i
eat
poetry.
And it's socially considered a form of suicide, but
nobody seems to be or
let be or
leave me the hell alone. They
want to invade. And stain
over the words I've scribbled in my childhood closet, but
these words have leaked out of my mole skin poket and now
I vomit on the Donkey stage.
i
am
artsy.
So I disown the notion that I can't handle my emotions,
so I take this ink in this pen and set
its tip down into phonectic of poetic
asthetics.
And there is some
kinesthetic reaction happening-- where
I can't be apologetic to those that I use as
unsympathic bystanders.
i
will
succeed
But this is a matter
where I cant seem to shake the actor out of me.
So I bang and clatter and splatter my temper. Thinking
it's going to mean something when I get a degree
with three letters after my name.
i
want
to love
Because it doesn't matter that I was born from my mother and
crused with my fathers last name.
Because my claim to fame will
be the way I sign my name.
So live.
And be.
Just
be
just
be
and if it weren't for e e
cummings I would have never
eaten my first piece of
poetry.
-sonja lynn mata
12.25.2010
12.12.2010
& when I drove my car into the driveway I didn’t get out for a long while.
And I knew my father would hear my sputtering 95’ Subaru
breaking to a stop, because he sleeps on the couch,
and whenever something was happening outside
he would be that neighbor pulling back
the pillow case that covers the front door window and peer out.
But tonight he didn’t, so I sat there longer.
& I tapped on the steering wheel remembering
that it was during dinner that you threw your plate on the wall
because mother mentioned that it is winter and that our house is cold.
But our roof is shit and we have possums crashing in through the attic. And it is
funny because you are a roofer.
And after I refuse to leave in this weather, you slap me and force me through the door anyway.
But before I could leave, I have to shovel the driveway. And there you are—
watching through the pillow case.
& I took my time driving,
before ending on Dundee Road at Walgreens
where I purchased your Marlboro Menthol 100 Lights.
I told the cashier “For my brother.” But I have no brother anymore—
just his old room and just this singular overpriced item that is double bagged.
But here I am, inhaling your fumes, because my window is frozen
and the ash tray is full of your crushed filters.
I key the door, because the porch light is broken as well.
Now it’s past 3 am and you will be awake in an hour to go to work.
& when I enter
there you are, sleeping—
with the television on.
And because you’re my father and I love you
I take your glasses off
and place them next to your ashtray.
-sonja lynn mata
Written in the Fall of 2009
And I knew my father would hear my sputtering 95’ Subaru
breaking to a stop, because he sleeps on the couch,
and whenever something was happening outside
he would be that neighbor pulling back
the pillow case that covers the front door window and peer out.
But tonight he didn’t, so I sat there longer.
& I tapped on the steering wheel remembering
that it was during dinner that you threw your plate on the wall
because mother mentioned that it is winter and that our house is cold.
But our roof is shit and we have possums crashing in through the attic. And it is
funny because you are a roofer.
And after I refuse to leave in this weather, you slap me and force me through the door anyway.
But before I could leave, I have to shovel the driveway. And there you are—
watching through the pillow case.
& I took my time driving,
before ending on Dundee Road at Walgreens
where I purchased your Marlboro Menthol 100 Lights.
I told the cashier “For my brother.” But I have no brother anymore—
just his old room and just this singular overpriced item that is double bagged.
But here I am, inhaling your fumes, because my window is frozen
and the ash tray is full of your crushed filters.
I key the door, because the porch light is broken as well.
Now it’s past 3 am and you will be awake in an hour to go to work.
& when I enter
there you are, sleeping—
with the television on.
And because you’re my father and I love you
I take your glasses off
and place them next to your ashtray.
-sonja lynn mata
Written in the Fall of 2009
11.25.2010
In Your Bedroom
MARS VOLTA! you shout--
underwear,
a bandana, and
cowboys boots, the only things
on your persons.
You clop around
on your mattress-- a major
drum major.
You're a child, again. Air
guitar and kazoo sounds. But I
remember your tattoos.
---
You throw off your cowboy boots
just to see if you can crack
the window.
But you are free
and loving it. And when whatever
song ends,
you return to life with
belly breaths and hiccups.
