My attributes distinguish me from the other species — male.

My biological makeup carries a roadmap toward a directive destination.

Would you like a turn right or left?

I am feminine.

My body moves along the rhythms of my soul,
which stands above worlds unprovoked.

I am feminine.

My waist sways left to right according to the beat of my footsteps.

I bow my head in recognition, in acceptance,
seeking tranquility each chance I get to interact with the earth,

Lest I be called proud and arrogant.

I am feminine.

I walk briskly with the least consciousness of the world around me.

I must not shuffle my feet – lest “villager” becomes my new middle name.

I am feminine.

Your mirror, my mirror
anyone’s mirror, my mirror
for I am expected to be perfect and decent for attraction’s sake.

I am feminine.

I speak softly and talk less about my achievements
lest I provoke envy among my fellow countrywomen.

I am feminine.

I dare not accept my sexuality openly
for fear of being stereotyped a slut
or worse, an aimless bitch.

I am feminine.

If I walk in groups or alone,
men assume I’d like to hang with them.

I am feminine.

I dare not wear anything that comfortably sits above my knees or chest
lest I speak a language men interpret
as wanting to be laid or miserably “put in the family way.”

I am feminine.

They say my biological clock runs faster than the other species — male.

Hence the suggestion to settle down by 25.

I am to aspire for marriage.

I was made a helpmate for the male species.

I am feminine.

Something must be wrong with my fallopian tubes
should this embryo fail — witch.

I am feminine.

I mustn’t earn more than my husband
lest I make him insecure
and rob him of his masculinity.

How insanely so.

I am feminine.

How dare I fight for equal salary with the male species —
as though I am nowhere near capable
of competing with his prowess and capacity.

I am feminine.

I am not allowed an open mind beyond acknowledging a man’s invitation home as just friends,
and interestingly, I cannot leave a man’s room clean — unharmed by assumptions.

I am feminine.

Losing my hair signals a new beginning
one once depressing, yet quickly labeled indecent.

Unfortunately, my wants and needs do not matter.

I am feminine.

I bleed every month,
yet I am expected to avail myself each night
for sacrifice to the male misogynist god.

I am feminine.

I wash my skin as regularly as I must
to invite dignitaries below my thighs for pleasure.

I am feminine.

I must see the doctor for countless checkups
to satisfy my lord’s suspicions of barrenness.

I am feminine.

I submit to an oppressor’s rule
each time he casts a wandering gaze upon my species,
breaching the contract.

I am expected to sigh “hmmm” and forgive
for our children’s sake.

But woe betides that feminine who blinks an eye
toward another species in exercising her humanity

“You cheating, sluggish bitch,”
he would castigate her.

I am feminine.

I am the least and last to be recognized
amidst a room full of men.

My suggestions are validated by the male species
for sanity and mass approval
until ownership of originality relocates.

I am feminine.

It is assumed I am incapable
and undeserving of my office.

Yet I walk into the boardroom full of men ready to take charge,
and whispers of bossy follow my unflinching character
behind my back.

I am feminine.

They say the more makeup I wear,
the more deceptive and dubious my schemes must be.

I am equally baffled.

I am feminine.

They say I didn’t buy that car on my own.

Neither the clothes I wear
nor anything I own.

It must be the other species — male.

I am feminine.

My celibacy must be punishment for past behavior
never a healthy decision,
only camouflage to hide nasty details.

I am feminine.

Cooking — my responsibility.

It must not extend to the male species.

He works so hard from 6 to 5.

And you are worse than a woman
to expect his adult self to feed himself.

But I thought it was a survival skill?

(You better feed that big baby.)

I am feminine.

I suppress my desires and feelings
to accommodate one whose desires
appear more superior than mine.

I am feminine.

I am left to care for myself and deal with difficulties,
because the pounding storms of depression
did not literally force me into my reality.

I am left to deal with the ramifications
of the exercise I engaged in
with the species who swore
for better or worse
under the pretense of love.

How disappointing could I be
to have borne a female child
against his request for a male heir?

I must be a personal assistant to God.

I am feminine.

I must not refuse help from the male species
lest I bruise his ego
and call him incapable.

I must extend praise to the heroes of the moment
give due to the saviors of our day.

For they have long fought for this praise.

I am feminine.

My feminism restricts me, they say
from rubbing shoulders with the male species
and occupying the earth
as an equal partner, mate, or friend.

But I am also a feminist.

I am not the perception we lived by decades ago.

I have evolved.

My dreams are valid.

My needs are important.

My aspirations reach as high as anyone’s.

I am fierce and capable as you
but I am not your competition.

I do not subscribe to the theatrics of feminism
that condone misandry.

But to the cause that champions
equity in opportunity, livelihood,
and leadership.

Equity in every sphere
physiological, psychological, emotional, systemic, cultural

All that suggests harmonious existence.

Dynamism in our approach, I provoke.

If we remain quiet
and speak less of the injustices against the species
tagged the weaker gender — female

the ripple will fade
and deaf ears will remain unchallenged.

These issues need redressing
to create an environment
where all genders and humankind
can thrive fairly and squarely.

I challenge you:

Conduct an internal analysis
of your perceptions, roles, and attitudes
toward the female species.

What will you do differently
from this moment onward?

#BeFeminist