Me, Undone

1. I hate public transportation. Regrettably, rising gas prices have neutered my bourgeois inclinations. Every morning I herd onto the 8:17am train—sunglasses to hide my disdain, book in hand to dissuade anyone from looking my way. I am not a morning person. Today, I came to my stop and shuffled my belongings to signal preparation for departure. When I stood up, an oily white woman standing in the aisle refused to let me pass. My aggressive tendencies, lack of sleep and general distaste for anyone who attempts to get in my way took over. I shoved my large stocky purse into her side two times and pushed past her to make my way out of the train. It was pleasant. I was satisfied. Screw Buddhist reflection—it was 9 am in the morning. 2. I met with my ex yesterday for a “serious” talk. When you are married, an intimacy comes that is unmatched in any other relationship. After all of this time, I still know that when he says this, he means that. And so I knew before he even spoke a word w

More than any other time, I am spilling into my womynness. Walking down the street today, catching the sun in the locks of my hair—gentle breezes caressing my center to travel down my back and the inside of my thighs. I am so alive and wide, growing into my womynness. The man at the corner winked at me; I smiled back. I am no longer afraid. Time has taught me to appreciate my gifts—subtle curves, tender waist, full lips and warm skin. This is not conceit. This womyness is hard fought—hard won. To be woman is to be whole and layered. I am remarkably woman—carefully made. I see, all the time, little girls who mistakenly believe that because their bodies talk, womyness is bestowed. Womyness is not given, it is earned. I’ve waited so long for this-- fought through harsh realizations and sat with unpleasant considerations—walked through the loss of a marriage and a parent, upset of family and friends—two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the road less traveled by. Zora Neale Hurston wrot

Most lawyers go into public interest law to save babies and old people. I help represent the “undeserving poor”—mothers whose children have been taken away by the state—mothers labeled unfit and unable to care for babies formed in the womb for nine months—mothers who still carry faint lines, like watermarks, across tummies—proof of life. These women live on the edge, marginalized and forgotten, many of them too tired or afraid to fight anymore. The state’s intervention is merely another assault in their daily lives. Ninety-eight percent of the cases I see involve issues of neglect—neglect varying from sub-standard housing, lack of adequate child care, to accidental injuries. Most of these issues are indicators of poverty—none of which have any nexus to a mother’s desire or ability to care for her child. That the state chooses to snatch children away from poor mothers instead of providing adequate resources is almost cruel. Poverty is not a crime. I am struck most by the assumptio

Last week I was forced to participate in a tedious orientation for my summer internship program. I am a bit of a recluse—the thought of socializing in a large plastic group had me reaching for a bottle of Xanex. The first day of training was as expected—students anxiously fielding generic questions like, “what law school are you from?” --completely uninterested in the answer. I chose not to participate in the social banter. I’ve been labeled as reserved and aloof. I am what I am and I feel no obligation to prove otherwise. I sat there pretending to find interest in the disheveled papers in front of me. Just before the first training began, a beautiful girl with a flawless complexion and sexy sway came to sit next to me. She turned to ask me a question, thus beginning our conversation. After only a few minutes, I came to learn that she was not as beautiful as she once appeared. I listened to her go on and on about her accomplishments, her possessions, and the people she knew—by the end