The Blonde Woman
I wrote this poem about my fight against The Blonde Woman. Now please hear me: I am not fighting against women who are blonde. In fact, some of my closest friends are blonde (ba-dum-PSH!) Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all night.
The Blonde Woman is an archetype. She is the European standard of beauty, a tool of the Patriarchy, the oppressive feminine energy that reflects to black and brown women that we are less than and should take up less space. She never says so directly of course, that would be “unladylike”. Instead she talks over, stands in front of, and derails. White Feminist Champion, she loudly lauds “women gaining the right to vote 100 years ago” ignoring that women of color had to wait much longer. She boldly protests that “women make 70 cents on the dollar”, ignoring that women of color earn even less than that. She thinks all black men want to fuck her and all black women want to be her. She laughs often, at anything, but wouldn’t be caught dead with an original thought.
She is the slave master’s daughter, the girlfriend from Get Out. She is an unattainable ideal, oppressing both those of us who will never look like her and those who have tried to come close.
And so I wrote this poem about my fight against her, and about stepping out of the ring. About choosing not to measure myself against her standard of beauty, instead choosing my own healing by creating space and cultivating love for myself. Please enjoy:
Hair, spools of gold;
Eyes, pools of water;
I’ve raged against you my whole life,
Perhaps before, perhaps even after.
Your frame is small yet you wield much power
To crush and cage, to make us disappear
You doth bestride this narrow world like a Colossus,
Big and empty;
Any man who chooses you loses all respect.
But I have carved a place for myself from you
I’ve seen myself in spite of you
I‘ll love myself away from you.
I will not be made invisible.
And in this way,
With this love,
I will bring you down.