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SHOUT

Page 11

by Laurie Halse Anderson


  for the sense that somehow women

  are weaker

  or foul

  or damned

  because we bleed once a moon

  our bodies are muddy rivers

  overflowing the banks to fertilize the fields,

  hurricaning oceans with the energy

  of time, tide, and galaxies,

  silver ice caps defying the sun’s

  feeble attempts to melt us

  we bleed and grow stronger

  some of us breed, pouring blood

  into love, planting his seed in our egg

  creating life and feeding it

  our red-coated strength

  birthing in a torrent of salt

  and blood

  we are mountains

  don’t call it a period:

  call it an

  exclamation point

  shame turned inside out

  Sisters of the torn shirts.

  Sisters of the chase

  around the desk,

  casting couch, hotel

  room, file cabinet.

  Sisters dragging

  shattered dreams

  bruised hopes

  ambitions abandoned

  in the dirt.

  Sisters fishing

  one by one

  in the lake of shame;

  hooks baited with fear

  always come back empty.

  Truth dawns slow

  when you’ve been beaten

  and lied to,

  but it burns hard and bright

  once it wakes.

  Sisters, drop

  everything. Walk

  away from the lake, leaning

  on each other’s shoulders

  when you need

  the support. Feel the contractions

  of another truth ready

  to be born: shame

  turned

  inside out

  is rage.

  callout

  we’re sisters of the march

  you and me

  heavy backpacks digging

  through our skin, bloody footprints

  evidence of the miles we’ve walked

  it happened to you, too

  I know it did

  that’s why I’m so confused

  I see your scars, that flinch around your eyes

  when another dude loud-plows over your words

  cuts you off from the herd on purpose

  stands too close, drags your name to his fame

  eats our time by not sharing the mic

  gets paid twice as much for half the work

  flirts with girls trust-blinded and excited

  cuz he’s buying the drinks

  it happened to you, too

  I know it did

  but when the evidence of another victim

  is presented

  bruised, battered, dented, and shattered

  you snort derision, bark suspicion

  envisioning our past world

  where girls had to shut up and take it

  like you did, unsupported in even ordinary ways

  never daring to report or demand a criminal

  court investigation, no—you sneer

  even though her flirtation was not an invitation

  to degradation

  he raped her

  and you, still bleeding decades later

  aren’t healed enough to help, instead

  you’ve become that bitch pissing on our sisters

  in a feeble, feline climb to the top

  claws out

  it happened to you, too

  I know it did, I can smell it

  I see how pain frames your crooked smile,

  that quick shift to defense,

  chin up, fists ready

  I’m sorry you didn’t get the help you needed

  you deserved a soft afghan wrapped around you

  people to hold your hands

  while you learned to walk again

  so stand with us now

  let’s be enraged aunties together

  enthroned crones, scythes blazing

  instead of defending these men

  who laugh at you when you turn your back

  lean on me

  ignore stupid advice

  Don’t get killed

  Don’t get robbed

  Don’t get billed for jobs

  that were abandoned.

  Don’t let your house burn

  or your pipes burst

  or your children curse

  Don’t let your purse get stolen.

  Don’t get trapped underwater

  Don’t get food poisoning or the flu

  (for God’s sake, get vaccinated)

  Don’t get cancer, seriously,

  do not get cancer.

  Don’t get T-boned by a drunk

  Don’t get struck by lightning

  Don’t get allergies

  Don’t get depressed

  Don’t get noticed by the IRS

  Don’t get catfished

  or gaslit

  Don’t get ghosted by an ex

  Don’t get talked into a bigger car

  Don’t get bitten by a rabid dog

  Don’t get your boo angry

  Don’t get cheated on

  Don’t get called out

  dragged

  tagged in pics

  you don’t remember

  Don’t get raped

  cuz the jackasses and idiots will say

  that’s your fault, too.

  The Reckoning

  The Reckoning

  is born as whispers

  which turn into snowflakes

  melt into rainn

  weep onto quiet fields

  wake seeds

  buried in the shit.

