The Autumn Star

ASKING FOR IT Here I stand, asking for it. I am not a girl - a woman. And I am ... asking for it. By it, I mean a paycheck equal to that dude's. Commensurate to the work I do. It's not too much to ask. I am asking for it. And by it, I mean respect. Recognition that the length of my skirt - or my size of my thighs underneath - is not an invitation for your consideration of my body and what it needs to do for you. Nobody asked you. I am asking for it. It is the thing we all strive for, what women continue to fight for, what we have sacrificed and died for. It is what we pray for, over the heads of our daughters. It is what we demand  when push the conversation further It is what causes us to stand and speak against our fathers. I am done asking for it. I will create it.  I will take it. It was never yours to give.

The #MeToo campaign has dredged up a lot of memories for me. I'm working on a longer blog post that breaks down how, from early childhood, society molded my views on women and men. What was expected, what was valued, and what wasn't. And how those views informed my decisions to stay silent when men harassed and assaulted me.  It's a lot to process. And some of the people I'll write about are still in my life. This is true for many of us. We live among our abusers. We share mutual friends. We see them at parties. We laugh at their jokes. We try to forget what they did, at least as long as they're in our presence.  For now, I'm going to share this poem.  Long ago, I dated a bartender. I visited him on weekend nights. This is what I endured every. single. night. MEN OF A CERTAIN AGE Men of a certain age always ask your name before telling you how pretty you are. They ask for it again and again, and again. As if your name - t

Here's a question I ask every candidate I interview: What's the last great book you read? Catch: It can't be a business book. It always stumps them. Some of them are honest: "I don't read fiction. But, I just got done reading a new book about Jeff Bezos ...." Me: (Inward sigh) I wish this only happened when I was talking to young recruits, new to marketing, eager to show me their dedication to learning business from the greats. But it's not. I can't even tell you how many CEOs, presidents, entrepreneurs, managers, designers, developers, and even fellow copywriters that have confessed to me that they don't read fiction. They offer a variety of reasons why. All of which I consider bullshit. I don't like fiction.  Bullshit. Do you watch movies? Television? Those are fiction. (Even the "reality" shows are scripted.) If you don't like reading fiction, it's because you're not reading good fiction.  Or, it&

Inspired by Unthinkable podcast episode "Just Ship It," I decided to set a National Poetry Month challenge for myself. One poem every week day. I'll update this blog with new poems every now and then, so I have an archive of all the poems at the end. 4/21 ONE IN FOUR *Trigger Warning An argument instigates A misunderstanding Fueled by liquor and bitter impotence A challenge I didn’t see it his way I didn’t see it coming The gauntlet thrown I am facedown Like a slap, like a shot Choking on the sheets We’ve shared His weight Crushing my resistance His hands Willing my submission For a moment, a breath I am stunned -- paralyzed prey An eternal second An unspent scream Then, muscle memory kicked in: Waking up There is a boy I knew, I loved Inside my bed Inside of me And the smell of alcohol From his sweat And my breath Filling the room A miasma of shame and guilt and defense We never spoke of it What happened Had happened before: Nervous, new lover Fumblings Moving togethe