-sonja lynn mata
underwear,
a bandana, and
cowboys boots, the only things
on your persons.
You clop around
on your mattress-- a major
drum major.
You're a child, again. Air
guitar and kazoo sounds. But I
remember your tattoos.
---
You throw off your cowboy boots
just to see if you can crack
the window.
But you are free
and loving it. And when whatever
song ends,
you return to life with
belly breaths and hiccups.
-sonja lynn mata
11.24.2010
The Wine.
The wine sits. And it breathes.
I am not still. My breath is not captured by you.
So you let it stir.
But I am not shaken.
Your hands still hold the slender glass, but the glass
is not my wrist.
But both can crack.
So let go, let go, let go.
And oh,
Don't step in the puddle on your way out.
-sonja lynn mata
I am not still. My breath is not captured by you.
So you let it stir.
But I am not shaken.
Your hands still hold the slender glass, but the glass
is not my wrist.
But both can crack.
So let go, let go, let go.
And oh,
Don't step in the puddle on your way out.
-sonja lynn mata
11.11.2010
Hit.
You kiss me
deep, before
the hit.
And the night is over.
And after, you search
for ear, neck, nose
and cheek.
But it's not enough.
You want to dance
in red world, blue world,
and green world.
But I am not here.
I am away-- somewhere
driving down Dundee Road
with my other boys, or
I am away--somewhere
in a donut shop on
New Years. Somewhere
out of that world.
And I'll straighten
my back and lift my neck
off the ground and our
breath isn't syncing.
But still we'll fade
into that red world,
blue world, green world.
-sonja lynn mata
deep, before
the hit.
And the night is over.
And after, you search
for ear, neck, nose
and cheek.
But it's not enough.
You want to dance
in red world, blue world,
and green world.
But I am not here.
I am away-- somewhere
driving down Dundee Road
with my other boys, or
I am away--somewhere
in a donut shop on
New Years. Somewhere
out of that world.
And I'll straighten
my back and lift my neck
off the ground and our
breath isn't syncing.
But still we'll fade
into that red world,
blue world, green world.
-sonja lynn mata
A Series of Three Poems
I take the red line to Broadway instead of
Halstead- because there is a tattoo shop
there and I like to say hello to
Hank in the backroom.
But you must be uncomfortable because
you subtly tug on my camera bag
and you want to go outside.
And you blame this depression
on winter, but you will never leave
Chicago-- no matter how fucking
cold it gets here.
And "in a minute," really means
"Let me finish my conversation."
You're upset, it seems, because you
do leave and stand outside tracing
letters and shapes on the frosty
window.
I follow, my back turned while
I say goodbye to Hank. I ask
if you want to slide down the sidewalk or eat a snowball.
But both your ankles are shit and
I remember how last winter I
was able to throw snow down your
front side and you would hug me tighter
to make it melt faster.
& you're not wearing gloves, so I place
my hands inside my pockets too and
ask if you have the CTA card.
------
It's your birthday in eleven days
and I've had this postcard for two
years that says just that.
And the last time I was with
you, you were ******** ** ***
**** *** ****, but
I did mean to send the postcard to you
two years ago-- when you were
just a boy.
But we're in college now & it doesn't
work that way anymore. & I've
always had the correct postage.
Except this time. Except this
time you call me to tell me
just that. That you have notice
after notice of my postcard.
And that you have to walk
to the post office in Urbana, IL
to get it & you also have to
pay the 60 cents.
But let it rot.
Perhaps-- even now-- I wanted
to be unknown sender
rather than an ex-lover.
------
You become a vegan to lose
weight. But maybe that was a good
thing. Perhaps you needed the
discipline, because you don't
read the fucking labels.
And you trusted me to make
dinner that night.
But I guess you fit in
now. Which is what you
wanted, but you're a photography
major with the same camera
as every other fucking
photography major at Columbia.
But it's not your fault.
You love the city and will
never leave its skyline.
And you'll tack photos
around the room in a single
line and spin, and spin, and
spin in that 360 degree circle. And
you'll fall in the middle &
the skyline photos will continue to
spin. And you'll blend into
the carpet-- your nose ring will
be the only thing left behind.
