Sunday, October 15, 2017

100 Women

100 Women
Sunday, October 15, 2017
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Collected from stories of over one-hundred women 


She was young. She was older. She was nineteen. She was thirty. She was fifty-five. She was fresh meat. She was ripe for the pickings. She was no spring chicken.

She was in high school. She was in college. She lived alone. She lived with her girlfriend. She was a single mother. She had a family. She wanted a career. She needed the money. Her husband was on disability. She had to feed her kids.

It was her first job. She was about to retire. She was changing careers. She worked full-time. She worked on weekends. She worked at night. She worked nine to five. She worked for hourly wages. She returned to the work force after becoming a mother.

She worked in the fields. She worked in an office. She traveled across the country. She worked from home. She worked in sales. She worked in a factory. She was a chef. She was an artist. She was a teacher, a programmer, a secretary, a doctor, a waitress, a therapist, a lawyer. She worked in a prison. She was a sergeant in the army.

She had the type of face you’d see on magazine covers. She had her father’s nose. She had a scar above her eye. She had cheeks etched with laugh lines. She was tall and shaped like a tree. She was barely five feet. She was embarrassed of her thighs. She wore sweaters to cover her arms. She wore her hair long. She had a crew cut. She wore her hair in beads. She tied her hair back in a bun. She wore pantsuits. She wore a uniform. She wore a white coat. She wore flip flops and jeans. She came to work made up every day. She came to work fresh-faced in khakis. She wore safety goggles. She wore boots and a toolbelt. She wore little more than nothing.

It was a boys’ club. It was a mixed bag. It was a starter pack. It was millions in. It was just her and him. She was the only woman. He was the only man.

He was charming. He was a prick from the start. He was helpful. He cracked jokes in meetings. He was her age. He was older. He was her father’s friend. He had a wife and children. He had an impeccable reputation. He was highly respected. He was the office sleazebag; everyone knew about him.

He was her boss. He was her co-worker. He was her customer. He was a co-worker. He cleaned the bathrooms. He fixed the machines. He was the president of the company.

It happened only once. It happened repeatedly. It would stop and start again. It happened when they were alone. It was a suggestion. It was a touch. It was a handprint she couldn’t wash off. It was a scream. It was a whisper. It was menacingly quiet. It was a remark about her looks. It was a tug at her skirt. It was a shoulder hug. It was a tap on her desk. It was a phone call. It was an email.

It happened in the office. It happened in the back room. It happened out of town. It was after hours. It was in the parking lot. It was beside the dumpster while they were hauling trash. It was at the annual Christmas party where everyone saw but no one said a thing. It had come out of nowhere. It had been building up. He said he had always wanted to do that. He said he didn’t know what had come over him. He said it must have been the way she was dressed. He said he must have been reading her wrong. He laughed and said she was sending mixed signals.

She didn’t want to believe it. She was ashamed. She didn’t know she could do anything. She just wanted it to go away. She wanted to be seen as tough. She thought it was her fault. She was worried no one would believe her because she wasn’t pretty enough. She was worried about not getting the deal done. She needed the job and was socialized to be silent. She wanted to come across like she could handle anything. She was already made to feel inadequate as a woman in a male dominated industry. She didn’t want to be considered a troublemaker. She was physically afraid of her boss. She had seen what had happened to the other women who had reported him. His wife was pregnant and she didn’t want her to have a miscarriage over the shock. His wife was the only other employee. Her co-workers thought it was funny. She wasn’t the only one, but no one else reported it either.

She asked him to stop. He said no one would believe her. He threatened to get her fired. He threatened to tell her father that she was a slut. He threatened the safety of her unborn baby. The harassment only increased. He said she was imagining things. He said, “You sure do think a lot of yourself!” He said women were too sensitive and couldn’t take a joke. He said she only wished; don’t worry, honey, I won’t fuck a pig.

She sought advice from others. She was told it was just the company culture. They said that’s just how men are. They said, “Oh, he probably likes you.” They said he’s just a friendly guy. They said there was nothing she could do. They said maybe she should leave and find a new job. Move departments. Work from home. She was told she would be labeled a dyke and raped by the prisoners if she complained. She was told to do her job and shut the hell up. She was told to wear different clothes, then maybe he’d lose interest.

