On Martha and the Harm in “Perfect” Womanhood
In the etiquette class, everything had a proper place and use—even me.
no one was here
If someone doesn’t see you as fully human because you’re a woman or because you’re not white or because you’re not cis or whatever it might be, chances are that you knowing how to hold a salad fork won’t really change that.
The many etiquette books I read as a child, the seasonally appropriate greetings I draft first in pencil, then in pen, the soup spoons and dessert spoons; none of these will erase the fear, anxiety and longing I feel about my half-way-immigrant, half-way-lady self.
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While I understood why theft or murder was wrong, this aspect didn’t make sense to me. What did sex and my body have to do with God?
Succubus, siren, gold-digger, temptress: There are so many words for a woman with money in her hands.
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I wanted the most information possible and thought I had nothing to fear. Then my mother began to lose her memory.
There is a part of me, even after so many iterations of faith and years of living in an adult body, that is waiting for punishment, waiting to be banished from the Garden.
Being left behind is not a disadvantage. It is an opportunity to grow and an opportunity to live life on my own terms.