-sonja lynn mata
Halstead- because there is a tattoo shop
there and I like to say hello to
Hank in the backroom.
But you must be uncomfortable because
you subtly tug on my camera bag
and you want to go outside.
And you blame this depression
on winter, but you will never leave
Chicago-- no matter how fucking
cold it gets here.
And "in a minute," really means
"Let me finish my conversation."
You're upset, it seems, because you
do leave and stand outside tracing
letters and shapes on the frosty
window.
I follow, my back turned while
I say goodbye to Hank. I ask
if you want to slide down the sidewalk or eat a snowball.
But both your ankles are shit and
I remember how last winter I
was able to throw snow down your
front side and you would hug me tighter
to make it melt faster.
& you're not wearing gloves, so I place
my hands inside my pockets too and
ask if you have the CTA card.
------
It's your birthday in eleven days
and I've had this postcard for two
years that says just that.
And the last time I was with
you, you were ******** ** ***
**** *** ****, but
I did mean to send the postcard to you
two years ago-- when you were
just a boy.
But we're in college now & it doesn't
work that way anymore. & I've
always had the correct postage.
Except this time. Except this
time you call me to tell me
just that. That you have notice
after notice of my postcard.
And that you have to walk
to the post office in Urbana, IL
to get it & you also have to
pay the 60 cents.
But let it rot.
Perhaps-- even now-- I wanted
to be unknown sender
rather than an ex-lover.
------
You become a vegan to lose
weight. But maybe that was a good
thing. Perhaps you needed the
discipline, because you don't
read the fucking labels.
And you trusted me to make
dinner that night.
But I guess you fit in
now. Which is what you
wanted, but you're a photography
major with the same camera
as every other fucking
photography major at Columbia.
But it's not your fault.
You love the city and will
never leave its skyline.
And you'll tack photos
around the room in a single
line and spin, and spin, and
spin in that 360 degree circle. And
you'll fall in the middle &
the skyline photos will continue to
spin. And you'll blend into
the carpet-- your nose ring will
be the only thing left behind.
-sonja lynn mata
10.05.2010
Christopher
by Sonja Lynn Mata
My brother committed suicide when I six years old. He was just 20 years old. And for that reason, I define my entire childhood around his death.
I was at home when I found out. I was standing at the corner of my father’s desk in the awkward space between the living room, the kitchen, and the foyer tiles. Someone was one the phone. One of my sisters, maybe.
But all I can really remember from that day: May 10th, 1997 is these three things:
1.When I thought of the word “suicide,” I would like to think that even at six years old I knew that that had meant that Christopher wasn’t coming home anymore.
2. Earlier in the day I had seen my father push my brother into a metal fence. They were arguing. I recall nothing of what was said. And my brother had cuts on his back.
And three is this: I remember standing outside of the bathroom door. Christopher came out and walked passed me. I like to make believe that he patted my head or smiled at me, but I can’t say for sure. And he had a brown paper bag in his hands. You know the ones without the handles. Soon after that passing I remember standing on my tippie toes to look out of the front door window. I saw my brother ride his back down our driveway. He wasn’t coming back.
The fence has long been replaced, but the holes that my father made with his fist are still on that bathroom door. And my sister still has Christopher’s bike somewhere in her garage. But she refuses to show me the spot where Christopher was found, burned.
He was found only in a town away from my native Wheeling, Illinois. And I wonder if I have driven past the spot without ever really knowing the significance of that place. And I wonder if the cops at the time were the ones that were charged and found guilty of racially profiling and closing cases because they were just too lazy to follow through with it.
And for a lot of years I was angry with my father. But this isn’t about him because my father is still very much a defeated man. I was just an angry child growing up. And to this day I refuse to truthfully admit that my brother’s death was the cause of my anger towards my fellow classmates. It got so bad that in the 5th grade I declared to my social worker that I had wanted to kill myself. And instead of letting me vent and cry in her office, she and the school notified my parents, that at the time I felt were the direct cause of my anger. Mark Twain Elementary decided my academic fate and sent me to an alternative middle school where I spent the next three years fighting the system and getting suspended.
I am 20 years old myself now.
And I don’t want to be angry anymore.
