After Charlottesville, I went to Temple for the first time since I was in Israel, ten years ago. I took my three year-old daughter, and we sat on the lawn outside the temple with the congregants. Then I watched her dance to Hebrew songs that I recognized but never knew all the words to. This has been a hard time, the Rabbi said, and the tears came.
Hipbone jutting out at the right angle, cocked and loaded, ready to go off like a gun. I used to wiggle down when I walked, because it made all my flesh bounce and the rhythm of my wobble pleased me because it pleased them. It made me feel like the stuff men sink their teeth into. But when they opened up their mouths, sharp rows of teeth were there behind the smiling ones.
When I read that women carry the microchimera of the fetuses they conceive, and also, of every man whose sperm has been inside them, I blister with rage. Is there nowhere in my body that has not been colonized? Do male microchimera get credit for every logical thought I have, for every time I’ve built a piece of IKEA furniture correctly, for my ambition? Have infinite particles of maleness made me what I am, just as they always claimed?