She did report it but nothing happened. She was ignored. She was threatened repeatedly. She was fired. She was called a liar. They said it was just the culture. They said it would ruin his life. Her claim was disregarded by the owners of the company because he was making a lot of money for them. They moved her to another department but didn’t fire him. They started cutting back her hours. They treated her like a leper. They made it impossible for her to work there, she was almost forced to quit.

She is retired now. She is still working. She hears men how come forward and say they have daughters and harassment should no longer be happening. She wonders where these men were when this was happening to their wives. She wonders where these men were when it was happening to their mothers. She speaks out now more than ever before. She chooses to remain silent. She talks only to her therapist. She talks only to her minister. She saves the headlines from today’s stories and promises she’ll read them later. She’s walked a hundred miles in other women’s shoes; she’s not afraid to walk a hundred miles farther.


—Erin Passons, 10-15-2017




Wednesday, October 11, 2017

Things That Men Should Know About

Things That Men Should Know About
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
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I was sixteen the first time I was sexually harassed. 

I was working at a one-hour photo store at the mall with a twenty-five-year-old male coworker named Bert. We bonded over bootleg Tori Amos albums and a mutual unappreciation for our manager Tony whose temper can only be described as Satanisque. One slow Sunday afternoon Bert touched my arm and told me that he had a crush on me. Then he leaned in for a kiss. With a forced giggle, I pushed him away and moved to the other side of the printing machine. I didn’t feel terribly threatened because Bert was the stocky type with a doughy-like physique and I was a tough girl with a pair of biceps strong from years of gymnastics and cheerleading; I figured I could easily knock a geek out if I had to. Still, it didn’t stop me from going to Tony and asking him to schedule me on days when Bert wasn’t working. Tony obliged but didn’t ask for more information. Looking back now, I wonder, why didn’t he?





The second time I was sexually harassed, I was twenty-one, already married, and working as an office assistant at an architecture firm in Jackson, Mississippi while finishing up the second of my two useless college degrees. I became friends with a fifty-year-old married man named John, who seemed to have a good head on his shoulders in what was otherwise a chaotic work environment. His office with windows facing a flower-spouting courtyard became my work sanctuary when I wasn’t typing letters or faxing invoices. 

“Why are you here?” he would always ask me. “Clearly this isn’t your dream job. You’re a writer.”

I’d shrug and say, “I don’t have any good ideas.”

Three months into the job, I arrived at work to find an email from John waiting in my inbox. The subject line read: “Book idea.” I opened it and began reading.

Young, lonely married woman works at a job she despises. She friends a lonely, older, married man. They begin a hot, steamy, illicit affair, and eventually leave their spouses to be with each other. The email went on to outline how the affair would start, with detailed descriptions of me pinned against the wall begging for him to put it in, with me bent over his desk moaning, with me on the trunk of his car, my legs over his shoulders as he pumped me full of hot cum.

The words became a blur as my mind tried to accept what my eyes were feeding it. My mouth hung open, my heart beating out of my chest. After the shock wore off, disgust coursed through my body, and after that, betrayal. I had spent hours pouring my heart out to this man; I thought of him as a father. How could he correlate our mutual preferences for cats over dogs and our similar political beliefs into an erotic sex fantasy?

I left work early in tears. I took a shower as soon as I came home. I think the shower must have lasted for hours. Too exhausted to dress, I fell into bed wrapped only in a towel and dialed my mom’s number. By then, guilt had set in. I must have done something. I must have said something. I must have led him on. Otherwise, why would he focus on me? I wasn’t the type of girl that men typically thought of that way. I wasn’t beautiful. (I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been tricked into believing one of the biggest myths of sexual harassment: that it only happened to "pretty" girls. This was a lie. It happened to all of us. The undesirables and the less than 10’s and the picture imperfect alike. We all get a slice of the harassment pie.)

Sobbing, I told my mom the story. She responded with the expected amount of anger and outrage. I think she may have cried too. Before we got off the phone, I asked, “What do I do? Do I tell him?” Him being my then-husband.

“No,” my mom said. “There are some things men should never know about.”

Taking my mom’s advice, I said nothing to my husband when he came home that night. When I went back to work the next day, I didn’t bring up John’s email to anyone, nor did I make my routine stop at John’s office. After days of feeling my distance, he stopped me in the hall and asked, “So I guess you didn’t like the book idea?” All I could do was shake my head. I remember my eyes landing on John’s blotchy red hands. I remember imagining what he imagined doing to me with those hands, and the familiar sickness took over again.

