I saw Wonder Woman-

-and I need to talk about her.

I'd like to start by putting aside issues that have already been mentioned and talked about elsewhere: Gal Gadot the person being problematic, the influence of the patriarchy, lack of diversity, and the fact that the super serious male character was named Steve (it just DOES NOT sound cool when Steve is dying and Wonder Woman is yelling STTEEVVEEE! I feel like I'm watching a sandwich commercial or something).

What matters for me is that I started crying during the very first fight scene (involving men, not the practice scenes) when strong, fierce women start yelling and flying through the air and protecting themselves. 

I didn't understand the obsession with superheros until I watched Jessica Jones on Netflix. Then I saw the female reboot of Ghostbusters, and now Wonder Woman, and I really, really get it.

Representation matters.

As a cis woman, I grew up in a society that both subtly and forcefully told me I'm weak and lesser and overly emotional. Like so many others, my consent was violated, I was made to feel small, and I internalized and pushed down traumatic events until they became physical pain. And all around me, I saw women "needing" to be rescued by men; women portrayed as week and helpless. Strong women were always a surprise or funny.

When I see women who can fight back, who can save themselves, protect themselves, I feel better. I feel like I could do the same.

Once, in therapy, I was talking about how anxiety was making it difficult to sleep. My therapist asked me to imagine people standing outside of my house, protecting me. All of them were women: Olivia Benson, Xena, Jessica Jones. I'm glad that I had them to imagine, because when I imagined men standing around the outside of my house, my anxiety grew.

Tonight, I can add Wonder Woman to the list of role model heros who help me feel safe.

Far From Home

NaPorWriMo 2017 #21

A human carrying a thick suitcase,
Always around like a shadow
Under the direct Tucson sun
Black and yellow under blue skies:
This is the shape of chronic loyalty.

Spread on a spectrum between two coasts
To where I finally found a method
For unpacking the baggage,
The endless boulders and mud
Once thought to be precious gems;

They're now less heavy and ambivalent
So I can make my own home
Over all that confusing scaffolding.

The Thing That Did Not Kill Me

NaPoWriMo 2017 #19

It held on as a blinding tumor
Clouding my right eye for two years
Before I ran off to the desert
In search of healing.

When they removed the tumor
What I saw stopped my heart:
A flash, all at once, all of it,
I understood the gift
Of being half blind.

I'm thankful for the fake re-death
Induced by merciful drugs
By angels holding bed pans-
I'm grateful for gradual re-awakening
In this starched white hospital bed.

Therapy

NaPoWriMo 2017 #17

My entire life had been a school for therapists:
A secret school, the teachers hiding,
Leaving notes and tests and homework
In painful places, stacks of textbooks creating
Scaffolding for office buildings
Where I'd one day sit on the other side of the couch
Not comfortable, but familiar.

Memories

NaPoWriMo 2017 Day 1

My memories were buried in my body:
Some in my stomach, filling my intestines;
Shoved deep in muscles, creating heavy limbs;
Replacing bone marrow and weakening ribs.
I carried every moment with me
Until I found where x-shaped scars marked entrance points
And began to move dirt with stiff fingers.
Here, in blood mixed with earth mixed with death,
A slow excavation began-
Sorting helpful from unhelpful,
Explanations from enemies,
Stepping stones from brittle rocks;
Clearing passages to a second life,
Line with only recollections that serve to light the way.

Are You There, Anger? It's Me, Emily

Memories aren't always reliable, so maybe I'm exaggerating, but I remember being angry and not really knowing why for most of my childhood. I think my fourth grade teacher once called me "sour grapes" and I have photographic evidence that, when my group of friends in middle school decided to dress up as Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, there was no question among us that I would go as Grumpy.

As a young adult I got tired of this reputation and tried to swing to the other extreme of letting go of all anger and empathizing with those who I felt had hurt me. Unfortunately, I didn't quite make it to letting go of the anger and instead only managed to turn it inward for a while.

Now, at the ripe old age of 31, I'm finally trying to find the balance; the place between assertive, constructive anger and turning the other cheek so many times that I am flipped inside out.

