to exist in the world as a woman

My bedroom window is wide open to let in fresh air and light. I’m reading a book. My coffee is in hand. I’m in the middle of a sentence when I hear a conversation outside my window.

A. I’m going this afternoon to pick up my bride.
B. Oh, your lover! (For context, A is single.)
A. No, my bride!
C. It’s his washing machine!

A is a neighbor, a disgusting personality, famously so. B is my confused mother who’s dealt with misogyny all her life, and married too young. C is my father (father to TWO daughters), who sought all his life to “have a relationship with his kids” after abuse, blatant disrespect, and clear opinions on women.

And I’m supposed to believe in god? “Heavenly Father”? As if a father could ever mean anything to me!

That father figures and authority figures don’t mean anything to me is not part of my personality. It is a behavior taught and adopted from the experience of living in this world as a woman. Or specifically, living in this family.

Every time I take a step towards the benefit of the doubt, I am reminded in a cruel way what a man really is.

This wasn’t the first such instance, and these conversations are considered quite normal in my culture. You’re supposed to take it in good spirit. But how could I just…

I am scared to bring my thoughts to their ends in these matters, because I can’t breathe from the cruelty of it.

This evening, C is going to a dinner with other men from our parish. It’s a goodbye dinner for our priest. He is leaving this parish for another, as instructed by the bishop. Anyway… Guess who prepared that dinner?

Probably the same as the one who prepared the Last Supper.

The conversation above continued with other remarks about women, followed by laughter that scraped my ears. They remind me of those hyenas from The Lion King.

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