Playground

Playground fears
Don’t dictate my tears
Anymore
Now I can tie
My own ponytail
When I’m told
I can’t play
I reassess
The value of the game
When I feel left out
I just get out
A simple move
To another yard
When she’s on duty
My plans are restricted
When she’s off duty
I do as I please
A small victory
I try to seize
Because today
I appreciate recess

Happy IWD! Being the door

“Feminism 101: Instead of being the doormat get up and be the door,” says Lillian Allen, looking up at row upon row of cheering women during the International Women’s Day (IWD) Rally.

Her poetry articulates our struggles. “Laugh when they try to bend your back down low.”

We’re in the OISE building at 252 Bloor St. and its starting to rain outside. It’s about 11:30 a.m. on March 7th and inside there are mothers, students, grandmothers, immigrant workers, activists, children, husbands, boyfriends, friends, sons, and daughters. They may not be here for the same reasons by there is a common thread running throughout this auditorium. They are here to support the women that they know, the women that they are, and those they might never meet.

As one speaker bluntly puts it, “We all came off different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.”

The Toronto theme of IWD is “Good Jobs, Dignity for All.”

A good job is something that many women are forced to do without. Minimum wage is $8.00 in Canada. Think about a mother working full time shifts that receives a mere eight dollars for her labour. Think about raising children on that kind of salary. Think about being in debt, paying off loans, and making that kind of money. That’s the reality for many and that’s why IWD is fighting to raise minimum wage to $10.00.

“We will not be quiet and we will not be ignored,” says Judy Vashti Persad, an organizer of the event and our first speaker of the morning. “We must continue to be a movement for all women.”

Now it is time for our morning history lesson. Introduce Rosie the riveter. You know that feminist icon that you see on poster, t-shirts, etc? That woman in the red bandana, flexing her bicep in her blue factory uniform, well she was a real person.
Long before she became an icon of the American feminist movement she was the propaganda poster girl for WWII, urging women to get out into the workforce. This morning two women in bandanas converse on stage in an insightful dialogue about the woman behind the poster, the “Real Rosie.” Rose Will Monroe worked in an aircraft factory in Michigan in 1920 and was featured in a promotional home war effort film, as well as a poster campaign. She even had a theme song, “Rosie the Riveter,” which was performed acoustically by Ryerson Free Press editor Nora Loreto.

“But if war made men out of boys it made feminists out of women,” says a “Rosie” on the stage. As women entered the workforce at the time, some factories started offering services such as daycare. “I wonder what it would take for them to do that today?” enquires one Rosie, igniting audience laughter. This led women’s movements towards unionization for better conditions in the workplace. Today, “Rosie became what all women made her, a symbol of women’s power in the workplace.”

But there is a lack of power over our education. Liana Salvador, the Vice President of Education at Ryerson University’s Student Union, takes the stage to articulate her realizations about facing academic obstacles. “High tuition fees disproportionately affect women,” she says. She recounts her experience as a woman of color, working in low paying jobs, in debt, to finance her education. “My government is giving me a really shoddy deal.”

Currently earning her second University degree, Liana is over $50,000 in debt. “Hey Dalton, I didn’t make as much this summer, can I pay half? That’s not going to happen,” she says.

Instead of channeling money into the military, the Canadian government should be funding our education system, because debt is crippling female students. “We need to stop being underpaid, undervalued and under funded,” says Salvador.

Next to take the stage is a woman who discusses the value of IWD, and asks women to consider contributing an hour’s worth of their pay, or any amount within their ability, towards funding this event. She explains the meaning behind each Canadian bill. For example, the fifty dollar bill features the Famous Five-Emily Murphy, Nellie McClung, Irene Parlby, Henrietta Muir Edwards, and Louise McKinney- who fought for the “Persons” Case, giving women civil rights and the status of person under British Privy Council.
She says that because the government hardly wants women thinking of feminism every time they purchase a coffee, they imprint a monumental achievement in women’s right on a bill that some of us rarely see.

The twenty dollar bill, featuring Elizabeth II, Queen of England, is one woman that will never have to worry about her pension or replacing a hip, says our speaker, to swells of laughter from the audience. “I hope there are a few bills floating around now,” she says, with a wide smile, as jingling buckets pass from hand to hand.

Two women who work at the Toronto Rape Crisis Centre stand beside each other, telling stories of sexual abuse that span miles. The auditorium is silent, as their voices confront the pain, the numbness and the healing. They speak of abuse at the hands of family and strangers, the depression, the sense of betrayal towards those that should have loved them.

One woman is older, with a long braid of grey and white locks hanging down her back. The other is young, in a t-shirt and jeans with a mass of small curls framing her face. She says, “My heart aches that even my brother didn’t spare me.” The older woman answers, “Neither did mine.”

