What being a woman means to me

Update: This entry got published in the 2015 issue of Rocky Mountain Reflections, vol 5, an art and literary journal published by Colorado Mountain College: http://library.coloradomtn.edu/rmr

In Tartu, a close friend tried to teach me how to be a lady and carry myself with grace. After two years, we established in good humor that I had not picked up any of these traits. :-) Another laughed at my clothes when we first met, and said that we American women must think very highly of ourselves if we feel comfortable wearing no make-up and old hiking shoes. I remember being in awe of those particularly wispy, elegant Estonian women clicking strongly down the streets in high-heels, walking even faster than me! 

In middle school, a group of girls tried to teach me how to walk properly by shaking out my hunched shoulders and undoing my tightly folded arms so that they'd swing by my sides. At a running camp in high school, I was duct-taped to a wall in order to learn how to move my hips and only my hips when dancing. In college, I was introduced to the world of dangly earrings, lip color, and clutch handbags. In my adult life, other women speak of sex, and I still don't understand the joys of this generally awkward exchange of bodily fluids. In another light, I recently read a book by Sheryl Sandberg, the chief operating officer of Facebook. With the goal in mind of men and women holding an equal amount of leadership roles in the world, she calls for other women to "lean in" and be more aggressive/less ashamed of seeking power. 

....Theoretically, I am a woman. But I don't even know what that means, if anything, to me personally, which inspired a goofy poem of things that come to mind when I think of being a woman.

What being a woman means to me

It’s the salted caramel smell of my skin after being in the sun
a smell I first noticed on my mother when I was young.
It's the way my grandmother laughed loudly at herself when a bug went down her shirt
and how my younger sister is wiser than me.

It's the steadfast silver watch that never leaves my wrist

my tiny purse that manages to swallow everything but crumpled receipts

and the gas station coffee responsible for those receipts - half french vanilla, half regular.

It’s the day I stop chewing my nails!

It's those three original muses who first enchanted me
to draw mustaches on our faces
and play cards in the dormitory lobby.

It's the day Mica and I drove to the top of Independence Pass
for no reason other than to be there for a minute.

It's the proper, diligent, and focused Estonian
who secretly loved McDonalds
and gave me a leather bracelet before I left.

It's the dragon inside my friend called Krraka
whose clever mind and wild eyes gave only hints
of the danger we were all in if she got bored.

It's the countless creams my roommate applied each night
to take care of her skin
filling the room with heavenly scents.

It's the Lucky Strike cigarettes
that a friend brought in bulk from her home country of Georgia to Tartu
so she wouldn't have to smoke anything less.

It's the way my friend stated
"I am not made for this world"
when the discussion turned to formal balls and dresses.

It's my frightened friend who was born as a male
and wants nothing more than to be a female.

It’s when I paint music or dance at home alone

or stay in bed on a sunny day.

It’s writing with no inhibitions,

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                                                                               to come alive.