  Dad-men, madmen,

  fathers of daughters unpowered

  by your brothers of the hunt

  your bull and guilt,

  creeping filth

  like a five-o’clock shadow

  you’re afraid.

  The Reckoning feeds

  seeds that stretch in the night

  to eat the dark

  drink the moon

  demand the dawn

  claim the sun

  rub it on our skin

  soak it into our bones.

  So afraid, manly men, you’re unmade

  by the mirror,

  horrified cuz no matter how hard

  you try, how loud the cheers amplified

  by a surround-sound system

  of institutional lies

  you can still hear us.

  The Reckoning

  transforms us into tigers

  hunting you down

  one by one,

  dragging you by the nape

  of your dirty necks

  to face her

  face him

  face them

  the souls possessed of the bodies you stole

  for what you thought was just a few minutes.

  And after the crop is harvested

  the fields cleared of rocks and stubble

  swords beaten into plowshares

  dirt furrowed

  the new seeds, planted deep and cared for,

  will grow into strong children

  with kind hands and strong bodies

  and honorable hearts

  the first generation unscarred

  untouchable

  that’s your loss


  and our triumph

  sincerely,

  Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way.

  Maybe we should shout

  out to all the dudes who didn’t rape

  us. Or even try.

  Let’s celebrate those

  who ask permission

  before touching and

  —get this—

  respect the answer!

  High five, you lovable hunk of manhood!

  You true Warrior of the Sword!

  Thanks for not slipping me a roofie!

  So grateful you didn’t gang-rape

  me with your roommates!

  I didn’t get herpes

  from you, because you are so awesome

  you didn’t hit

  me, then shove your dick in my mouth!

  You rock!

  A brave new world

  of greeting cards

  dawns.

  Dear Boss,

  Just a heads-up to let you know

  I’m sending flowers

  to your mother

  to tell her how wonderful you are

  because you’ve never pulled out your dick

  and masturbated in front of me.

  Dear College President,

  I am proud to announce that none of my professors

  this semester

  tried to force me to blow them.

  Those lawsuits have made a difference!

  Great job! Keep it up!

  (Sorry about that pun.)

  (Actually, no. Not sorry at all.)

  It’s not just what you say, but how

  right?

  not responsible for contents

  The letter came from a prison

  on the first page the man wrote

  that he read Speak,

  then he spoke, wrote his trauma, his boy

  body the toy of an uncle for so long

  that his Before It Happened was too short

  to remember

  on page two he wrote more

  furtively, turning his hurt

  into hunger, thundering, covering

  the truth of his circumstances

  the accusations of his molestation

  of his stepdaughters, all

  of them under seven years old

  he told a tale of justice failed,

  jailed innocent, he declared

  wondering why the world

  had turned against him

  line after scrawled line

  he mounded his hurts into a bonfire

  of his vanities to burn

  out the damning and hide

  his crimes in smoke

  I dug around, found the other side

  to the story, before his trial

  he confessed on Facebook

  that a different person

  lived inside of him

  and that the different person

  might . . . have hurt . . . the girls,

  maybe,

  if it happened, he was sorry

  sort of

  the jury convicted him in sixty minutes

  the judge sentenced him to ninety years

  in prison

  where he scribbles with a poison pen

  when you get a letter from jail

  the envelope is stamped

  “Not Responsible for Contents”

  but somehow,

  we are

  Catalyst

  I wrote a book about a girl who loves chemistry

  a cross-country runner, preacher’s daughter

  only applies to MIT, and well, complications ensue

  she’s a little like me, but not much

  to the outside world, it seems her life is perfect

  but she’s got a hole in her heart, panic in her veins

  dread stalking close

  she runs to stay ahead of it

  her name is a wayfinder

  Kate—the sound of an ax splitting wood

  Malone—which is “one,” “lone”