And when I turn 21 instead of doing the Court Street shuffle I plan to drive 400 miles to Christopher’s grave and lay a sunflower down on his tombstone and tell him
“I’m still here.”
Originally performed with The F-Word Ladies: Story time with F-Word. October 2nd, 2010.
UPDATE: A video of this performance is now up on Youtube for your viewing pleasure. This piece was part of The F-Word Ladies show Story time with F-Word which you can see here.
My brother committed suicide when I six years old. He was just 20 years old. And for that reason, I define my entire childhood around his death.
I was at home when I found out. I was standing at the corner of my father’s desk in the awkward space between the living room, the kitchen, and the foyer tiles. Someone was one the phone. One of my sisters, maybe.
But all I can really remember from that day: May 10th, 1997 is these three things:
1.When I thought of the word “suicide,” I would like to think that even at six years old I knew that that had meant that Christopher wasn’t coming home anymore.
2. Earlier in the day I had seen my father push my brother into a metal fence. They were arguing. I recall nothing of what was said. And my brother had cuts on his back.
And three is this: I remember standing outside of the bathroom door. Christopher came out and walked passed me. I like to make believe that he patted my head or smiled at me, but I can’t say for sure. And he had a brown paper bag in his hands. You know the ones without the handles. Soon after that passing I remember standing on my tippie toes to look out of the front door window. I saw my brother ride his back down our driveway. He wasn’t coming back.
The fence has long been replaced, but the holes that my father made with his fist are still on that bathroom door. And my sister still has Christopher’s bike somewhere in her garage. But she refuses to show me the spot where Christopher was found, burned.
He was found only in a town away from my native Wheeling, Illinois. And I wonder if I have driven past the spot without ever really knowing the significance of that place. And I wonder if the cops at the time were the ones that were charged and found guilty of racially profiling and closing cases because they were just too lazy to follow through with it.
And for a lot of years I was angry with my father. But this isn’t about him because my father is still very much a defeated man. I was just an angry child growing up. And to this day I refuse to truthfully admit that my brother’s death was the cause of my anger towards my fellow classmates. It got so bad that in the 5th grade I declared to my social worker that I had wanted to kill myself. And instead of letting me vent and cry in her office, she and the school notified my parents, that at the time I felt were the direct cause of my anger. Mark Twain Elementary decided my academic fate and sent me to an alternative middle school where I spent the next three years fighting the system and getting suspended.
I am 20 years old myself now.
And I don’t want to be angry anymore.
And when I turn 21 instead of doing the Court Street shuffle I plan to drive 400 miles to Christopher’s grave and lay a sunflower down on his tombstone and tell him
“I’m still here.”
Originally performed with The F-Word Ladies: Story time with F-Word. October 2nd, 2010.
UPDATE: A video of this performance is now up on Youtube for your viewing pleasure. This piece was part of The F-Word Ladies show Story time with F-Word which you can see here.
9.04.2010
LIE PRETTY.
LAY PRETTY?
What is being done and to whom?
But let's go with LIE PRETTY instead of LAY PRETTY, because I like the word lie better than lay. I also like how one can also lie to someone else. And maybe even lie to yourself.
To lie pretty is a concept that I've finally seen myself do. Or rather outwardly tell another person what I was doing. I've LIE(d) PRETTY myself and most recently last night. I'm sure most girls have. Perhaps even some boys. It is the motion of laying down next to someone, but in such a way that you appear attractive to the person you laying down next to. Your body holds tension and your face doesn't look go of "the look." Sometimes even known as "the eye." It is lying pretty, for sure.
I lie pretty by messing with my curls. In my opinion, when a person has curls and they are trying to lay down, they just do not look sexy. Curly hair unless whirling in free air just doesn't look nice when smashed against a flat surface. They poof out and if they are out of place it is really noticeable. But this might just be me. But I'm sure it's not.
So what we do-- what I do is hold myself up a bit. I may be tired and uncomfortable to the back of my neck, but I won't drop down. It could even be a tilt of the head. The shrug of a shoulder. I know I've done it with just about every boy I've laid next to. And it's funny. Why do we do this?! Why do I do this?! Who do I do it for?!
