Dear Girl

by Aija Mayrock

is not just about

  calling someone out.

  Equality is accountability.

  It is my brother knowing

  that I am equal to him.

  So equality

  is education

  from classrooms

  and courtrooms,

  to conference rooms

  and computer screens.

  Equality is truth,

  is strong voices.

  It is breaking through the silence that exists,

  because silence

  can’t exist

  if it’s not tolerated.

  Equality is you

  changing the future,

  clearing the path

  for every woman

  and

  every man.

  It is raising the next generation to know

  that not only

  does their voice matter

  but

  it will be heard.

  We have the power in our hands.

  As we will not sit back

  and nod

  and smile

  while certain people

  reconcile

  the rules

  of being fertile.

  Sorry, but it’s my body, baby.

  I may be a young lady

  but my father always taught me

  to speak out

  and fight

  against injustice of every kind.

  We will not stop

  until we hold our rights

  for women of every color

  size

  shape

  sexual identity

  and place

  in this world.

  And that is the truth about being a girl.

  If you don’t set your spirit free now

  then when

  will you

  find

  your wild?

  Heal your wounds, Dear Girl,

  so your daughter

  isn’t born

  with the same ones.

  She does not report her rape

  because neither did her mother or grandmother;

  in fact, they did not call it rape

  they called it sex

  and sometimes love.

  She does not report her rape

  because she has never been taught

  that her body has value

  and her voice has worth.

  She drinks to soothe the pain

  that lived in her mother’s heart.

  As much as we might hope,

  we are not so different from our mothers.

  Her pain

  is my pain,

  and my pain

  is my daughter’s.

  To break the chain of trauma

  heals a constellation of wounds.

  They do not speak about the tragedies that have comeand gone from their four walls.

  As if silence is more palatable

  then the words that need to be spit.

  In silence, there is trauma,

  legacy passed down from seed to embryo to the first beat of a heart.

  To break the chain of anger

  you need not bear it

  on the back

  your mother built for you.

  She tears down others

  because, since birth,

  she was taught

  to tear down herself.

  To get through it,

  you must go through it,

  and yes

  it will hurt,

  but you—

  you will survive.

  Split open your wounds for me,

  I know how to heal them.

  One silky word spills from my lips,

  I know how to heal them.

  I have healed my own.

  I have cut them open

  just to know they were real.

  And I have sewn them up

  just to know I could.

  If you feel consumed by your trauma,

  seek healing.

  For I once believed

  I could never let go

  of my demons,

  and now I live with them,

  trailing behind,

  visiting them when I want

  but only when I want.

  How do you bear

  what you cannot bear

  so beautifully

  it makes it look easy?

  At my most broken,

  I saw beauty

  in just one thing:

  looking at the pieces of myself

  scattered and shattered,

  I wanted to be put back together.

  Dear Boy,

  when you touch her, remember your power

  to love or to break.

  When you touch her, remember you may watch porn, but you are not in it.

  When you touch her, remember her body was born from a mother like yours.

  Dear Boy,

  your hands leave imprints,

  visible or not.

  Remember your power to love or to break.

  We all have a shadow side,

  I just never knew

  his was so dark.

  I am still guilty of fighting my body

  to fit a standard of beauty

  that is attainable only with

  surgery and starvation,

  and yet

  it’s a battle

  I can’t seem to stop fighting.

  Cruelty comes from our very own wounds.

  You might believe the words you speak are weak,

  but the echoes of words

  can start revolutions.

  Use your words to mend­—

  you and you alone

  hold all of that power.

  Growing up,

  the world taught me

  that vulnerability should be a secret.

  I grew up believing

  that the hero of a story

  never showed signs of weakness.

  I disguised my demons

  so there was no sign of struggle.

  My vulnerability is not my weakness;

  it is my superpower.

  I wear it like a cape

  and watch mouths gape

  at the sight of

  a warrior

  wearing wounds like crown jewels.

  My vulnerability

  is more powerful

  than wielding a sword

  or a shield.

  No one teaches us that

  resilience rises like a wildfire

  from pain.

  The battles you fight do not take away

  from who you are.

  Dare to teach the world

  that weakness doesn’t exist.

  Weakness

  is just a seed

  that no one sees

  sprouting into genius.

  Own your story

  like you wrote it

  by yourself.

  You are the hero.

  The hero is imperfect.

  Wear those wounds like crown jewels.

  You are leading a deeper life now;

  it’s not one that you’ve chosen

  but it’s deeper.

  Dear First Love,

  when you broke my heart,

  it wasn’t because you didn’t love me anymore.

  You broke my heart

  because you changed

  how I saw myself,

 
and in that

  I’ve never been more heartbroken.

  When I picked up the pieces of my heart,

  I saw something much sadder.

  You were not the first one to teach me to hate myself.

  I was.

  And so the work began

  of loving myself again

  or maybe for the first time.

  He knew nothing of my story

  or where I’d come from,

  but he looked at me

  like I was the most fantastic hurricane he had ever seen.

  And in that moment I realized

  I didn’t have to explain.

  I had met someone

  who could see through me.

  I was a window

  for the first time in my life.

  I’d never felt so naked and afraid.

  But I ran toward him,

  not away.

  I fear you’ll leave me

  and that is so strange;

  I am more whole when you are not here,

  yet half full is what I dream of these days.

  I ask you to stay

  the same way

  the sea

  begs the shore

  for more.