  “alone” and “Ma,” if you look close enough,

  her mother died a long time ago

  and that ache will never go away

  I knew that Kate’s I’m fine! mask was suffocating

  but I didn’t know what would convince her

  to take it off

  she needed a catalyst

  that spark, a goad to force her out of her shell

  so she could see herself for the very first time

  one night, after hours of scribbling

  and throwing out pages,

  frustrated with my Kate quandary, I doze-dreamed

  fingers dribbling sand by the ocean

  of my imagination

  I watched

  as a new girl appeared

  an angry girl

  hands fisted out of habit

  toes scuffing the dirt

  in the yard;

  dirt on the floor

  grease on the stove

  grime on her body

  left by her father

  the smelly girl

  who everybody looks at

  but nobody ever sees

  Teri Litch

  her last name means “corpse”

  readers bewitched by a book

  rarely peek under the lid of names

  to the stewpots of boiling imagery below

  but I need to taste a name’s marrow

  to write a character to life

  kids like Teri Litch

  don’t have running water at home

  they go unnoticed until the smell is unavoidable

  and a kind teacher

  offers to help with the laundry

  and the faculty quietly collects canned food

  so lunch won’t be her only meal

  few realized that the book

  is really Teri’s story, deliberately told

  through Kate’s cloudy vision

  cuz Kate is still learning how to see

  the girls are catalysts for each other

  their collisions changing the course

  of their lives, friendship grows

  in the most unexpected places

  face my truth

  This is not

  a resting bitch face

  This is

  a touch-me-and-die face

  a boy, a priest unholy

  I was once a happy kid,

  the man said

  altar boy,

  Boy Scout, shortstop

  born on Sunday,

  son and oldest brother

  ten years old,

  then eleven,

  I loved the Lord our Father

  Father Michael gave

  me cup wine sip

  wafer mouth open

  he blessed me,

  invited me

  (special! so special!)

  to the wreck room,

  the re-creation room

  wood-paneled basement lair

  below the rectory

  i was chosen

  by the Lord,

  father michael purred.

  i had potential,

  father michael told my parents

  who never once asked

  “Potential for what?”

  the wreck room stank

  of moldy clothes,

  sweat and desperation

  sweet wine and manipulation

  vomit, candy, and exploitation

  the taint of horror

  he was a man of God

  Christ,
i thought

  he was God

  one night, my dad smelled

  the stains on my uniform

  from St. Michael the Archangel Elementary,

  where father michael taught math

  and subjects unholy in the wreck room

  Dad’s face a volcano

  on the verge of eruption,

  i explained

  he stayed silent,

  clock ticking on the wall

  silent as he burned

  my uniform in the trash

  barrel behind the garage.

  He lied to Mom, said he wrecked my

  uniform with bleach. My fault, he told her,

  not his.

  Not your fault, he told me

  but don’t say a word

  not a single word

  to anyone.

  Ever.

  i still had to go to church

  after that, though i stopped serving

  at the altar, thank God.

  When the time came

  to kneel at the feet

  of the priests

  for Communion,

  baby-boy bird mouth open

  waiting to be sanctified

  my dad knelt by my side.

  My dad stared

  at father michael feeding

  me the Body and the Blood

  with stained hands

  my dad’s heart thundered

  like a volcano, hungry

  to destroy.

  I don’t go to church anymore,

  the man said. Not many do.

  Infected by the angel-cloaked demons

  whose hymns condemned us to darkness

  with a smile;

  we are legion.

  loud fences

  when I went to elementary school,

  Wednesday afternoons

  were for art projects and library books

  and playing outside

  because I wasn’t Catholic

  all the Catholic kids left after lunch on Wednesday

  and walked to the parochial school down the block

  for lessons from the priests and the nuns

  everyone knew about the dangerous priest there

  even kids like me who never met him

  don’t get caught in a room alone with that one,

  they said

  he liked hurting kids

  bad and gross hurting

  which is a good way to describe sexual abuse

  when you’re ten years old

  I traveled to Australia a while back

  to speak at conferences, schools, and libraries

  and be astounded by everything

 

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