The simple thing of looking attractive, desirable, sexy while in the intimate space of a bed. The desire to be touched and wanted by another. We cock our heads and bury our faces deeper in the wrinkles because we don't like people looking up our noses or in our ears. We don't want them to get to close to see that we haven't tweezed our eyebrows or that there might be bubbling acne on our foreheads. These 'things' that are called flaws can't always be helped. That's why I'm sure just like me every girl has excused herself from whatever is happening in bed to go to the bathroom and check their faces. Fix a problem or adjust the hair curls and turn off the lights and back under the covers. Now, let's give the people we are with some credit in knowing that they are the only ones staring at your face and they might notice that you popped that pimple or that you got that booger. Good for you, really! I do it myself and I know it is because I want to feel attractive and desirable.
But maybe we already are. Maybe we have the stuff. Maybe doing those small things help. But I suppose when the light is on the rules change, but in the dead of night we fix-- I fix these things. I guess I assume that my partner has night vision goggles! We are beautiful already. Light on or off. That person should enjoy the feelings they have with you while being so close. The lick of the lips, the flutter of the eyelashes, the gaze into your own, the socks kicked off and the ever so god damn best sensation in the world of having someones finger tips glide across your hip-- those are what matter. Those feelings and gestures, I feel, make you desirable, sexy, wanted, and attractive.
I guess I could have articulated this topic better, but all I really want for you, my readers, is to stop lying to yourself. Relax and breathe in the bed sheets, they might reek, but they can be washed another time. But those moments cannot be repeated another time. So. . .
Stay pretty, but don't lie pretty.
-Sonja
Reclaim your beauty in bed!
What is being done and to whom?
But let's go with LIE PRETTY instead of LAY PRETTY, because I like the word lie better than lay. I also like how one can also lie to someone else. And maybe even lie to yourself.
To lie pretty is a concept that I've finally seen myself do. Or rather outwardly tell another person what I was doing. I've LIE(d) PRETTY myself and most recently last night. I'm sure most girls have. Perhaps even some boys. It is the motion of laying down next to someone, but in such a way that you appear attractive to the person you laying down next to. Your body holds tension and your face doesn't look go of "the look." Sometimes even known as "the eye." It is lying pretty, for sure.
I lie pretty by messing with my curls. In my opinion, when a person has curls and they are trying to lay down, they just do not look sexy. Curly hair unless whirling in free air just doesn't look nice when smashed against a flat surface. They poof out and if they are out of place it is really noticeable. But this might just be me. But I'm sure it's not.
So what we do-- what I do is hold myself up a bit. I may be tired and uncomfortable to the back of my neck, but I won't drop down. It could even be a tilt of the head. The shrug of a shoulder. I know I've done it with just about every boy I've laid next to. And it's funny. Why do we do this?! Why do I do this?! Who do I do it for?!
The simple thing of looking attractive, desirable, sexy while in the intimate space of a bed. The desire to be touched and wanted by another. We cock our heads and bury our faces deeper in the wrinkles because we don't like people looking up our noses or in our ears. We don't want them to get to close to see that we haven't tweezed our eyebrows or that there might be bubbling acne on our foreheads. These 'things' that are called flaws can't always be helped. That's why I'm sure just like me every girl has excused herself from whatever is happening in bed to go to the bathroom and check their faces. Fix a problem or adjust the hair curls and turn off the lights and back under the covers. Now, let's give the people we are with some credit in knowing that they are the only ones staring at your face and they might notice that you popped that pimple or that you got that booger. Good for you, really! I do it myself and I know it is because I want to feel attractive and desirable.
But maybe we already are. Maybe we have the stuff. Maybe doing those small things help. But I suppose when the light is on the rules change, but in the dead of night we fix-- I fix these things. I guess I assume that my partner has night vision goggles! We are beautiful already. Light on or off. That person should enjoy the feelings they have with you while being so close. The lick of the lips, the flutter of the eyelashes, the gaze into your own, the socks kicked off and the ever so god damn best sensation in the world of having someones finger tips glide across your hip-- those are what matter. Those feelings and gestures, I feel, make you desirable, sexy, wanted, and attractive.
I guess I could have articulated this topic better, but all I really want for you, my readers, is to stop lying to yourself. Relax and breathe in the bed sheets, they might reek, but they can be washed another time. But those moments cannot be repeated another time. So. . .
