Half an hour.
Last night I filtered through my closet to piece together the person I wanted to be tomorrow.
I have a cold, let’s go with sweats.
But there is that cute boy in third hour math, sundress.
It’s thirty five degrees, jeans.
And then I get it right.
And the features I hate are hidden and the ones I love are put on show.
Like a fancy car.
Big motor, shiny paint, loud rev....all to hide the toxic fuel filling the world around us.
And then I go to school in my less than fancy car, feeling slightly better about the school day.
Everything is going well until the principal's eyes lock on what should be my eyes to wish me a good morning but instead scans me up and down.
Every point. Hitting. Like a lead ball. Problems I didn’t even know were issues.
Being sat in a concrete office with adults ganing up on her from every corner
Picking apart her outfit that passed her mother’s approval.
Others sit outside waiting for their name to be called to the chopping block as the “superiors” pass by with their pants that drag on the floor and their wifebeaters that put their “Guns” on show.
“Suns out, guns out.”
How about it’s ninety degrees and the sun will roast us alive so a tank top seems like a reasonable article of clothing.
But wait is that a shoulder? A collar bone? A thigh. A bra strap.
That’s just a distraction. Cover up so they can focus.
How about we teach boys to look at us as more than objects.
Since when was I a collectible for them to look at instead of an equal peer?
Put on display like a splattered canvas crafted in a hipster's loft.
“Look but don’t touch.”
Except that’s where things change.
Because my dress is above my knees means nothing more than that.
It doesn’t mean it’s for you, I’m insecure, promiscuous, and it definitely shouldn’t be impairing your school work.
Call me a distraction one more time.
You know what is distracting?
Pulling me out of class to instill a value I won’t listen to.
My crop top is not supporting drugs, alcohol, gangs, or violence so why don’t you refer back to your damn syllabus.
Skirts that your grandma bought, church endorsed, coach wore, and teacher told you to cover up.
Walking through this car show with shoulders held high and heads held low.
While you are are condemning our sunday wardrobe to bump up male students grades, we are worried they will see our dresses as an invitation.
What it’s like to be a piece of meat in a jungle.
To be a pretty girl in an ugly place.
Thanks for preparing us for the real world.