At home, sex life with my husband died on a vine. “Are you cheating on me?” he asked, more than once. I promised I wasn’t. “Then what is it?” he demanded. I would always turn away, mumbling a bogus excuse.

A few months after the email, I finished school. I quit the job at John’s firm, and my husband and I moved back to Australia. My marriage got back on track, but the experience had left a stain just under the surface, one that would reappear throughout the years out of nowhere, in the most inconvenient of circumstances, like during sex (Frustrated husband: “Why are you crying?”) or when I was playing with my children (Concerned four-year-old daughter: “Mommy, why sad face?”). But I had learned my lesson: never get close to a male coworker.

Not that keeping a safe distance mattered. Over the years, more incidents would occur. An executive of a company where I worked took me out to lunch with the premise that he wanted to discuss a promotion, but spent most of the hour ogling my legs, saying in an offhand, casual manner, “Your husband must love those wrapped around him at night” right before asking the waiter for the check. At the same company, another coworker shared with me music from his playlist from time to time, which I didn’t think anything of until his wife called me after discovering love letters he had addressed to my name. “Tell me what’s going on between the two of you!” she had demanded. “Nothing,” I stammered out, just as shocked as she was. Their marriage ended shortly after. With no pesky marital vows to interfere with my coworker’s delusion, his attention grew more aggressive, and his aggression manifested; his music sharing turning into emails that turned into unscheduled stops at my desks that turned into late night calls that I was unable to explain to my husband. I could have told his boss, I suppose, but his boss was the same vulgar man who took me out to lunch years earlier. I could have told my husband, but we were barely speaking (Our marriage was also on the verge of collapsing). In my mind, the only option was to look for a new job, and that’s exactly what I did.






My most recent experience—a member of the janitorial staff at my current job began going out of his way to say hello to me when he picked up the trash from our floor of the building. Mind you, the garbage can was at the other end of the floor; there was no reason for him to pass my office—but he did anyway. This was something I might have not even noticed in my earlier days, but I was 38 now, and my bullshit tolerance meter was at an all-time low. As the days passed, the man became more assertive, butting into my teleconferences to wave hello, interrupting my conversations with coworkers just to say, “Don’t work too hard,” with a wink, sometimes tapping my chair or shoulder to get my attention. It was annoying, but I wondered, could it really be considered sexual harassment? I wasn’t sure. I thought about asking my boyfriend. He was a lawyer and knew about these sort of things from a legal standpoint, if not from a personal one. The thought didn’t necessarily appeal to me – it was impossible to ask my boyfriend a legal question without getting a lecture on the whole Constitution and the entire history of rulings on whatever legality I was asking about – but, I decided, it would be worth sacrificing several hours of my life (in which I would spend most of the time trying to stay awake) to get his professional input (and, to be completely honest, his comfort).

Then I remembered my mother’s words (there are somethings men should never know about), and I changed my mind. I stayed silent.

Months came and went, but the janitor’s unwanted attention never ceased. Some days he’d shake my shoulders. Some days he’d grab my arm. Why do I still have to put up with this BS? I thought. I’m thirty-eight f*cking years old! (Another common myth: Sexual harassment slows down as women age. It doesn’t. In some cases, it only gets bolder.)

On a sunny afternoon six months into the janitor’s daily visits, I went out to lunch with a couple of female co-workers. I saw the janitor as soon as we stepped out of the building. He was leaning against a nearby tree, sucking on a lit cigarette. Our eyes locked. He waved at me. I didn’t wave back. “That guy gives me the creeps,” I blurted without thinking.

A co-worker turned to investigate the object of my angst. Her throat erupted with a low growl. “Me too,” she said.

The others chimed in.

Yes!

Me too!

I thought I was the only one!


It seemed the janitor had been obtrusive to all of us. Still, I thought, was it sexual harassment? Maybe he was doing it to men too. Maybe he was just over-friendly. After lunch, I pulled my male co-workers aside one at a time and asked them about him. Not a single one even knew who I was talking about. I had all the confirmation I needed. I marched up to the building manager’s office and described the predicament. A week later, the over-friendly janitor was gone.

