Born a Girl

How glad I was to have been born a girl!

No, glad isn’t the right word.

More like relieved.

Yes, I saw my brother’s privileges,

the many freedoms boyness enjoyed,

the way he could walk into town for a movie

and then back again,

alone.

I even envied him his penis,

not—as Freud said—

as an instrument

Photo by Cristofer Maximilian on Unsplash‍ ‍

of pleasure

withheld from me,

but because being able to pee

standing up

seemed

such

a

very

neat

                                        trick.

(I tried it once and missed the toilet completely.

“What happened?” my mother asked

as she cleaned up the mess.

I didn’t try to explain.)

Nonetheless, I wouldn’t have wanted to be our father’s son

in exchange for any privilege

or freedom

or trick

in the world.

If you were the son,

competence was assumed,

instant and complete.

Willis usually delivered,

but when he couldn’t …

Driving in Los Angeles,

Will in the front seat, holding the map.

Mother and me, sitting silent,

side by side,

in back.

“Find out where we are,” Dad orders,

without slowing the car.

Will bends over the map,

studying, studying,

until finally,

victorious,

he calls out the intersection!

By that time, of course,

we are someplace else.

“Find it!” Dad orders once more,

and Will clenches his jaw,

leans down closer

over the map.

I don’t know what our mother feels.

As usual she betrays nothing.

But I sit, awash in gratitude,

glad to be the daughter,

the utterly

useless

girl.