The Second Sex
It is so easy to question the existence of a woman. Simone de Beauvoir said we are the second sex and we have always been seen so, even before, even after. Nothing has changed just because she wrote a book about it; because that is not what can define the existence of a woman, is it? Women come in pre-conceived boxes—boxes that attach her to what her grandmother was and what her mother is, boxes that define her in terms of how many relationships and how much blood did she bleed, boxes that see her sacrifice as the only way of her becoming something.
Society meddles with the brain of women from the beginning, taking a ruler and a pencil and creating lines on her head, creating incisions just slightly deep. “One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” the cassette plays in the background as her head is cut and sewn and cut and sewn till it's perfect–her under a sedative, unable to tell the difference between her background and herself.
They build rooms in her head, ask her to play pretend with her dolls, they ask her to deck herself with the perfect accessory for each room, to pick out their perfect decor. She keeps all the bills pinned onto a board in the hallway in the middle of the rooms—her proof of sacrifice, her crimson receipts, her secret diaries, her stained silhouettes.
This is all that defines her existence—“One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” the cassette plays in the background as she keeps going through the motions that she was fed. She learns how to be the best model in each room that she enters, she learns the consequences, she learns the shame, she learns where the line begins and where the line ends. Every time she falters, they’re there with their cassette again—“One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” as they create an incision just a little deeper in her head.
She looks around to figure out if something is wrong, if something is off, but all women have incisions, all women have their rooms, all women have their billboards, all women know the show. “Something’s wrong with me for thinking this way,” she cajoles herself, gets mad at herself, berates herself till the incisions become permanent and the rooms become her inner voice, her outer voice, her home, her whole existence.
When she meets a woman she plays the same tune that they played—“One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother.” When she becomes the mother, it’s the same cassette that she plays, “One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, and one for the mother,” as she takes the ruler and a pencil and creates the same lines on her daughter’s head. She makes the slight incisions on her tiny head; what is a woman’s existence beyond the second sex? “One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” the cassette plays. “One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” she hums along happily as her daughter cries, fading into the background under the sedatives, unable to tell the difference between her background and herself.
Society meddles with the brain of women from the beginning, taking a ruler and a pencil and creating lines on her head, creating incisions just slightly deep. “One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” the cassette plays in the background as her head is cut and sewn and cut and sewn till it's perfect–her under a sedative, unable to tell the difference between her background and herself.
They build rooms in her head, ask her to play pretend with her dolls, they ask her to deck herself with the perfect accessory for each room, to pick out their perfect decor. She keeps all the bills pinned onto a board in the hallway in the middle of the rooms—her proof of sacrifice, her crimson receipts, her secret diaries, her stained silhouettes.
This is all that defines her existence—“One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” the cassette plays in the background as she keeps going through the motions that she was fed. She learns how to be the best model in each room that she enters, she learns the consequences, she learns the shame, she learns where the line begins and where the line ends. Every time she falters, they’re there with their cassette again—“One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” as they create an incision just a little deeper in her head.
She looks around to figure out if something is wrong, if something is off, but all women have incisions, all women have their rooms, all women have their billboards, all women know the show. “Something’s wrong with me for thinking this way,” she cajoles herself, gets mad at herself, berates herself till the incisions become permanent and the rooms become her inner voice, her outer voice, her home, her whole existence.
When she meets a woman she plays the same tune that they played—“One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother.” When she becomes the mother, it’s the same cassette that she plays, “One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, and one for the mother,” as she takes the ruler and a pencil and creates the same lines on her daughter’s head. She makes the slight incisions on her tiny head; what is a woman’s existence beyond the second sex? “One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” the cassette plays. “One for the daughter, one for the sister, one for the wife, one for the mother,” she hums along happily as her daughter cries, fading into the background under the sedatives, unable to tell the difference between her background and herself.
Comments
Post a Comment