Week 9 - Trolley Problem
They say hair is medicine, but the problem is
my long hair makes me look as beautiful as a girl.
I have cold eyes
and an arrogant face,
so for the most part men don't bother me.
Even when they make that mistake.
And I don't bother
shaving my facial hair every day either.
Still, with my long hair down
and my headphones on my neck
and my coat and scarf
it's hard to see my chin, my neck.
One night I took the public bus out far from my university and got mixed around. I ended up at a bus stop in parking lot with three homeless men.
One of them said, "Babe! Babe! Do you have any money?"
and I gave him five dollars.
"Here," I said, in my lowest voice, but my voice cracked.
"Babe," asked the first one, "Do you have a cigarette?"
I slowly shook my head.
He looked me in the eyes.
"I'm a veteran," he said, "I'm down and out."
"I'm sorry," I said softly, and meant it. I know what it's like to be hungry,
to be cold.
It's not always good
to be mistaken for a woman, unsmiling.
"Here comes the limousine, princess," said the second one. He went on awkwardly about plush seats and carpets, or some such
but I just looked at him.
He fell silent.
The bus pulled up and I got on,
the first one decided to follow me into the back
and his friends caged him in in the corner.
"Babe," he said.
I wish he had heard my deep voice,
and it is deep, if it doesn't crack.
I contemplate the odds.
Dangerous to be a woman:
there's no arguing about that.
And equally so, especially if it's gone on for a while,
to let a man know that he's mistaken you for a woman
when you're built like a woman aside from your woman's face and can't defend yourself. I was supposed to be a girl, probably. Something went wrong. Some male vitality crept into me, made me rough, made me wicked. And I'm past the age where it's at all appealing
to look like a dancing boy. I should cut
my long hair,
I thought to myself just then. Someday. Maybe tomorrow. Before I leave my room again.
"Babe," said the man.
I tucked my chin desperately to my chest and looked at him, which is a mistake. When a girl looks like that it's seductive. I have dark wide eyes.
"She's not your babe," said the second one, who seems to respect me just now. "That's not her name. She can be whoever she wants to be."
The first one fell silent for a while.
"Are you an Alaskan native, I mean, like an Indian?" asks the second one to the first one, trying to make conversation. The first one is looking at me. "Hey! Are you Indian?"
"He's half Eskimo," says the third one, and.put his cane across the row.
"What are you doing?" asked the second one.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" asked the third one. "Trying to keep him from bothering her."
"Hey, beautiful woman," said the first one, who has at least abandoned 'babe.'
"She doesn't want to talk to you!" the second complained.
"Where are you from?"
"Russia," I say, quietly.
"Where are you from?" he repeats. He has trouble understanding me.
Being Russian might not be a good idea, and I'm Tatar anyway besides.
"Ukraine," I tried.
"Italy? Serbia? Spain?"
I don't know what to say.
The "limousine" pulls into the transfer station and mercifully, they get out.
The first one stands up and holds his hand out to me. I don't know why.
"I will let you shake my hand," I say, quietly, and grasp his hand,
his bare, warm hand. He holds on to mine tight.
If you're a woman,
it's better to be a good woman.
"That's enough. Go now, after your friends," I say. "You're hurting me."
He stops in the hall and turns around to look at me,
despairingly.
"I'm forty-four years old."
It's younger than my father, but only just. I don't tell him that.
"Go, go, before the bus runs off," I say,
gently.
The other two haul him off.
"I'm sorry about him," says the second one.
"It's okay." I know he doesn't get attention from women much.
"Good night, beautiful woman!" says the second one,
with relish.
Somehow I've enlivened his spirit, just by looking at me. I've felt that before,
for women and men.
The bus pulls away. Outside, snow falls.I feel sorry for everyone on earth, sometimes.
I touch my temple to the cold window. I almost can't feel the glass
through my long, long hair.
my long hair makes me look as beautiful as a girl.
I have cold eyes
and an arrogant face,
so for the most part men don't bother me.
Even when they make that mistake.
And I don't bother
shaving my facial hair every day either.
Still, with my long hair down
and my headphones on my neck
and my coat and scarf
it's hard to see my chin, my neck.
One night I took the public bus out far from my university and got mixed around. I ended up at a bus stop in parking lot with three homeless men.
One of them said, "Babe! Babe! Do you have any money?"
and I gave him five dollars.
"Here," I said, in my lowest voice, but my voice cracked.
"Babe," asked the first one, "Do you have a cigarette?"
I slowly shook my head.
He looked me in the eyes.
"I'm a veteran," he said, "I'm down and out."
"I'm sorry," I said softly, and meant it. I know what it's like to be hungry,
to be cold.
It's not always good
to be mistaken for a woman, unsmiling.
"Here comes the limousine, princess," said the second one. He went on awkwardly about plush seats and carpets, or some such
but I just looked at him.
He fell silent.
The bus pulled up and I got on,
the first one decided to follow me into the back
and his friends caged him in in the corner.
"Babe," he said.
I wish he had heard my deep voice,
and it is deep, if it doesn't crack.
I contemplate the odds.
Dangerous to be a woman:
there's no arguing about that.
And equally so, especially if it's gone on for a while,
to let a man know that he's mistaken you for a woman
when you're built like a woman aside from your woman's face and can't defend yourself. I was supposed to be a girl, probably. Something went wrong. Some male vitality crept into me, made me rough, made me wicked. And I'm past the age where it's at all appealing
to look like a dancing boy. I should cut
my long hair,
I thought to myself just then. Someday. Maybe tomorrow. Before I leave my room again.
"Babe," said the man.
I tucked my chin desperately to my chest and looked at him, which is a mistake. When a girl looks like that it's seductive. I have dark wide eyes.
"She's not your babe," said the second one, who seems to respect me just now. "That's not her name. She can be whoever she wants to be."
The first one fell silent for a while.
"Are you an Alaskan native, I mean, like an Indian?" asks the second one to the first one, trying to make conversation. The first one is looking at me. "Hey! Are you Indian?"
"He's half Eskimo," says the third one, and.put his cane across the row.
"What are you doing?" asked the second one.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" asked the third one. "Trying to keep him from bothering her."
"Hey, beautiful woman," said the first one, who has at least abandoned 'babe.'
"She doesn't want to talk to you!" the second complained.
"Where are you from?"
"Russia," I say, quietly.
"Where are you from?" he repeats. He has trouble understanding me.
Being Russian might not be a good idea, and I'm Tatar anyway besides.
"Ukraine," I tried.
"Italy? Serbia? Spain?"
I don't know what to say.
The "limousine" pulls into the transfer station and mercifully, they get out.
The first one stands up and holds his hand out to me. I don't know why.
"I will let you shake my hand," I say, quietly, and grasp his hand,
his bare, warm hand. He holds on to mine tight.
If you're a woman,
it's better to be a good woman.
"That's enough. Go now, after your friends," I say. "You're hurting me."
He stops in the hall and turns around to look at me,
despairingly.
"I'm forty-four years old."
It's younger than my father, but only just. I don't tell him that.
"Go, go, before the bus runs off," I say,
gently.
The other two haul him off.
"I'm sorry about him," says the second one.
"It's okay." I know he doesn't get attention from women much.
"Good night, beautiful woman!" says the second one,
with relish.
Somehow I've enlivened his spirit, just by looking at me. I've felt that before,
for women and men.
The bus pulls away. Outside, snow falls.I feel sorry for everyone on earth, sometimes.
I touch my temple to the cold window. I almost can't feel the glass
through my long, long hair.