The Rage of a Woman

There is a man who expects me to agree to disagree. You know who I mean. You've probably worked for him, or been led by him, or been loved by him. You've definitely apologized to him. He is the father of our children and the child of our fathers.

There is a man who thinks I shouldn't say because someone has already said. There is a man who calls my art neglect. There is a man who thinks hands only get strong by machines, and minds only grow by science. There is a man who writes laws while I write opinions. There is a man who thinks it's his right to pick me up today and set me back down tomorrow.

Doesn’t he know?

I don’t live in his world anymore. I live in the world of women who are loud because they need to be or just because they want to be. I live in the world of women who drink wine for as long as it takes. Where my son sees a dancer covered in gold and calls her a king. I live in the world of women who expect to be sacrificed for, but who also sacrifice without any expectation. Where men make space for women to massage their souls to life, just by being.

Doesn't he know?

The rage of a woman is like the stove fire we ask her to feed, stir, manage. When we ask, it grows wild and smoke billows into the atmosphere. When we ask, it waits and simmers, hungry for fuel. We find it useful. We count on it to heat our homes. And well, we mostly just forget about it until the chill reaches our bones. When we want to leave it alone, we drown it in water, we strangle it from oxygen, and try not to get burned if it spews, sputters. But even in its deadest ash, the heat and light are omnipresent. Because, like first flame, the rage of a woman is psychological, emotional, physical. It’s historical. It’s fiscal. It’s animal. It’s political, but private. It’s visceral, but it's dormant. And more than anything, like the equation of energy, transmitting among and between us, the rage of a woman is constant. It never dies -- it becomes.