fierce women

blog: cvnt

I want to talk for a minute about the word “cunt”. And sorry, yes, this will be a sweary post.

It’s a paradoxical word, at the same time acting as both what is arguably the most offensive swear word and as a word that is quintessentially and nostalgically Australian. “He’s a sick cunt!” is one of the highest compliments you can pay someone in some circles of Straya, and it works well as a placeholder – “that cunt of a thing” – or as a reminder to someone acting a bit dickish to “don’t be a cunt”. Women use it to describe their sex in a “take the power back” kind of way. Couples engaged in sex acts might consensually use the word in their play.

And that’s all fine. I’ve become somewhat desensitised to all of those uses, and then some. I’ve dropped a few C-bombs myself. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: if you are a man and you call a woman a cunt out of anger or because you are all up in your feels, THAT IS NOT OK. Not ever! That act of gender-based violence is a HUGE red flag to what else you might be capable of saying or doing in the heat of the moment.

If a man ever calls me a cunt and actually means it as an insult, he’s dead to me. If a man calls another woman a cunt in my hearing, rest assured he is going to cop an earful. If a man calls another woman a cunt while speaking to me, I am immediately done. There is no excuse for it.

Even without looking too deeply into all the misogynistic connotations of taking a beautiful and natural part of a woman’s body, the part that brings us pleasure and helps to create life, and turning it into something to be treated as dirty, shameful and something to be ridiculed and hated…

Even just looking at it in its simplest terms, men use that word to subjugate and instil fear in women, to put us beneath them, to reduce us to our genitals and oppress us. They use it when lashing out because we didn’t give them what they wanted or respond in a way they wanted us to. It’s a ‘little boy having a tantrum’ word, but we all know how destructive little boys can be when they are challenged with big feelings.

If you still don’t understand what I’m saying, take this as an invitation to do some reflection on the power of words in the arena of gender-based violence. And maybe, for some of you, an invitation to do better.

A Christmas Poem (K. Shetler)

sometimes I wonder
if Mary breastfed Jesus.
if she cried out when he bit her
or if she sobbed when he would not latch.

and sometimes I wonder
if this is all too vulgar
to ask in a church
full of men
without milk stains on their shirts
or coconut oil on their breasts
preaching from pulpits off limits to the Mother of God.

but then i think of feeding Jesus,
birthing Jesus,
the expulsion of blood
and smell of sweat,
the salt of a mother’s tears
onto the soft head of the Salt of the Earth,
feeling lonely
and tired
hungry
annoyed
overwhelmed
loving

and i think,
if the vulgarity of birth is not
honestly preached
by men who carry power but not burden,
who carry privilege but not labor,
who carry authority but not submission,
then it should not be preached at all.

because the real scandal of the Birth of God
lies in the cracked nipples of a
14 year old
and not in the sermons of ministers
who say women
are too delicate
to lead.

Kaitlin Shetler Poetry
https://www.facebook.com/kaitlinhardyshetler
https://linktr.ee/KaitlinShetler

blog: just smile and say thank you

I was talking to a friend yesterday about how a lot of people have to learn how to take a compliment graciously. For example, someone says “That’s a lovely dress!” Me a few years ago: “Oh, this old thing? I got it at Kmart on the clearance rack!” Me today: “Why, thank you!” But it took me a while!!

It’s really not hard, but I guess a lot of us struggle because compliments force us to admit we secretly think we look cute too, or did well in a challenge, or cooked a really great meal, etc. A lot of us grow up being told not to “put tickets on ourselves” (for non-Australians that’s “think too highly of yourself”!).

And we have “tall poppy syndrome” here in Australia, where anyone who tries to stand out above the crowd becomes a target for being taken down a peg or two. Which makes today’s rhetoric of “love yourself” and the body positive movement, etc. so hard to embrace for some people.

But if we were to embrace our own awesomeness, it wouldn’t be hard to say “Thank you” when we are paid a compliment. Instead of deflecting the compliment we are paid, I’m sure some people give false compliments just to be ‘nice’ or to be manipulative but I’d wager that most compliments are genuine and people who give them just want to contribute to making your day a little brighter. By deflecting their compliment, you are devaluing their opinion and their contribution to your life.

So practice just saying “Thank you” when people say nice things about you! It’s hard at first but it’s not impossible, and when you do there are smiles all round.

Oh, and by the way – you look nice today!

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poem: hush-a-bye

There’s things I want to tell you, but my throat refuses to put out.
My Southern mama taught me too well, honey chile, how to hush my mouth.

So I bite on the gag, suffocate by the way of inertia
Auto-asphyxiate with every word I say,
To feed your need for minutia
Every lie that I tell to hide the tell-tale gaps between
“Hi” and “how are ya?”

My spirit caged like a beast whose claws and teeth can’t be trusted;
Stuffed into a paper mâché shell and made to behave as instructed.
Mustn’t make waves, or put my rage on display –
It’s not the done thing
To air one’s laundry in public.

And I’m a hypocrite, I know, but I’m sick of trying to live –
As one more cog in the machine, one more chain, one more link!
And oh what ignorant bliss, what sweet release it seems!
To close my eyes to infinite dreams and be pulled under –
I envy Rip Van Winkle his twenty years of slumber.