I was proud of myself—proud and frustrated. Why had I not done this sooner? I mean, not just this occurrence, but all the other times I had been sexually harassed? In every scenario, I had thought I was the only one. But maybe that wasn’t the case. Perhaps the men who preyed on me had indiscriminate taste. The identity of their prey was of no consequence; they only hunted for the chase.

It was the guilt of remaining silent for so long and potentially putting other women at risk that finally led me to talk to my boyfriend. When I described the incidents with the janitor, my boyfriend’s face fell with unexpected shock. “Why didn’t you tell me you were being sexually harassed?” he asked.

“I wasn’t sure if it was sexual harassment,” I admitted.

“Well, it was! I would have told you to go to the building manager a long time ago. Hell, I would have talked to them for you.”

“Oh, and because you’re a man, your voice would have mattered?” I asked, my feminist flag rising.

“No,” boyfriend said, vigorously shaking his head. “Because I love you and you love me, my voice should have mattered.”




When the allegations about Harvey Weinstein came out, I saw people ask, what took women so long to come forward? – to which I answered, what took men so long?

Then I thought about that conversation with my boyfriend. Why didn’t you tell me…

It’s clear from the New York Times’ extensive investigation that the men who circled Weinstein’s life knew what was happening in the secret innuendo meetings that Weinstein held in the darker, more secluded rooms of the company’s office building and in the clandestine rendezvous in hotel rooms. In the absence of women’s visible outrage, however, exactly zero percent of these men spoke out against Weinstein’s actions. Why didn’t they?

Obviously, first and foremost, they were concerned about their careers (It was a well-known fact, Weinstein was an eye for an eye kind of guy). Maybe some men even approved of Weinstein’s actions and followed their boss’s example.

But I tend to think there was a little of the Not My Woman, Not My Problem factor involved too. Professional investment isn’t emotional investment, no matter how you swing it, and some of us have moral compasses that only point north when north is where we’re heading. In the mid-90s, when Gwyneth Paltrow told her then-boyfriend Brad Pitt about Weinstein’s harassment, Pitt confronted Weinstein. At the time I write this, Pitt is the only "significant other” who has been reported as doing so. One could reasonably argue that this was because Pitt felt like he had the invincibility to do so. He's Brad F'ing Pitt. Not everyone had that luxury.

But if that's the case, had other men who were invested in these women’s lives also been told about the harassment and had not spoken up out of fear of retaliation? Or was it because they were never told to begin with?

The first assumption seems like a reasonable (if somewhat crappy) excuse due to the nature of the beast they would have been forced to confront. But in other cases, in the millions and millions of other cases across the country where this happens every day, the same cannot be said; and in those cases, I wonder if those women, like myself, chose to stay silent, and in doing so, unwillingly helped men further remove themselves from taking accountability for our misogynistic culture in which the bad seeds sexually harass and never pay the price for it.

Do heterosexual women need their men to stand up for them? As a feminist, it’s a little disconcerting to write this: but yes, I believe we do—because until we live in a world where a woman’s voice carries more weight than a man’s lies, having allies with a Y chromosome is an important step to safeguarding against sexual harassment – and those potential champions of the testosterone variety start at home. Besides, when you get down to it, it’s not a war between the sexes (men are sexually harassed too, lest we forget, and women can sexually harass other women just as easily as men). This is a war against harassment, and everything that comes with it—the fear, the silence, the guilt, the shame, the systematic unraveling of a person’s self-worth. It’s not a man’s support we’re really asking for; it’s the support of a person for whom we love and who loves us back.

I think back on what my mother told me years ago. There are some things men don’t need to know about. I know what she was thinking: things could get worse. Then-husband might start a scene at my work, confront John, punch him out…or maybe not believe me at all. Maybe then-husband would blame me for the incident. My mom was protecting me from further hurt, but what she was really protecting and encouraging was the silence that surrounds stories of sexual harassment, smothering the voices within.

As women, it is crucial that we speak to the men in our lives—our husbands, our fathers, our sons, our brothers—about what we endure in the workplace, no matter how hard or difficult the conversation. We can no longer protect men from sharing the weight of our trials. These are things that men should know about.



Great sources written by people way far more knowledgeable than I:

Workplace Sexual Harassment Linked To Damaging Mental Health Consequences, Depending On Who’s Doing The Harassing
Monday, October 9, 2017

I Could Have Been One of You

I Could Have Been One of You
Monday, October 9, 2017
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There’s an odd pain that stays with you long into adulthood when you grow up in a place that is the exact opposite of everything you represent.

