Woman: /ˈwo͝omən/
1 a : an adult female person b : a woman belonging to a particular category
2: womankind: of distinctive feminine nature; a sweetheart or paramour.
For a small moment, I’d like to think our image representation is spot on. In a magical world, we all live oh so perfectly, dazzled in dignity and anchoring ourselves in who we are. The peak of ideality would be that this generation does a tremendous job at matching the word to it’s definition. Instead, we find ourselves at the bottom of this dreamy cinema, in mere hopes of somehow climbing up to our desperate expectations.
Let’s flip to the page of reality, bring you down from Cloud 9, and welcome you to the brokenness of what we call “women”.
What happens to a world that has yet to seek out the definition of a woman? To a generation that has lost respect in every crevice, every dimension and to every extent of God’s exquisite creation? The problem is this: the cocoon of woman-culture has gone through metamorphosis, and this hideous creature is no longer a culture, but an object.
Women have become immune to how this world addresses them; our community is callous. I guess we’ve been bruised by acceptance too many times to count and the lack of respect would explain the presence of numbness.
We are life, we give birth, we are the Eves to our Adams, the mother of nurture, the nature of beauty, the beauty in love. Yet, we’ve become nothing less than lusted for, nothing more than bashed upon, and somehow, in our clearest moment of rationality, we have come in agreement, acceptance and admittance with this. Our objective is not to be an object. We live ever so comfortably in the vulgarity of today. We’ve made it our home, adorning our walls, making our beds in this trash-house, and we are left timid when respect comes knocking at our door.
It saddens me to think that there’s the slightest chance of hopelessness for us. To assume that it may be too late to evaluate our errors, chip off our reputation, and re-construct womanhood. But, I blindly believe in the power of redemption, and ladies, it is never too late. We are complicated beings assembled in the most complex of forms seeking the simplest of desires: the need of being loved, and the love of being needed. To feel beautiful without being called a bad “B”, to feel womanly without the applause for being a size “D”, to feel wanted and appreciated, loved and valued for the depths of your heart, the impact of your intellect and not for what’s beneath your attire.
Do you see what I see?
I see skin. Faces and skin. Gorgeous women of the loveliest of colors, from the finest of countries, lavished in sweet aroma, perfectly painted, fittingly clothed, and ready to be unwrapped by the eyes of many.
We’ve allowed the image of our bodies to represent the image of our existence, and for that, the world will never forgive us. They made it all about “it” but, what about us? America has made it clear: what we can offer trumps who we are.
I hear the screeching cry of attention and its many disguises. A subtle masquerade of hunger for approval. A severe longing, a painful yearning, a frightful craving. The manner that women are being referred to nowadays leaves a bitter, putrid taste in my mouth. If we can vomit every cheap deed we’ve consumed and every repulsive word we’ve eaten, maybe we can save ourselves from eating at the table with disrespect again.
Where did we go wrong? Women are no longer founded on the delicacies of honor. Somewhere down the road, our definition has been blemished and damaged, contorted and deformed.
Power cannot be given by those who lack it. The only reason why we come against one another, without empowering one another, is because we lack the evidence of true confidence. We were designed to be the art of humanity, not objects of obscenity. We are mosaics and paintings, poems and soliloquies.
Different, peculiar, supreme, unique, customized, superlative, distinct.
Our existence is non-reliant on a definition freely disposed of, or easily tampered with.
So, thank you America for the intimidation of what a woman should be in your eyes, but I’ll pass.
To the culture that has gone through hell, yet still remains wondrous and heavenly:
Define yourself. Exhibit yourself.
Woman: I own it.
figiris 