“I would always rather be happy than dignified.”
― Charlotte Brontë
I’m sorry I do not know how to conform to your idea of woman. Do not bother to teach me for I am not in the least interested in becoming your mindless guinea pig of experimentation. You can sulk all you want and smack your head on the ground if you must. I am not in the least keen.
I will not become subject to your senseless ideology in an attempt to fit in. I will not force my tender being through a funnel of such cruel thinking only to emerge a massive lump like yourself. I will not handover my brain to your obtuse traditions nor give my mind in exchange for your poignant beliefs.
I’m sorry I have constantly failed your expectations of me, to become senile, doddering or condescending. I do not match-up to your qualifications for the properly metamorphosed female. Somehow I must have skipped a stage or two, to become unorthodox and the warped and bizarre one among you.
I do not apologize for leaving your precious carefully written script to be swept off by the river nor for forgetting it time and again by the burner to smolder into ash. Your sacred pages and rules of engagement, oh how you painstakingly scribbled them for my own good, and for the good of all humanity, if only I would show some common sense and cease to destroy them.
I will yet debase them. And utterly annihilate them for I see it is a choice I must constantly make to keep my lovely head hanging high on my neck. Otherwise I would be surrendering my dear soul to imprisonment in the name of qualifying to become acceptable.
I will not subject my mind to puppetry neither would I surrender my wishes to the execution blade of general opinion. You can snarl all you want, sit around your smug counterparts, and grouch over my stubbornness and obscurity. Walk on broken glass if you must, to show your loyalty and devotion to lame titles or status of enslavement.
I will not be, yet another sacrificial lamb just so you can prove a point, one of helpless subjugation. I reject being that lamb and hobble blindly behind you to the slaughter, so I can become another zombie in your dignified gathering or simply another sad addition to the sorority of the haunted, maimed and despondent.
I like your outward disguise and admire your skillful art of masquerading, of pretty dresses and fancy jewelry, of false completeness and deserving the praises and approval of the majority. However, I despise the scars you unfortunately seldom succeed to hide beneath those fancy clothing and sunglasses.
I hear the weakness in your laughter and I see the wincing of your muscles, however so slightly, whenever you try to dance or fake laughter in the open. I sense the looming depth of sadness that hum violently in every given space of silence. It is inevitable, your bared vulnerability, as one can seldom wear a white garment and successfully conceal mud. It would be an eyesore.
I also know that joy cannot be faked, for it is not a garment to be worn but an aura that emanates from within. Thus, in spite of your presumed state of contentment and your glimmering appearance, I chose rather to be who I am and do what I want whenever I so please and at a time that I choose.
I choose my own happiness, I define my own completeness, I chose my path and I chose my seasons. This life after all is only lived once, albeit twice through the choices we make in the end. Hence my resolve, I choose what I choose when I choose it. Thus is my happiness complete, and my meaning settled.
I do not suppose you can see sense in my choices, I do not expect you to. To insist that you do would mean that I become like you. This is not a fight of superiority, neither is it the battle of the titans. It is simply what it is, that some of us do not and will not conform, we simply can’t. Live then, and let live. However so sorely, however piqued. Live, and let live.
I write for those women who do not speak,
for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified,
because we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves.
We’ve been taught that silence would save us, but it won’t.
– Audre Lorde