I have always hated the word no. It was like a shadow hovered, strangling me with a cord, forcing my lips to breathe out yes. I never understood why I came to be this way. I guess it was the people pleaser in me. 

 I remember the first time I was groped. Guys in middle school were always vicious and had sinister ulterior motives. I thought he was my friend, but as he groped my butt and my breasts he laughed and said “it was just a joke.” His friends said I liked it, that I was asking for it. That night I cried my eyes out realizing I wasn’t seen as a girl, but as an object to touch. Afterwards, I  became an advocate for the “Me Too” movement.

Three years later, my sister sent me an article to read. She said this would change my perspective on who I am as a young woman, and the true disgusting motives of some men. This article followed the experience of Marina Abramovic who was a performance artist. Would you ever trust your fate with a stranger? No? Well she did. 

Marina called this Rhythm 0, an experiment  to see the true intentions of society. She was passive, permissible, and even agreeable. A variety of objects were placed on a table with the intent that any one can pick up the objects and do what they will with it. The objects ranged from feathers, roses, chains, knives, chocolate cake, olive oil, scissors, and even a gun. Many will call Marina mad. Who is insane enough to ever leave their will at a stranger? 

She turned herself into a living object for the sake of true art. For six hours she stood passively and quiet. She was in true submission to strangers. At first it was sweet, some fed her cake, gave her a rose, and placed an innocent kiss on her. Then, like the switch of a lightbulb it turned horrific fast. 

They took scissors and cut off her clothes. One cut the skin on her neck and drank her blood. Another, took the postil, loaded the gun and pointed it at her hand. Unfortunately, one man even tried to rape her. The whole point of this experiment was to show how animalistic and cruel one’s intention can be with a woman.

After I read this article I sobbed. I felt shame for blaming myself over the years as men felt they could do what they wanted with me. It is never a woman’s fault when they are at the cruel stakes of a man. This article still influences my perspective with the social movement. 

Many women have come out with their own stories. We are not mere objects available for male pleasure. We are human. Now, I’ve grown to love the word no. I love to shout it at the top of my lungs, and see the appalled looks on men’s faces as I bruise their ego. It is okay to say no. I know that now. No. No. NO!

Oh good one I saw faith in you,

Your smile brought me immense joy.

Your beautiful words that fell upon your beautiful lips brought solidarity.

Your hugs made me feel warm and safe like a mother’s embrace,

Your kisses tasted like mint with a mixture of berries.

Your happiness became one with mine;

We rejoiced in our love.

Your confidence was radiant,

It made me believe in myself.

I saw you became distant,

The hugs fading away into the darkness,

The kisses feeling foreign;

I wanted to feel wanted.

Oh good one I ask you why?

Remembering when beckoning was our thing,

We never had to use words to signal our want for one another.

With a wave of a hand you were with me,

Why does it feel like it was so long ago?

Your last goodbye was so harsh. The harsh slam of the door startling me, as I let out a strangled sob.

You were a stranger as I saw you walk out that door.

All of a sudden those sweet words you said to me long ago came flooding in my mind,

I held my chest with the pain knowing you weren’t going to come back.

But isn’t that what I get for letting you hurt me?

My laughter roars as my friends joke about the books I’ve read. I take in the beautiful scenery of New York City. The skyscrapers stand so tall and I am winded just by looking at them. The Architute is so beautiful I can’t help but wipe away at my eyes, feeling scared that what I am seeing is nothing but an illusion. 

My friends come to a halt, bewilderment strikes at me as I wonder what is the object of their crude stares. Then I see it. The glass double doors guarding the treasure. 

I don’t bother to look at the sign. 

I walk in feeling my eyes well up. I have never seen such a beautiful sight. 

A row of brown bookshelves that extend in a U shape. The array of books organized in alphabetical order and by color. The air feels clean. The smell of linen pierces my nostrils and the faint of brewing coffee brings me peace. 

