Anita Liberty's Weekend Report

My weekend activities and what you missed because you aren't me...

Friday, April 25, 1997:
Called in for another temp job today. It was in midtown. Hellish. Truly. I realized something today when I was in the elevator of this huge office building: chivalry is not dead. Far from it,much to my dismay. In crowded midtown office building elevators, male passengers insist on stepping aside to let female passengers off first. No matter if all the men are in the front of the elevator. No matter if the elevator is so crowded that there's no room to step aside. No matter if stepping aside means that it takes all of us twice as long to get out the door. Well, I'd like to take the liberty of speaking for my gender when I say, "Just get off the goddamned elevator, you idiots! Just get off. Don't worry about me. Don't even think about me. When the doors open, just get out. Get out. You have one thing to remember and one thing only...Elevator stops. Doors open. Get the hell out of my way."
Saturday, April 26,1997:
Today's the big day. My sister's wedding. She had asked me to write a poem to read at her wedding. "What kind of poem?" I asked her. "A nice poem," she replied. Here is the poem I will read today:
A Nice Poem (The poem I will read at my sister's wedding) Who has the veil? Hide the bride. Where's the groom? Hide the bride. Is it almost time? Hide the bride. And hide the bride we will. We shall cover her frequently showered body with layers of chiffon, satin, tulle, silk (raw and refined.) My younger sister's getting married. She's getting married. Here she comes. She's walking down the aisle. Here she comes. She's getting closer. Here she comes. Quick, hide the bride. Drink white champagne in white crystal. Eat white cake with white frosting. Hold white flowers with white ribbon. As the white girl in the white dress meets the black-haired man in the black tuxedo waiting at the end of the aisle to unveil what we have so cleverly disguised. Hide the Bride!
There. That was nice.
Sunday, April 12, 1997:
It's 2 in the morning. I'm spent. My younger sister's wedding is history. The poem I read seemed to go over well. As soon as I was released from my maid-of-honor duties, I dashed over to the Poetry Club, grabbed the mike from a guy who was doing a performance piece involving a glue stick (enough said) and a poem. I had to. Otherwise I wouldn't have been able to sleep. Ever again. The poem I read was the poem I wanted to read at my sister's wedding. It's called A Wasted Life.



I threw you your goddamned shower
and made everyone dress up 
like a different time of day and night
just like you wanted.
I endured the questions, the stares, the pity 
when everyone asked me why 
I haven't found someone yet
and does it bother me that my younger sister
is getting married before I am.
Why aren't you getting married?
They'll ask me.
Why aren't you getting married?
Why aren't you getting married?
Maybe because I'm not ready.
Maybe because I don't want to.
Maybe because I haven't found the 
right person yet.
Maybe because I don't even have a 
goddamned boyfriend.
Nobody cares that I am a well-established 
and well-respected poet.
No, they aren't interested in my mind.
It's my younger sister's wedding and 
the only part of
anyone's body that gets noticed 
is the third finger of the left hand.
(I'm thinking of tattooing mine with 
the words "Fuck off").
And blissfully unaware of my gnawing contempt,
my sister, by blood and blood alone,
walks down the aisle.
The aisle.
The aisle paved with the souls
of women locked in a silent scream
of regret and wasted dreams.
The women whose satin-heeled feet
clip-clopped toward a future
of cloying and insincere promise.
Women, who willfully promenade
from one man to the next.
Given, as it were and as it will always be, away
by a man who never held the deed of ownership
to another who never will.
While I spend just about all of my time
deconstructing and devaluing the
fragile legend of the women's role
in this world,
my sister, born of the same womb as I,
walks numbly down the aisle,
and leaves yet another gutted shell underneath
the dainty step of society's next victim
of tradition.

Sleep will come easily tonight. I am purged.