I want a feminism that dares to be radical—one that pulls out the arcane, disabling, fractured systems at the root.
I’m tired of mowing the crabgrass, pretending that if we squint hard enough, we can ignore the exhaustion of squeezing curved bodies into rigid, linear systems. Someday, we think, when I get it right—when I curb my appetite, when I tone myself down, when I figure out the perfect way to “man-speak” my ideas—maybe then, I’ll belong.
When I stop loving so fiercely or needing my sisters to help me through. When I stand upright, like the body part of the gender that defines what is “good” and “true.”
When I squeeze myself into demure submission, or learn to acclimate to the zoo rather than pace in my cage. Then, perhaps, I’ll find that belonging I’ve craved in my very cells.
But I want today to be the day I break free from those cells—or maybe break into them. Into my own unique, honored biology, with all its profound inconveniences, that I refuse to discard.
I want a little plot of land—perhaps connected to others who want the same. And together, we will drink like sailors and dream up a new story for ourselves. A story where the measure of our worth lies not in how dry and intellectual we are, but in how wet and fertile.
Where once there were only well-manicured weeds, we will cultivate abundance.
A sign at the gate where we won’t show men how bad they are—but how beautiful.
We will draw up from the roots, as only women can, to make the impossible possible, and restore us all through bounty.