Pussy Hats

I didn’t join the Women’s March, but I saw you there.

I saw the women who sat at the lunch table and spread rumors around that workplace that I was sleeping with my married colleague.

I saw you holding posters and marching for respect and equality for women.

I saw you chanting loudly in the crowd and it made me think of the harmful words you spit from the same tongue.

Words that distanced women and resulted in the loss of a friendship.

You made up lies that I was sleeping with him. He was my friend; not my mister.

He was my first ally in Portland. Who I knew before moving here. Who gave me the confidence to leave a relationship and move here and be supported. Be welcomed.

I saw your Instagram posts. Your Facebook updates. Your open-mouth smile pointing to the pussy hat behind you.

I saw the women who backstabbed me.

Threw me under the bus.

Commented on my breasts.

Had more to say about the women’s bodies in the office than any man I’ve heard.

And those who judged me for nothing other than the same old tired assessment of an unkept woman in her 30s.

The big bad single 30-year-old woman on the prowl. Hide your husbands. Hide your men. Hide your girlfriends.

Perpetuating the ridicule of women who put career first while marching for women’s rights in the workplace.

Little did you know.

I was completely broken.

It took me hours to fall asleep only to wake up with intense anxiety all over again. And It took all of me to get out of bed in the morning. To walk to the train. To stay in the train. To walk into work and stay busy. While I miss him. While you talk about me.

But I had one friend. Had. Someone who knew How much I was hurting and somehow was able to laugh and play foosball once in awhile and take my mind off the heartbreak. But to you, it means we are fucking, huh.

And I saw you who told his wife. Little did you know. His wife is sleeping with other people. And I knew. I kept everything a secret while I was bashed and lied about. I needed a friend. My friend. But the more people talked, the further we grew apart.

The last thing on my mind was anyone other than the one I love. The last thing I needed: a rumor about me and my only friend here.

If only they knew, I thought. They wouldn’t be saying this.

Or if they knew how my mother corrected anyone who referred to men as property or animals.

She told me a man is not property. You don’t pee on them and you don’t own them. And to say they have no control over themselves is a joke. Men are not animals.

So I was raised to respect men. In an equitable way. As little boys are raised to respect women. We hope.

I think my mother always thought, just as that expectation is put on boys, so should it be on girls.

My grandmother was a feminist.

Her license plate read ERA Now.

And a testament to her feminist beliefs is how my mother raised us to respect men and treat them not as objects nor lower expectations because boys will be boys or all men are animals.

A feminism that equates to equality.

Not the diluted or distorted idea of a superior gender.

If only women received women as men do men.

If only there was talk about anything but who is sleeping with who at the lunch table.

Maybe I’d be there next to you.

Holding that sign in solidarity.

Because I support standing for what you believe in.

And I believe there is a cause to fight.

And I believe women will create the change that is so direly needed when they show up with integrity.

But I find it difficult to march in step with the women who demand respect, but don’t give it to each other first.

So, we can march for our rights.

And march for programs.

And march for whatever you believe in.

But I hope when you walk through your front door, you think about how you treat other women tomorrow when you aren’t standing in a collective energy, but holding it on your own.

When the posters are recycled, the hats are off, and the script is gone.

Are you still marching? Or was it just for the likes?