  He went from man to giant,

  casting a shadow over my life

  so much so

  I could not see anything but him.

  That terrifies me:

  how someone,

  anyone

  can block the light.

  And one day

  I hope

  your path leads you

  to a place

  where you love yourself

  as much as I love you.

  Perhaps then

  you will understand

  how I

  and so many others

  fell madly

  for you.

  Leaving someone you love

  is like leaving home

  and knowing you can never return.

  Missing you

  is the cruelest thing I could do to my heart,

  and maybe that’s why I do it:

  it’s easier to hurt myself

  than to love myself.

  I rewrite our history

  like a novelist,

  one sentence at a time

  until each chapter is entirely fictionalized.

  But, oh, how beautifully it reads.

  And sometimes people do change;

  still, who they used to be stays sewn in our hearts like the faintest of scars.

  We ask the question—

  “Is it really possible to begin again?”

  In heartbreak, remember:

  You are but one life.

  Millions have come before

  and millions will come after.

  They too

  have shared

  or will share

  the same breaking of the heart

  and survived.

  When you lose someone you love

  look up at the sky,

  each day bleeds into night;

  just like that

  the moon arrives, the stars line the sky

  and in mere moments

  the night evaporates

  into sunrise.

  Ending and beginning

  in darkness and in light,

  that is the cycle

  of this very life.

  Dear Child,

  I will not shame you for loving who you love.

  Your magic is your untamed spirit.

  Shame bleeds through

  generation to generation;

  that is not the legacy

  I wish for you.

  Even in culture and decade divides

  I dream a life of love for you,

  child of mine.

  “What if there is not enough time?” the adult asked.

  “Why is right now not enough?” the child responded.

  Each time I fall back into my fifteen-year-old mind

  I stand on my grown feet,

  look into my grown eyes,

  and remind myself—

  “You are alive. Not for nothing. You are alive.”

  I had all of the love in the world

  but I could not see it.

  We are blind

  when we don’t know how

  to love the very bones

  and blood

  that make us.

  Peer into the depths of your soul

  and see—

  your magic exceeds that of the stars.

  Imagine you are viewing the universe.

  You are.

  It is possible

  for two hearts

  to be sewn together,

  bound

  across borders and seas;

  that heart

  is a father’s heart

  melting open

  the first time he sees

  his daughter.

  Dear Brother,

  you hold my secrets

  like they are diamonds

  and my trust like gold;

  our hearts are woven together

  as rebel kids

  and grown adults.

  You ask me what I wish for you.

  I simply say,

  cling to your inner child

  as if childhood

  were yesterday.

  It would be a tragedy

  if you settled for something

  less extraordinary

  than the magic

  you hold.

  Dear Girl,

  I am the sister

  you do not know

  and will never meet,

  but I am your sister

  nonetheless.

  Dear Sisters,

  my whole life I’ve struggled

  with trusting women.

  I heard girls say things like,

  “I love her, but she’s a dirty ho.”

  “She’d be so much prettier without that nose.”

  “She’s not that talented; she’ll never make it. Think of the ratio.”

  These are your sisters.

  We don’t exist in silos.

  I propose we outgrow

  our opposition to one another.

  Our experience

  is of each other.

  If we’re fighting for equality,

  there has to be camaraderie.

  This is a letter

  to every woman

  who knows better

  than to scarlet-letter,

  to whisper

  and backstab

  a sister.

  There is no progress

  when we march

  in different directions.

  Correction:

  there is no progress

  when we march

  in discriminatory sections.

  White women,

  show up

  for your sisters of color.

  Straight women,

  show up

  for your lgbtq+ sisters.

  Women,

  show up,

  have the guts

  to overlook differences,

  because really

  the difference is

  as drastic as

  progress

  or

  no progress.

  We can’t afford to divide each other.

  Since early days

  we are taught
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  to compare and compete

  with one another.

  You are not devalued

  even if

  the woman next to you

  appears to be perfect.

  You are not devalued

  if your sisters

  are achieving

  greatness.

  You are always of value

  if you

  value

  you.

  Dear Sisters,

  hold yourselves accountable.

  Show up for those

  you might not know

  or understand.

  Show up for those

  you might not

  like at all.

  Show up for all of us.

  I am sorry that the world

  has taught you that

  beauty is white and thin.

  I’m sorry that the world

  has taught you

  that your thighs

  are not supposed to kiss

  as if they were lovers’ lips

  or that your hair

  is supposed to be waxed

  or clipped

  as if

  your body

  were someone else’s lawn.

  I will be there for you

  through your darkest days,

  I will stand with you

  through the most painful decisions.

  That is what makes me your sister:

  it is not blood,

  it’s thicker.

  When you fall,

  I will brush the dirt from your knees

  and see you off

  toward your

  next

  great adventure.

  Your past lives with you, Dear Girl,

  but you

  are not your past.

  If you want to fly,

  you must let go

  of all that weighs you down.

  You are nowhere near the end of your story—

  your story has just begun to write itself.

  Let go of perfection—

  it doesn’t exist.

  Let go of your demons—

  they are not welcome here.

  Let go of your trauma—

  you can live with it,

  but you need not live in it.

  Let go of wanting to go back—

  there is no going back,

  there is only going forward,

  and forward

  is more extraordinary

  than you could ever imagine.

  There is even something beyond the horizon.