THE SHADOW
Burqa
My boyfriend said he didn’t like people looking at my legs.
“Everyone looks at everyone’s legs” I said, “it’s this thing called a mini skirt”
“No, they look at yours more.”
“OK, so I’ve got good legs. Sue me.”
“You could do something about it.”
“Put everyone’s eyes out with the pin of a broach?” I suggested. “It worked for Oedipus.”
“You could take your hems down.”
I was still for a long, long moment. “Down to where?” I asked quietly, “down to my knees? The skirt I worked in last summer comes down to my knees
Did it stop people from looking at me?”
He looked at the ceiling, he knew perfectly well that it didn’t.
“Down to where?” I asked again, “down to my ankles?”
Now he looked at the floor.
I lifted a handful of long, gold hair.
“What do I do with this? Dye it mouse colored? Must I cut it off? Or just cover it all the time?”
“What do I do about my face? Do you know where I can catch a good old fashioned case of small pocks?”
“What is it you want sweetheart” I asked softly.
“I . . . I want other guys to stop looking at you.”
I sighed. “As far as I can see, the only thing for you to do is get me a burqa. It seems the logical thing as well, because it is what you really believe in, it’s what you really want.” His face had folded at the forehead. “What the hell is a burqa?”
I shrugged, “Its sometimes called an abaya, or a chador. It is a long, black garment worn by Muslim women to cover their body, it covers every inch of the body, with only a grid that you look through. Everything is covered so nothing can be coveted. It says to the world: “You may not look, this body belongs to someone else, it isn’t even mine to show to the air, because my body belongs to someone else.” “For hells sake,” he said exasperated, “that is not what I want.”
My eyes had narrowed dangerously and my lips were pressed tight. I was very, very quiet for a long minute. “Yes, it is, it really is, it is exactly what you want. The problem is . . . The big, huge problem is, I will never, never, wear one. Never. Not for real, not figuratively. I won’t take down my hems. I won’t cover my hair. I will not be less than who I am. I will not cover who I am. I will NOT cover who I am for you or anyone else. You want a girl in a burqa, you go find another girl.”
My boyfriend said he didn’t like people looking at my legs.
“Everyone looks at everyone’s legs” I said, “it’s this thing called a mini skirt”
“No, they look at yours more.”
“OK, so I’ve got good legs. Sue me.”
“You could do something about it.”
“Put everyone’s eyes out with the pin of a broach?” I suggested. “It worked for Oedipus.”
“You could take your hems down.”
I was still for a long, long moment. “Down to where?” I asked quietly, “down to my knees? The skirt I worked in last summer comes down to my knees
Did it stop people from looking at me?”
He looked at the ceiling, he knew perfectly well that it didn’t.
“Down to where?” I asked again, “down to my ankles?”
Now he looked at the floor.
I lifted a handful of long, gold hair.
“What do I do with this? Dye it mouse colored? Must I cut it off? Or just cover it all the time?”
“What do I do about my face? Do you know where I can catch a good old fashioned case of small pocks?”
“What is it you want sweetheart” I asked softly.
“I . . . I want other guys to stop looking at you.”
I sighed. “As far as I can see, the only thing for you to do is get me a burqa. It seems the logical thing as well, because it is what you really believe in, it’s what you really want.” His face had folded at the forehead. “What the hell is a burqa?”
I shrugged, “Its sometimes called an abaya, or a chador. It is a long, black garment worn by Muslim women to cover their body, it covers every inch of the body, with only a grid that you look through. Everything is covered so nothing can be coveted. It says to the world: “You may not look, this body belongs to someone else, it isn’t even mine to show to the air, because my body belongs to someone else.” “For hells sake,” he said exasperated, “that is not what I want.”
My eyes had narrowed dangerously and my lips were pressed tight. I was very, very quiet for a long minute. “Yes, it is, it really is, it is exactly what you want. The problem is . . . The big, huge problem is, I will never, never, wear one. Never. Not for real, not figuratively. I won’t take down my hems. I won’t cover my hair. I will not be less than who I am. I will not cover who I am. I will NOT cover who I am for you or anyone else. You want a girl in a burqa, you go find another girl.”
~
How sure is seventeen
Sure of every moral fight
Lines drawn in the sand
Are always black and white
How sure is fiery youth
When we have every clue
And know exactly what we would
And would not ever do
Then life came in tangles
A game you had to play
Where people wore false faces
And black and white was grey
I pledged my love to one man
And everything was rearranged
But the world only saw my body
And couldn’t see the change
I worked and studied learning
To be the best I could become
The world looked at my face and hair
And said, ‘this women’s dumb.’
I didn’t know when it happened
It was something that didn’t show
But slowly, steadily, secretly
Black fabric began to grow
A colleague at work, a stranger
It began to panic and chafe
And then my best friend’s husband
I knew that I was not safe
One day my pants won’t zip
So I buy a bigger size
Three months later, another pair
The black web begins to rise
I keep getting bigger
And unlike at seventeen
Nobody turns to look now
I move through the world unseen
I will never cover up who I am!
I once said so strong and sure
Now I see the world through a woven grid
Swathed in black from my head to the floor
I wove this burqa out of fear
A cave in which to dwell
It isn’t made of cloth or flax
But it covers just as well
It is ponderous, ugly and awkward
And I hate it, of course,
When I think of how I used to move
I am sick with a deep remorse
Sometimes I stop and consider
Taking the thing away
I could feel the air again
I could stand in the light of day
I could dance again in the summer wind
I could end this shrouded sham
I could stop being someone else
I could uncover who I am
But here I am behind these bars
Stabbed with fear that makes me doubt it
What if I took my burqua away
And I could not live without it?
What would I do when the cover came off
No longer safe behind the screen
How would I walk out into the world
Knowing that I could be seen?
©Edwina Peterson Cross
Sure of every moral fight
Lines drawn in the sand
Are always black and white
How sure is fiery youth
When we have every clue
And know exactly what we would
And would not ever do
Then life came in tangles
A game you had to play
Where people wore false faces
And black and white was grey
I pledged my love to one man
And everything was rearranged
But the world only saw my body
And couldn’t see the change
I worked and studied learning
To be the best I could become
The world looked at my face and hair
And said, ‘this women’s dumb.’
I didn’t know when it happened
It was something that didn’t show
But slowly, steadily, secretly
Black fabric began to grow
A colleague at work, a stranger
It began to panic and chafe
And then my best friend’s husband
I knew that I was not safe
One day my pants won’t zip
So I buy a bigger size
Three months later, another pair
The black web begins to rise
I keep getting bigger
And unlike at seventeen
Nobody turns to look now
I move through the world unseen
I will never cover up who I am!
I once said so strong and sure
Now I see the world through a woven grid
Swathed in black from my head to the floor
I wove this burqa out of fear
A cave in which to dwell
It isn’t made of cloth or flax
But it covers just as well
It is ponderous, ugly and awkward
And I hate it, of course,
When I think of how I used to move
I am sick with a deep remorse
Sometimes I stop and consider
Taking the thing away
I could feel the air again
I could stand in the light of day
I could dance again in the summer wind
I could end this shrouded sham
I could stop being someone else
I could uncover who I am
But here I am behind these bars
Stabbed with fear that makes me doubt it
What if I took my burqua away
And I could not live without it?
What would I do when the cover came off
No longer safe behind the screen
How would I walk out into the world
Knowing that I could be seen?
©Edwina Peterson Cross
posted by Unknown at
7:32 AM
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