I can’t help but stroke the lovely books with my fingertips, the material feeling smooth with rough cut edges. My eyes turn to the mothers and girlfriends sharing a smile once they’ve found something worth purchasing. 

My friends point toward a book. The fine print reads “Catcher in the Rye” I let out a joyous laugh. This one was so much prettier than the one I have at home I thought. 

I stride towards the coffee shop with the book perched in my hands. I ordered a small black coffee, light sugar, and a bit of milk. The barista hands me it and tells me she likes my top, I smile at her in gratitude. 

Sitting down at the cafe I open the book sipping on my coffee. The bitter taste of coffee beans slid down my throat, I couldn’t help but cough. Just how I like it! 

My friends sneak a quick picture of me. I didn’t bother to berate them, this place didn’t deserve that. I felt a serene calm wash through my veins, as I heard the faint footsteps of people retreating with their books. 

 I begin to wonder about their stories. What had brought us to be together in the same place? 

Whatever it was, I am thankful. My eyes scan the room at once before picking up my things to leave. The picture is embedded into my memory forever. I will never forget you.

Bless the Lost Generation – Angelina McDonald

Bless their eyes for they have witnessed such great destruction,

Bless their hands for they have bled reaching for their dreams,

Bless their minds for they have advocated for a just democracy,

Bless their feet for they have toiled valiantly through distress,

Bless their hearts for they have smiled through their disappointment.

Looking at the past to understand their future,

they quickly assessed that perhaps those prior do not know better.

Forced to make gold from their inheritances of ruin,

they continue to charge forward with skepticism gird around their loins silently awaiting the other shoe to drop. It always does. 

They never got to enjoy the carelessness that accompanied youth.

A somber tune goes out to a generation robbed of the most basic of life’s pleasures.

Yet, in the face of tragedy they sing,

“Nevertheless, let us not feel sorry for ourselves. Forward, still, because the earth continues to spin.”

One hand rests on the curve of my waist

The other hand I’ve pulled and displaced

No more than a friend

Can he comprehend

That by him my ass should not be traced

I ask, is this right?

Should I continue my dream?

Breathe, just chase your dreams

We sit looking at flowers

The cherry blossoms falling

The wind pushing them to us

It’s the best season

I ran through the park on a warm summer day. Days,

that used to feel warm and bright. Bright

sun rays showered me. Me,

the girl who laughed and played. Played,

with toys and other kids. Kid,

I am not a kid anymore. More

time passes day by day. Days

are no longer as warm as before. Before,

when I used to smile without a care in the world. The world,

that has put expectations on me now that I’m older. Older,

and no longer that child. That child,

that I left behind.

Around and Around and Around

I twirl an earthy colored straw

Rippling a soft rosy surface.

I chose a window seat as I 

Always do, tentative to the world

Outside this homely cafe and 

Eager to see a sign of you

It’s a bit late, but you’ll come through.

Excitement just isn’t the word

Zest. Euphoria. Trepidation?

All of it rushes around my body.

I’m impatiently patient 

And my straw circles my drink faster

Clinking loudly against stiff cubed ice

I had wanted to wait for you

But curiosity overcomes me

And I take my first sip of pink

An explosion of tartness bursts

From the tip of my straw and twists

And turns on my tongue quenching 

My seemingly invisible thirst

I push the drink away fearing the worst

The drink and I sweat as we wait tensely 

a few droplets pooling under 

The cool cup’s rounded base

Did something come up?

Did you change your mind?

Did I come at the wrong time?

Questions permeate my brain

Until I feel my phone buzz and hope wane

“Sorry, I got caught up in something.”

It’s not quite frustration 

As I down the rest of my pink lemonade

And try to reschedule this again

Alone with my brain, 

was never the trouble

being alone doesn’t cause pain.

Alone with my brain, 

makes the truth run through my veins 

letting me see through the rubble.

Alone with my brain, 

was never the trouble.