At thirteen years old there was nothing I wanted more
than to be a Victoria’s Secret model.
I idolized their elegant gazelle limbs
The way their thighs whispered to each other on the runway
whisking past, gossiping surely.
My thighs greet each other as old friends
Shouting all along the street, yelling even when far too close
oftentimes they turn red from the efforts.
I entered the world screaming,
never fully learned how to lower my voice.
My sound could find the deepest reaches of any room,
reverberate through the most unsympathetic of materials,
penetrate the thickest walls.
I was once unwilling to soften myself
Uninterested in accommodating acoustics
Unaware of the desires to thin my sound.
I know my dress size is quieter on this side of the Atlantic
Told myself I had an American body type, that is
one unafraid to let seams squirm
to remind them I was not who they were intended for.
As a child the first stereotype I learned was
“Americans are loud”
Relatives across the cold water
frowning as they handed me
clothes one decibel too large.
Why can noise not be joyful?
There lies an island in a warmer ocean
where drivers honk, not to disrupt
but to say,
thank you.
The buses call,
Thank you for accompanying me on this long journey
To turning cars who reply,
May you reach your destination with
the same kindness you have granted me.
I wish the same buttons were installed beneath our tongues
to line our phrases with gratitude
and leave trails of happiness wherever we may pass.
This sound is a gift to wield
A guardian from those would devour us
content to hear their own words leave their mouth.
When a woman wants to convince her stalker she is not worth the trouble,
she fakes insanity
a harpy shrieking at the sky
reminds the world
she is not fit for consumption.
If I am destined to be resigned
to telling long stories to shrinking shadows
to shooing away vultures
picking decaying flesh
off my brittle bones–
I hope someone will direct me towards the nearest canyon
Remind me to square my shoulders
Tilt my chin three degrees too high
And draw a last filling breath into my lungs
To fuel an endless echoing scream.
MiC Columnist Isabelle Fernandes can be reached at ellefern@umich.edu.