There’s jealousy too, I think. Last March when I was back in Jackson, my dad and I went to the famous St Paddy’s Day parade. Rows and rows of white women in their college sweatshirts and fake Mardi Gras beads laughing with friends and yelling at their children with twice the syllables that need to be (“John” is “Joooohaaaaan” in the Deep South). I could have been one of them, I thought, walking past. If only I hadn’t wanted more. If only I hadn’t asked so many questions in Sunday school. If only I hadn’t reached my hand across the expanse of racial lines. If only I hadn’t winced walking into a room with mounted deer heads. If only hadn't stormed out of my Music Appreciation class when the teacher used the word "fag." I could have stayed in MS, married a lawyer from Ole Miss, started a family in a white flight neighborhood, made banana pudding for tailgating at football games, went to church every Sunday, stayed unwoke and unaware of the sufferings of the world around me Bc my world was jus’ fiiiine, praise the Lord. — maybe then those plastic shamrock cups with warm beer would taste like mother’s milk. And I would be happy and content and not a fuming mess waiting for Mango Dumptruck’s next tweet, waiting for the ground beneath to shake, for the familiar outrage to swell and take my breath away.

I loved you, Mississippi. But you could never accept me. I didn’t fit into your mold. That’s why I had to go.

- Erin Passons, 10-7-2017
Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Mandalay Bay

Mandalay Bay
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
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Kids, remember Mandalay Bay? Our hotel during our Vegas stay. Remember the aquarium? Rooms and rooms of tanks populated with brightly colored fish swimming past pretending we didn’t exist. Daughter, you spent an hour filming them. You held your lens near the glass and gasped whenever a shark swam past. It wasn’t the first time danger held your glance, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Four years and ten months ago the two of you sat by the bathroom door asking why I had locked myself inside, crying. I could barely tell you about the twenty children your age who disappeared into death’s maze that day and did not live to find an exit.

“It won’t happen to you,” I had promised. “Stricter gun laws are coming soon.” I didn’t know then what a liar I was.

Kids, remember Mandalay Bay? Last night a shark entered the glass case of fish and picked them off one by one until 50 lives lay scattered among the debris of rocks while hundreds more floated by, their bodies in irrefutable disrepair.

This wasn’t the first time since 2012. Hundreds of others including kids have been broken and butchered by bullets flying past, small sacrifices for 2nd amendment rights – a week of headlines then on to the next. Each year we stop and ponder, when will it end, when can we feel safe again, but it never does and we never have.

Kids, this is the aquarium you are swimming in. Remember the danger you live with, yes; but also, remember you share the peril with millions of fish. Together you can move currents; combine fins to form a formidable prey who rides over the top, sinking threats like stones at the bottom of the glass floor.

Your fins are buoyed by coordination and action; life cannot sustain merely from thoughts and prayers or standing by the glass watching, impartial, as our so-called amendment rights take another deathblow bite from our nation.

— Erin Passons, 10-2-2017
Tuesday, September 26, 2017

I Save the World Every Night

I Save the World Every Night
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
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It was the bird, Doug. The one the cats killed the afternoon before Halloween. You don’t believe in omens, but I do, and when I came home first to find the bird—not a bird anymore, really, but bones—lying near the window of the balcony, I stood there for a long second and thought, this can’t be good.

The cats were hiding somewhere. It was five o’clock and the sky had lost a passenger. I folded the bones into a paper towel and stuffed them in the bottom of the trash. When you came home, you shook your head and said, “I told you the bird feeder was a bad idea.” You were right again.

“I wanted the cats to have something to amuse themselves throughout the day,” I said defensively. “I didn’t think the birds would drop their guard. I didn’t think they’d miss the signs of danger.” One cat was a giant tub of black and white fur. The other was a lithe gray tabby with yellow eyes. Neither were exactly camouflaged against the white cement of the balcony floor.

You said (I’ll never forget), “You can’t escape danger just because you see it coming.”

What about the danger you don’t see coming, I wondered on election night. I was out on the balcony, nervous and shaking. Light wind caked in cedar blew past, reminding me of the sunbaked Lone Star State from where I sat. “Tell me if he wins Michigan,” I yelled out, then thought better of it. “Nevermind, don’t tell me.”

