“A Manifesto in Pink” — An Original Poem

Red is love, lust, power, revenge, anger. 

 

Pink is pretty, bubbly, subtle, calm. It’s the oppression of red. 

 

They shove microphones in their faces, magazine articles in ours. 

 

“Are you a feminist?”

 

“Is she a feminist?”

 

“She says she’s not a feminist!”

 

But what is it?

 

It’s more than a numbers game. Number of women in the work force. Numbers on the paycheck. Number of women  who fall victim to abuse. Number of women MY AGE who will be raped this year. Number of men who will be convicted of rape, versus the number of men guilty. Number of women in a group because we can’t be alone outside at night. Number of women asking for it. Number or women I can look up to. 

 

It starts hashtags, movements, attempts at revolution.

 

Pink is the new red.

 

But red lipstick is war paint. It is fierce and strong. Wear it with pride. 

 

Now it represents power. Strength. Bravery. 

 

Red.

 

Celebrities are proudly stating that they do not support or agree with the communist, I mean feminist, party. What we are asking for is to not be compared to Nazi Germany when we ask for the right to choose.  This is not the present-day holocaust. It is the right to choose. Abortion Clinics are not gas chambers. The 57 million women who made a choice should not be compared to Hitler, who chose for them. The right to stand up for themselves for 11 hours and defend their choice, yet others chooses to comment on the color of Wendy Davis’ sneakers not matching her suit during her filibuster. Busting her for using a back brace to strengthen the backbone of women protesting men in congress, telling her and every woman in America to be seen and not heard. 

 

Planned Parenthood is vilified while Donald Trump is glorified. Sexualizing his daughter but denying her sexual health freedom.

 

Not being ready for a child does not make you a murderer. I heard my mother tell me and my sister that we were accidents she did not want. Do not tell me she was prepared to be a mother. My father says if I keep dressing the way I do, and don’t keep my mouth and my legs closed I will end up just like her. 

 

Unhappy.

 

Trapped in a marriage that was a responsibility to the children. 

 

She was deemed a mother, not a murderer for the abortion I should have been. Now I am deemed a disappointment, despite diplomas, dean’s lists and double majors because this daughter dared to let a boy she loved “convince her” into sleeping with him. My family tries to scare me celibate, but buys condoms for my brother. 

 

I buy my own condoms and pick up my birth control because apparently being an adult and being an adulterer are synonyms. 

 

I’ve seen them all. A grandmother who went insane after being told she couldn’t have anymore kids. Aunts who hate children, but hate even more that they don’t have any, because that’s what they’re supposed to do. Uncles fighting over the family business, asking the young men about what’s next in their lives, while the young women are asked about our boyfriends. 

 

Feminism is so much more than equality in the work place. It’s working on making a place where women feel respected, not lucky to be there. Not lucky to get the guy, or find the sale, not even respecting our fellow sex, undermining each other while losing our minds, minding our manners and our mouths while men determine our worth. Accomplishments mean nothing if you didn’t look good doing it. 

 

Feminism is a dirty word, but so is rape, abortion, communism and tampon, and ladies don’t swear, understand politics, or talk about natural monthly occurring bodily functions because it makes people uncomfortable. So next time the bag boy fumbles putting pads in plastic bags, remind him that his mother, girlfriend and future daughter all have periods and recommend a brand for them. 

 

Feminism isn’t about making women the more empowered gender. You’re afraid that one day we will treat you the way we treat us. That’s not our goal. We want to be comfortable in our own skin, bodies, workplaces, relationships. It’s not telling women they are beautiful in all shapes, sizes and colors, we aren’t cars, so don’t pick a make and model. It is being role models for our daughters so they don’t need to be reminded to speak up in class because they are afraid to be smarter than the boy they like. 

 

Feminism isn’t anti-men or anti-relationships it is anti-minutes turning into hours waiting for him to text you back, anti-self-loathing because he doesn’t love you anymore. Pro-life isn’t realistic for the proletarian women trying to make ends meet, who is trying to gain ownership of her own life, while bourgeoisie congressmen tell her she has to make it work, with a baby. The only class struggle is the teen-age girl who just started college and is trying to make it to class on time and find a baby sister and x at the same time.

 

Next time you’re afraid to wear red because its considered an aggressive color, remember pink is just a passive red and being passive aggressive isn’t pretty.