A Woman in a Box

 Before I became a woman, they handed me a box.

Here, they said. This is for you to stay safe in.

This box is too small, I said. It’s the wrong shape for me.

But don’t you want to be safe? If you put yourself into the box, everything will be all right. You will be safe– you’ll be a Good Wife, and a Good Mother. This box is the only way to know for sure that your husband and your children are happy.

But what about me? Will I be happy?

You’ll be safe.

So I climbed into the box.

It doesn’t fit, I cried! Look, I stick out over here, and this leg is too long, and my breasts are too large and and I have questions, ideas, things I want to see and do.

From outside the box, they handed me a knife.

Here, they said. This is for you. Cut off the pieces that don’t fit in the box.

I took the knife, trembling.

That will hurt, I whispered.

But it’s the only way to be safe. It’s the only way to be Right and Good. Cut, they cried!

So I cut.

I cut off all the parts of me that didn’t fit. I held my breath and made my largeness small. I made my small tender parts big and tough to fill the empty corners. I pulled the lid down tight, so I could be safe inside the box. 

And I painted a laughing face on the outside of the box.