A Partial Life Story

at five years old, I learned that white girls

were made of pastels, sugar and everything nice

boys were constructed of blue snips, slimy snails

and smelly, puppy dog tails

at seven, I learned that Barbie was beautiful, Barbie was fashionable,

Barbie had a lot of clothes, a plastic car and a dream house

Barbie was white/Barbie had blonde hair/Barbie had blue eyes

but Tonka trucks and fast motorcycles and even faster, plastic cars

were for tomboys and boys who were loud and boisterous

rough, courageous and brave

at nine I learned that sobbing dramatically

was part of the feminine mystique

and boys were, never, ever to cry

even when broken

at thirteen I learned that a pretty, white girl could get away

with ritual murders and character assassinations

of the un-popular/un-pretty/graceless/brown girls

while demurely, smiling gracefully

at the manly, strutting, pubescent boys

at fifteen, I learned the clique had replaced Barbie & her dollhouse, plastic car

the big, fake, blonde-from-a-bottle hair and white skin

and going to second base with mobs of manly boys, was frowned upon

unless one was a bad/trashy/nasty girl/or a brown girl

like me

the kind of girl, the prune-faced, old ladies whispered about

at seventeen, I knew that station in life

was critical

accouterments of furs and diamonds, real houses and un-plastic cars

blonde hair, blue eyes and tanned white skin

were signs of good breeding

math and science were for boys and geeky girls

and maybe, some lucky, brown girls

like me

at twenty-one my white friend was captured, married and caged

with those diamonds and furs

real houses and un-plastic cars

by her manly, pubescent boy

at thirty, she was tired of his shit

and society’s expectations

at forty, she bought her own damn condo

a hybrid, electric car

and found out what it was to be free, a true friend

and she finally wanted to be like me