Sound this alarming
contradiction in parchment
paper script, ink dipped
(I well up), read my part,
hold myself still
within silvery satin
white (the light
always on, evict
me for the stain); a dull refrain echoes
behind doors of oak and gold affixed
to hollowed walls,
fashioned of
pressed starch and spit.
What are the value systems that shaped you?
How does the world tell you to be?
Where do you feel most yourself?
One epicenter of my story is the synagogue where we were members. A humble space compared to friends in wealthier zip codes, rows of folding chairs stacked off to the side after each weekend’s services. The mildewed perfume of a small basement: a few classrooms, an office, library, restrooms. Something about the chalky exterior façade pulled sunlight into the sanctuary and held it there, washed us during daytime services.
Some of the memories I want to restore take me back there. I resist. Don’t want to think about the circle of so-called friends my parents kept, the gossip and competition, the perverse values, the way they jeered and overtly encouraged the grandfather.
I don’t want to think about the gaudy white dress made for my bat mitzvah, the fact that at thirteen my periods hadn’t begun, yet I was terrified it would, on that day, standing before sacred scrolls that told me I was dirty. Contact lens irritation and the fear of a stain sent tears down my cheeks; I was lauded for them.
Performing a ritual never intended for girls, a falsehood created by feminists like my mother, who demanded I receive equal treatment; I still wasn’t permitted the most sacred prayers.
Feminists like my mother, who told my body was ugly, shameful, failure, a thing to be punished.
That my actual femaleness was bad, and performing maleness was the only way to be good. That I was a vessel for the insecurities of men. Receive the words of their disgust, let my body be kneaded like putty. The way a streak of dirt works its way in, turns it to sludge.
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