American Her-Story
By Maureen Muldoon
If I tell you of my heart,
I should tell you of my home,
The places I have lived,
And the land that I have roamed.
Through the trauma and the dramas,
The triumphs and the grief,
It's the truth I'll be confessing,
In hopes of some relief.
See, my heart is not an organ,
It's the address where I live,
The tribes in which I travel,
The things I can't forgive.
Like the lack of understanding
And compassion and decor,
While America goes weeping
Like a two-buck jilted w***e.
In the land of milk and honey,
With its sunny apple pie,
Little hands were in the White House,
Serving porn and lies.
I was feeling all conflicted
And evicted from my flag,
'Cause it didn't seem to notice
That my child was in drag.
And he needs to use the bathroom,
But he doesn't fit the box.
So he's painted like a demon,
And he's hunted by the Fox.
He's not trying to be a problem.
He just needs to take a piss.
No one's welcome to the men's room
who's not male or white or cis.
And the common man is restless,
And the news does not seem sound.
When we're building walls and running
All the good folks out of town.
And I can't blame my Country
Till I tell you of myself
And confess my own infringements
Like a good elf on the shelf.
Of the salty shore of Jersey,
Springsteen Country I was raised,
where we were born to run
In the good old USA.
But we learned to keep a distance,
Smirk like sly comedians.
For the boys who wouldn't be broken
Would be bullied into men.
On the playground where the sissy
Would be tortured in pure violence,
And my Christian heart
Would learn to grow a tolerance for silence.
And I raised my hand in question
'Cause I thought it made no sense.
How could God not love Her children?
Why would God put up a fence?
I felt my good blood boil
When I thought I'd seen enough.
But church bells rocked me back to sleep,
See, the king was in the buff.
And the hands that sought protection
Through confessions never heard,
Were the same hands pressed in prayer
and ordained worthy of the word.
How strongly they admonish
just to amputate the truth.
Forgive me, Father, I have sinned
And find no comfort in your booth.
But you don't represent my stories,
And you've clocked me in your myths,
Where I am cast as w***e or virgin
To negate my other gifts.
And your Gods have all been male,
Like the presidents and popes,
And the female wage is shy of truth,
And justice has no hope.
If you want to show compassion,
How 'bout we start with that?
How 'bout we teach the children
That a pussy is a cat?
Still, soothe your sister's sorrows
And say, "Please don't pick your scabs.
Let's ride it out; it's no big deal,
So your body's up for grabs."
And then we all remember,
'Cause the memory is there,
The glance, the gaze,
Unwelcome ways got tangled in our hair.
The moment we were branded,
that summed us up as game.
Not whole and holy woman,
But two boobs, a hole, and shame.
But cover cost for the viagra
To ensure you come correct.
Withhold her pills, deny her thrills,
And leave her with the check.
Send hearts filled with dictations,
Though she's still illiterate.
Underwires, boost them higher,
Make some money off that tit.
Post her face in all the tabloids,
Burn her daily, brand her twice,
And ensure it doesn't matter
'Cause she's nasty and not nice.
Point the finger over there
Where education is withheld,
And the threat of rape
Adorned the scape and lives unparalleled.
But let's not take a tally here.
Let's just drink, and all get drunk.
When suffering depression, dear,
Blame it on the time of month.
Let's not take a true assessment,
Let's not hold it up to light.
Let's not be too bold, for we've been told,
We do not have the rights.
Don't put lipstick on a dead girl,
Don't string up your pretty prose.
And pretend you're doing something
To relieve her of the blows.
But when I vote,
I'll cast my arrow
To protect my shifty fate,
So the owner of my body
Is no longer for debate.
Raising daughters with the confidence
to feel that she is able
Is a joke if we've left
no empty seat about the table.
Raising daughters to have courage
And to truly find her voice
Is drained of all validity
When she has not the choice.
And if you want the truth,
You'll need to know
The places where we live,
You need to know the trauma
Of the f***s we did not give.
You will need to look still deeper
To the words you didn't say
And the roles that were forbidden,
The inequality of pay,
The constant degradation,
The branding and the burn,
The higher education
Never offered, never earned.
From a country of warmongers
Who still fear our bloody show,
We've landscaped our mother's nature
To ensure she will not grow.
In a land of opportunity,
Her script is sealed with vows,
And the beat, it goes on banging,
To the slaughtering of cows.
So my sweet, my dear, my Valentine,
My fellow countrymen,
It's not the type of love note
You were hoping I would send.
But our rivers all run red,
And our children are all blue.
And You've made a lot of promises
But haven't yet come through.
And I got a funny feeling
That the ceiling won't be smashed,
And the house will go on burning,
Leaving nothing in the ash.
And we'll buckle from the weight
Of our own domestic violence.
Where we once stood brave,
We will surely fall the silenced.
But before we all hit bottom
From the weight of all the lies,
Here's a supersize of truth
Being served without the fries.
Though the her-story has been twisted,
tampered, broken down, and hacked,
There's a swelling of a new one,
And it says, "We won't go back."
So we're gathering in packs,
And we're taking to the street,
And we're linking arms in unity
Against the madman's tweets.
And she is rising like a sun,
And she's brilliant, and she's bright.
And she's coming 'round the bend,
And she's gonna make it right.
She is stronger now than ever,
She's gathering some steam,
Has been trained for just this hour—
You can hear her engines scream.
And the Dalai Lama notes,
As he bowed his head in sermon,
"Let this broken world be saved
by the modern Western woman."
From New Jersey to Atlanta,
To the sunnyside of Queens,
To the studios of L.A.
And the whole Las Vegas scene.
From the noble tower of Willis
To New Orleans Masquerade,
And the 50 states of disgrace
Where a woman is underpaid.
You can hear her humming softly,
You can hear her closing in.
She will rise, oh don't you worry,
She will sanctify our sins.
And the old will surely crumble,
And the flood will wash it down,
'Cause she will not be persuaded
When they lay their money down.
And she does not come with fear,
And she does not beckon war,
And she does not seem to answer
If you call her b***h or w***e.
She is meeting in the back room,
And her counsel is divine.
Arise, my sister and my brothers,
Arise, let's go, it's time.
From the mountains to the prairies,
To the oceans white with foam,
Arise, my dear America,
It's time to save our home.
Love, Maur
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