I've talked about this a lot in my own therapy, and I am still confused. That dude hollered at me from his truck- I have a right to raise both middle fingers, yell, and then stew about it for the rest of the day, right? My co-worker crossed my boundaries again- I get to assertively tell him to leave and then tell his supervisor, right? This for-profit corporation made decisions that make my job harder and might be unethical- this is when I speak up and tell people why they're wrong over and over again for weeks, right? I'm totally being the assertive adult I've always wanted to be and I'm not overdoing it at all, right?

In order to complicate things a bit further, I decided to jump back into Social Work School and become a Therapist. Now I have an Empathy Problem. I know too much. I can find a reason behind most of the things I experience that bother me. (No one taught them that that's not okay, he's anxious and wants help, it might actually work out pretty well for our clients, I'm reacting because this triggered something in me and if I take time to process it I will feel fine.)

I am an adult, and I still feel very confused sometimes about when and how to be angry and assertive in a way that is productive and healthy and prevents me from becoming a doormat or an ogre.

How do YOU decide?

Two things often happened in my dreams as a child:

I’d hear someone creeping, creeping up the stairs, a stranger,

An uninvited guest, stepping quietly in the dark,

Always a threat never realized

And

The toilet would come alive with a deafening growl,

It would lift itself from its tile floor surroundings and

Start to shuffle, shuffle toward my room.

Sometimes, the two intruders would creep and shuffle

At the same time, a grand nightmare outside my bedroom door,

Moving closer but never meeting, never quite making it.

What did they want, what did they mean?

What would have happened if the creep on the stairs

Met the plumbing monstrosity in the hall?

Maybe I should have introduced them. Maybe

They were just loneliness incarnate, maybe

They needed a firm handshake and a “Hello”.

Maybe

I was not as powerless as they would have me believe,

Maybe I could have distracted away my own nightmares,

So that, in my adult dreams, I’d finally be able to scream

Why I Hate Stuffed Animals

I was nine years old

When my parents cleaned out the house.

Divorce, it was time to move.

I was sitting on the front porch steps,

(The ones that had been washed so many times

By spring thunderstorm rain while we watched,

Safe under the roof in lawn chairs)

I caught the crooked eye of a derelict teddy bear

Positioned haphazardly on a bulk of trash;

It’s mouth halfway unstitched, it’s nose broken.

Though it was alive I’d never seen it before.

                (How could I miss it? All of mine were

                Individually named, with back stories and

                Regularly scheduled hugging.)

I snuck the teddy bear up to my room.

We cried together, me out of pity,

He, out of fear, until I named him,

And added him to the hugging rotation.

                (My therapist, so far removed but

                So far in my head, would say: “Do you

                Think you found yourself that day?”)

Catalyst

What luck! A white rabbit beast has graced my lawn;

While lost, my hand, drags nervously among the grass-

I give its contents to the fresh teeth of my new talisman

And he leaves his burrow to bestow a secret:

“Life is not ringing loud enough,” his lisp declares;

“We must break free of your arms-

 Embrace the plethora of cathartic conversation 

You refuse to believe you can demand.” 

Thus, I leave the church, this first time;

I leave the yard where I cannot sleep!

I watch the rabbits gaze of empathy; the clock timing all that I just lost- 

The rewards of my way home are plotted carefully

In heavy footsteps through bloody yards.

Synchronicity! I left a message for the other side. I will become the person 

My rabbit wants me to be.

Dolls

Some girls learn how to relate to people

By playing with dolls: glassy eyed, human

Shaped plastic pieces that can’t be broken

When you whisper too hard in their ear; practice

Specimens for getting dressed, cooking dinner,

Endeavoring to charm someone into loving you

Unconditionally. It is no wonder that we accept

Sturdy, straight backed hugs and blank stares for

Affection; this is the response we got from our first loves.

I still remember the crowd of porcelain dolls perched

On a shelf across my bedroom like spectators

In a coliseum. At their feet I learned that people

Are pretty and quiet and meant to be kept clean; not

Even the ground should bother their shoes with dust.  When

I offered my juvenile insecurities to their lily ears

One of them jumped, shattered like a rumor in the carpet

Where I stepped on shards for years to come. So I learned

That people are fragile and disapproving and I should step lightly,

I should hold my breath so that no one ever breaks.