How long and deeply I dreamed
of being a white lady. How distinctly I wanted
to be tall and blonde like a pageant winner
thin and rich and shiny at all my points.
And fathered, fathered by a father who wouldn't
let anyone mess with me. A father like a corporation
(they’re people too). And if I couldn't be fathered,
(and it was not to be) I needed to look like I was.
Enough jewelry to announce my pussy was valuable.
This was before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye.
Kidding. His eyes are dead.
So. Wanted to be a white lady before you were born
and though I look white in pictures, I still wanted it
ached for it with all the energy that you invest
in being you. You probably don't even think it's energy,
but that’s between you and the women’s studies course
you didn’t take. (I took it, and it made me stop working
to be a beautiful doll.) (I mean a white woman.) (Not
right away.) (Such a rich tapestry of a dream.)
I don’t have energy to explain now.
Speaking of energy, how's mom?
No--didn't mean to scare you! I was referring to Mother Earth!
We’re all losers when compared to Mother Earth.
Guess I did mean it.
Dear Barbie, We want you to remember your mom.
A whole country needs you to recall her now.
Just a wee whisper of a memory –
barely here, hissing the old lyric—
don't worry, pop can't hear.
We need you to remember what she knows.
Because we know it, too, Barbie. And so do you.
Know what you know, Barbie.