Tonight Tonight - The Smashing Pumpkins
Here’s to melancholy days,
when care swells inside but has no release,
and you turn to music for the reprieve.
Things that matter. Pass ‘em on.
Everyone’s voice deserves to be heard.
“Murder Sound VIP (feat. Munchi)” by M.I.A.
- The Atlantic: It sounds like you're saying that literary "talent" doesn't inoculate a writer—especially a male writer—from making gross, false misjudgments about gender. You'd think being a great writer would give you empathy and the ability to understand people who are unlike you—whether we're talking about gender or another category. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
- Junot Diaz: I think that unless you are actively, consciously working against the gravitational pull of the culture, you will predictably, thematically, create these sort of fucked-up representations. Without fail. The only way not to do them is to admit to yourself [that] you're fucked up, admit to yourself that you're not good at this shit, and to be conscious in the way that you create these characters. It's so funny what people call inspiration. I have so many young writers who're like, "Well I was inspired. This was my story." And I'm like, "OK. Sir, your inspiration for your stories is like every other male's inspiration for their stories: that the female is only in there to provide sexual service." There comes a time when this mythical inspiration is exposed for doing exactly what it's truthfully doing: to underscore and reinforce cultural structures, or I'd say, cultural asymmetry.
I’ve found most men don’t find me attractive unless I’m silent,
seeing intrigue in the mystery of a passive smile and attentive eyes.
I use to think this funny,
but then again I was never much of a joker -
couldn’t see the purpose in acting at someone else’s expense.
I’ve come to realize I treat my words the same,
Hence, the silence.
This affection normally fades when I decide to speak.
Me, unwilling to let the facade live long enough for falsehoods,
use my words to show myself.
And before their very eyes
The bow of my lip no longer enough to offset my skin,
the unconventional shape of my legs.
The thrill is gone.
Ideas of a kind and passive listener seem to be shattering w/ every sentence,
as if it’s impossible to be strong in tone and tender in talk.
They prepare themselves for a battle,
raised eyebrows give way to smirks,
the testing begins,
as if there’s no room for conversation
only victor and submissive,
“Doesn’t she know her role in this?”
I sigh, tired of the offense-defense,
have my fill,
lines drawn with respect or dismissals.
I resume watching and waiting
until a man,
who feels beauty in the potential of speech,
and welcomes the breaking of silence.