother did not see anyone for a while after he left. We had food, we were warm and we were happy. |
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Go ahead! Judge me!
Men always do. So do women! What...I am a mirror. I am only trying to survive. I was given to the House of the Rose when I was five. Did I decide that? Did I see a family, friends, normal children games growing up?
You do not know what it is like. To be like that. To be so good and yet so cold at what others feel so deeply, even if it is for a moment. You despise me for that? Or because you know you cannot really have me? You know that what I do, my performance, is not real.
I am ... me. And wish I wasn't but that was not a fate I chose.
So, judge me! I know your judgement lasts only as long as your need is kept at bay. |
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