“I called and called the shelters. ‘Sorry, no bed again. Call again.’”

“I swore I would never let my heart feel again.”

“All I longed for was to be loved.”

“It happened again, it must be my fault.”

“Afraid to trust.”

“Afraid to leave my daughter with anyone.”

“I am proud of the feminist I have become.”

The other answers, “It was never my fault.”

Our last performer before we head out to march, with signs and banners in hand, is Michelle St. Bernard, a.k.a. Belladonna. Her lyrics hinge together, smashing into one another, like cars on a freight train. The links are powerful and the impact is heavy, forcing you to see the tracks her mind has followed. “I’m so low in the barrel that you don’t believe it.”

“I’m so low on the totem pole I’m about to grow roots.”

The tracks end with, “I’m so strong, cuz you’re so strong, and we’re so strong.”

“We got to get up.”

It may be raining, but we get up.

I shake life

I shake life
Rattle it like a box full of nails and pins
Jiggle it till it does something for me
Thump it till it answers, comes to fruition
Thrash it till it produces something valuable
Hammer it till it AGREES WITH EVERYTHING I SAY
Strike it till I think I’m God
Then hurl it to the ground
Curl up in the corner, frustrated….unable to win
But my better half is there beside me
She’s watching me struggle
Her smile is one I don’t always see
When I think like she does everything is clear
Life isn’t about winning or losing
It’s about living
I feel the sun on my face again
I walk in my own shoes again
I can look down at the sad side of myself
The scared, angry, self-deprecating side
I look closer
Squinting
I see myself
Standing there, not worthy to exist
Hiding in plain daylight
Running from her shadow
And I say simply,
“I want to be your friend.”
“I want to show you love.”
I see her blink in surprise
Taken aback
She asks me, “Really?”
Too good to be true
“Yes,” I say. “This is what I will do.”
“I will hold your hand.”
“I will accept you for who you are.”
“When you get off track, I won’t punish you.”
“I will be gentle with you, every day.”
“Until you can be gentle with yourself.”
She asks again, blinking back tears, “Really?”
“Yes.”
There are no conditions, no string attached
I hold no carrot to tempt her
All I offer is to embrace all that she is
“Yes,” I say again.
There’s a joyful, warm ache in my breast, pulsing under the flesh
I feel it well up,
Like birds trying to escape, beating their wings
Like the sunrise breaking through the trees,
As I tell her, utterly sure,
“Yes.”

A peek in the window

I walk past houses at night
Peer inside
To see their life
Is it like mine?
Do their feet squeak on the pavement?
Do they sing when no one can hear?
Where is the sign
That will tell me where my toes
Should land
On solid ground?
I might just plunge in,
Being this godly can’t be good for me
I don’t know the steps
But I don’t have to
Today I’ll plod on blind
Walk on air
The blindfold is tied and secure for once
I can’t stare
At your choices
What I see in here is larger than it appears
The blind spots hinder me
So I’ll make it more clear
Wipe off the glass
Take a good look
Where I can’t hide
Behind excuses
I’ll feel my foot hit the ground
And then the other
The rhythm of my pace
Has a kind of grace
That I didn’t plan
Today
I do what I can
To keep my eyes
On my face

Waiting for the moon

A young owling
Trembling, her eyes glow
Somehow fails to know
Whether the moon waxes
Or wanes
And the energy spent speculating
Simply drains
In vain she tries to kiss it
Pirouettes in mid-air
Like a church choir that sing an off-key note
And God laughs
Not seeming to care
“It’s a lottery baby, everybody rolls the dice”
But she dislikes to gamble
And she can’t abide chasing mice
Her talons can’t pierce
Tender hearts for consumption
Rather, she’ll digest
Alternative luncheon
Which may be unpopular
But helps her to function
Calls once made to companions dwindle
And falter
Past nocturnal creatures linger
They halt at the prospect of prey
Engrossed in their own frenzied sport
So solitarily passing the day
She lays low, calls to the moon
And waits for an answer
Her beak quivers softly, barely a moan
Deep down she knows
What she needs, what she seeks
Will be set by another’s clock
Not her own

The truth is in the frosting

She’s a little piece of cake
And her hopes will rise like dough
But in light of a recent quake
Thoughts float like powder snow

Her dainty toes leave prints
Both flimsy and abstract
Though rising dreams grow firm
Not daring to look back

Conversing with the earth
The pastry listens low
Her heart quivers in time
With raindrops trickling slow

The breeze floats back a whiff
Of joys baked deep and deep
She seeks the sugary high
Of which the wise ones speak

Inside her, warm and sweet
Sits cooling on the sill
In time the baker learns
She’ll always have her fill