I looked down at my phone. Nothing political stared back at me. Instead, it was a game. Through the magic of technology, I was saving the world. I save the world quite often. I kill four diseases every night. Black, blue, yellow, red. Red is always the hardest to kill. That night it was impossible.

A month later you rolled over in the sheets and took my hand and asked if you would ever get your girlfriend back. I looked away from you and to the books I had been reading pre-Nov. 8, which sat on my side of the bed like forgotten relics from another time. I crouched against your back, my skin sliding next to yours. I had gained weight or lost it; I couldn’t tell. All I knew was nothing fit like before. Including your hand.

I had long since given up trying to save the world.

“I keep thinking I’m dead,” I said.

“You’re not dead,” you said. “You’re more alive than ever. You just don’t know it yet.”

On a morning in late January I woke up early. I was used to waking early by then; it was the time of day I set aside to edit the ten thousand stories waiting in my inbox. Each story had a different voice, and each morning I sank into a new voice like a miner crawling down the mouth of a cave with a lit torch burning to discover. This morning, however, I was content with discovering my own. The night before I had come home from the Women’s March and was simultaneously rejuvenated and exhausted from the experience, and my mind was racing.

At the window I watched in awe as an amber fire lit the balcony aglow. Dawn was the only time I enjoyed living in Texas—when the sky above the unforgiving landscape swallowed the pitch blackness from within and spat it out in heavenly flames of pink and orange. (You loved it too, although we have rarely watched this event unfold together.)

I pushed the balcony doors back slowly, not wanting to wake you. At the same moment, a bird landed on the birdfeeder. The cats immediately perked up from their positions along the outdoor chairs. Seeds dropped to the floor, and the bird swooped down to catch them. A second was all it took. The grey tabby got to it first, sinking her mouth around the neck and digging in. I reached down and grabbed at her, my fingers pulling at fur until they clipped onto her tiny neck. I yanked at her mouth and it opened. Feathers rained down as the bird flew up and my hand became a scratching board as the cat tried to break free.

I had forgotten the incident by the time you knocked on my office door much later, asking me if I wanted some tea. I was already in the cave, buried deep behind the haunting voices of other women’s lives.

I saved a life I never told you about, Doug; but that’s okay.

I used to save the world from diseases every night. Black, blue, yellow, red.

Red is always the hardest to kill, but I don’t play anymore.

One day I’ll reach out and save myself, and then your hand will fit perfectly the way it did before, even though I’m not the same bird I was then. Sometimes we see the danger and it kills us—sometimes we see the danger and it sets us free.

1-1-2017

"H"

"H"

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I keep still-frame snapshots in my mind of election day: the near-empty parking lot (more efficient Texans had voted early), the kids selling “liberty lemonade” at the entrance, a map of Austin spread out over the lobby wall, the elderly black woman waiting below it with a sign that said, “Information.”

“I’m here to break the glass ceiling,” I had told her.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” she said. Her eyes found mine and in that moment, I knew her whole life story and she knew mine.

An elderly Hispanic man found my name on a list of registered voters. “Did you come by yourself?” he asked.

“No,” I said. I lifted a picture from the pocket of my wool coat and raised it eye-level. “I brought my daughter.” A mouth of missing teeth grinned at the man. He smiled back and motioned me over to the nearest empty booth.

I stepped in and began scrolling through the screens, voting on the local elections first. Prop whatever, commissioner such-and-such, I didn’t care (I knew I should but I didn’t); just get me to the sweet stuff.

After the state elections came and went, the camera lens sharpened; my heart began beating faster. I was so close to the glass ceiling, I could almost tap it.

Her name was a blur from my tears but it’s a blur I take with me everywhere.

I hit the button beside the “H” of her name; deprovisioning the chains, emptying the flour to the kitchen floor, biting the sea in an unladylike blink, writing a page into history.

I reached into my coat pocket and touched the grin with the missing teeth. “This is for you,” I whispered. “This is for you.”

…and it still is, and has been every day since. This is for her, this is for us. I wake up in the dead dawn in this unquiet alternate universe and cast my vote beside the “H” where the letters of her name have long since faded away and new letters have emerged in the face of her defeat – because evil won and good is gone and hope is our only candidate.

- Erin Passons, 9-20-2017
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