Cos I’m tired – oh, so tired of this deafening silence!
Of the polite noises we make to avoid any violence.
I want to get in the ring, you and me –
Toe to toe and glove-free,
Bare-knuckle love and expression;
No holding back –
Right-hook jazz!
Uppercut poetry explosion…
Exploring the spectrum of human emotion.

I want you to see me for me,
Like, really notice I’m here,
Bursting out of my bands!
Nearly tipping over my chair!

Instead, we share jokes and links and recipes for pot roast.
I ask how your job’s going and like all your Facebook posts.
We make plans for a catch up we both know won’t happen;
I do miss your face, but you’re under-equipped
For the demons I’m battling.

So I pretend to be busy, and you pretend not to notice;
You like all my profile pics and ask how my job’s going…
And then you ask it – THE question – you ask how I am,
For a second, I almost cave, almost grab at the chance
To spring like a captive from restraint, initiate self destruct!
And run as far as truth can, when its moment has come…

But then…
I trip my own tongue,
My shutters fall into place,
The words dry up in my throat, an aborted disgrace.
And I simply smile and offer up the well-oiled phrase:

“Yeah –
I’m great, thanks.”

Maya Angelou (1928-2014)

Phenomenal Woman (A Tribute)

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

RIP Maya Angelou (1928-2014)

poem: objects in the rear view mirror

– TW: domestic violence

Every step I take leads me further away from you
Without a word you call to me
I look back, surprised to see that once so tall,
You are now so small within my view

Someone must have greased your palm
Because I’m stumbling
Tumbling, tripping, struggling
Slowly slipping from your grasp
Unable to hold me
Unable to control me
You have no choice but to let me pass

There was a time when I hated you
There was a time when I hated myself
There was a time when every man wore your face
And echoes of your presence could be felt in every place
And I hated everyone around me
Even though they were only trying to help

So much anger inside me, so much rage
I threw my own pity party, and –
Though I sent out invitations by the dozens –
No one came.

I took a look around the place where I was at
And found nothing… nothing
But a few dusty party hats
And a half eaten ice cream cake
Melting… melting
I stood with my feet planted firmly on the path
There was no right or left; no up or down
Just Forward and Back…
And I knew I could not stay
So I picked up my feet,
And placed one in front of the other

Now I’m headed for a better day
Because every step I take
Leads me further away from you
And although you were once so tall,
You are now so very small
Disappearing from my view

poem: confession manifesto

– TW: SA, addiction

Here is my confession – when I was seven
A little boy touched me in a place I didn’t like
No grownups did anything to stop it
And it was all my fault.

Here is my confession – when I was twelve,
I was angry and I didn’t understand why
My parents didn’t believe in counselling so they hit me
With a Bible instead and told me to shape up or they’d ship me out
And it was all my fault.

Here is my confession – when I was seventeen
My father said, “It’s my way or the highway.”
I put on my big girl shoes and lit out
To face the wide world on my own.

I partied and played out tired stereotypes of misspent youth –
I fell into a bottle and stayed there,
So damn drunk I couldn’t hold down a job
Or tell the man who gave me a ride home late one night
That No definitely does mean No.
I burned up opportunities and friendships
Like the cigarettes I lit to mark the sorrow on my skin
And it was all my fault.

In my 20’s I turned to confession,
Threw myself on the mercy of Jesus
And trusted his followers to be cut from the same cloth
But they chewed me up and spat me out
Like wolves in sheeps’ clothes
And it was all my fault.

Confession becomes my obsession,
I scribble poems and half-thoughts on notebook paper that I screw up and throw out
“Not Good Enough” becomes the motto emblazoned across my chest
As I watch other poets spittin it, hittin it as hard as I wanna do,
As I could do, if it weren’t for this damn block –
And the block is all my fault…

I’m stuck in this confession,
Without a priest to absolve me
Or a psychotherapist to resolve me
I’m a puzzle beyond solving
Fault lines crack and plates start to rub each other the wrong way
My skin gets compromised by a million different splinters all pushing to get in
And the –whoosh- of my soul, trying to get out…

But…
It is not my fault.
In fact, it was never my fault.
And for those of you who see a bit of yourself in my story,
It’s not your fault either.
It was never. your. fault.

We were the ones society was supposed to nurture
We were the ones who were supposed to grow up to greatness
The ones who carried the promise of the future in our tender hearts
Like the unopened petals of a sunset-yellow rose
We were the ones who were supposed to hope, to think to dream,
But we got crushed by the machine,
We opened our eyes too wide, when the light was still too bright to hide us.
And the lies they told pierced the unformed armour of our souls
But it was not our fault…

We were just too fucking fragile.

So I want to lift up this poem as an anthem
For anyone who was ever told they were not good enough
Not fast enough, not smart enough, not pretty enough
That they were simply not enough…

I want to burn away the lies and get to the real you
I want to replace the coals of shame with the fires of truth
I wanna lift up this poem as an anthem,
Because everyone knows coals
Are just diamonds
Waiting to happen.

poem: eviscerate

The pen is mightier than the sword
But not all have the power to use it –
Do I? After all the abusive shit you put me through,
You bet I do! Hey, if Taylor Swift can do it,
I can too – I’ll eviscerate you
Till there’s nothing left,
But a pile of regrets
And a handful of memories I just can’t quite shed
See that’s the thing, in killing you
I’m killing a part of me, but it’s worth it
To make the hurt and anger go away
To live to fight another day
To reduce you to rubble
There’s nothing left to say…
Eat my dust.