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You are here: Home / Home bottom / Wearing Shorts on a Summer’s Day

Wearing Shorts on a Summer’s Day

Niamh Griffiths

This image shows a woman stood on the beach in the waves of the sea.
Your cat call, wolf whistle,
sign of appreciation
of my dungarees,
my red striped tee
that clearly said
"I wish to be objectified"
today
and every day
that I second guess my outfit.
Because it would be my fault
if I was asking for it,
with a skirt just a little too short.
Above the knee,
thighs seen
by the world
and his wife
would disapprove
because she has lived
with his mysogynistic views
that now fall upon deaf ears.
Numb from the daily
pats on the bottom,
grabbing anatomy
behind closed doors
or even out in the open
because his property
is his castle.
Yet he carves cracks in her walls,
paints her how he pleases,
shows her off when it suits
because she was a looker back in the day,
but now she is showing her age.
She's too tired to argue,
too frail to have a voice.
Now when he treats her
like a piece of meat,
she smiles and agrees
and another Queen
is confined to the kitchen.
So, at fourteen when I was groped
I learned to be silent,
because I would be silenced
either way.
When compliments are hurled
like sewage
from a van,
by an unseen man
who is everywhere,
is everyone,
who forces
young women
to accept
that this is as good as it gets.
That there is no white picket fence,
while endless judgement
is the norm
and "nice tits"
is the highest form of flattery,
especially when yelled out
from a moving car.
Well screw your misogyny.
I'm sorry I don't sound like a lady
and that offends you, sweetheart.
I'll take a compliment
when it is not about my body,
which I have felt you
undress,
with your snake eyes,
ten times over
the course of this conversation.
And I'll ask you this question
that you will never answer.
Imagine if the roles were reversed?
And I was the cancer
who called out to you
while you were
defenceless
and alone.
Modestly dressed
but you and I both know
that won't hold up in court.
So, I will not kick up a fuss
and draw attention to myself
any more than you already have.
Instead I will bide my time,
write down what I have seen
in words that are mine,
that not even you
can make me change.
Not even you
will make me feel ashamed
for wearing shorts
on a summer's day
and a T-shirt in spring.
Because I could wear anything
and it would never
be your place to say
a word.
To make a single sound
in regard to how I dress my body.
I am not asking for much,
in all honesty.
Just a gew more steps
towards equality.
So, next time I am in my denim,
roll your window up,
hold your breath as you pass me,
and keep your damn mouth shut.

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