Stay pretty, but don't lie pretty.
-Sonja
Reclaim your beauty in bed!
8.29.2010
8.22.2010
THE SCARS ON MY FATHER.
Dad punched David, the
oldest. With
his fist full of
rings.
But David wore more
and cut Dads upper lip.
And at six I
ran my finger
diagonally across it
asking, "Daddy, Daddy.
Where did you get
this? Does it hurt, Daddy?"
And even though I am
his daughter he yanks
my small wrist away and says
"It's nothing."
But his scar is pointing
to the tear dropping
down his face
and that tear catches
the groove of his scar
and slides between the
seam of his lips forming
a place for his tongue to lick. And
Dad has let go of my wrist,
telling me to go
ask mother what is for dinner.
-sonja lynn mata
oldest. With
his fist full of
rings.
But David wore more
and cut Dads upper lip.
And at six I
ran my finger
diagonally across it
asking, "Daddy, Daddy.
Where did you get
this? Does it hurt, Daddy?"
And even though I am
his daughter he yanks
my small wrist away and says
"It's nothing."
But his scar is pointing
to the tear dropping
down his face
and that tear catches
the groove of his scar
and slides between the
seam of his lips forming
a place for his tongue to lick. And
Dad has let go of my wrist,
telling me to go
ask mother what is for dinner.
-sonja lynn mata
7.16.2010
Amateur Wrestling on the Bunk Beds
Ashley broke the mirror.
and like a new bird
she used her 5th grade legs to punch me out of the cocoon of blankets--
out of the top bunk bed and onto the floor.
And it was my head that shattered its reflective bits
leaving my un-brushed waist-length hair dropping beads
as I carved a path
along the cat-pissed stained carpet
toward the door--
feeling the shards cut my ribs.
She landed by my side--
grabbed my ankles and dragged me back toward the ring. And I
kicked my legs like they were hidden brass knuckles,
forcing her grip to loosen.
I grew sightless as I clawed the air-- searching for her face. Yet she
twined a fist full of my hair into her hands
and yanked like she was holding a belt above her head.
I tapped out of fear of going bald. But as she turned in victory
I charged the back of her knees.
She fell forward
chipping a tooth against the solid wood of the bunk bed. Then
a jiggle of keys turning the knob of the front door.
And it was my fathers grip on the remote that left me bleeding
but it was my sisters silence that kept me scarred.
-sonja lynn mata
and like a new bird
she used her 5th grade legs to punch me out of the cocoon of blankets--
out of the top bunk bed and onto the floor.
And it was my head that shattered its reflective bits
leaving my un-brushed waist-length hair dropping beads
as I carved a path
along the cat-pissed stained carpet
toward the door--
feeling the shards cut my ribs.
She landed by my side--
grabbed my ankles and dragged me back toward the ring. And I
kicked my legs like they were hidden brass knuckles,
forcing her grip to loosen.
I grew sightless as I clawed the air-- searching for her face. Yet she
twined a fist full of my hair into her hands
and yanked like she was holding a belt above her head.
I tapped out of fear of going bald. But as she turned in victory
I charged the back of her knees.
She fell forward
chipping a tooth against the solid wood of the bunk bed. Then
a jiggle of keys turning the knob of the front door.
And it was my fathers grip on the remote that left me bleeding
but it was my sisters silence that kept me scarred.
-sonja lynn mata
7.03.2010
If Billy Collins Could Get a Period
A response to Billy Collins poem "Introduction to Poetry"
which you can read here.
After a day of waterskiing,
I'd ask him to yank a dead mouse
from between his legs and watch it
dangle from its bloody tail.
Watch it twined in cotton rope while its little
mouth hiccups one last breath before catching
a whiff of his own stewing insides and taking those
pinched fingers
and plopping the dead mouse next
to used tissues and fingernail clippings.
His fingers stained and his nose turned he will proceed
to give the dead mouse some decency and place a
single square over its body.
But because the body is still warm, the white
bleeds red and he will not notice that the dead mouse
isn't finished with him for he is fumbling
with another mouse-- a new mouse.
And this mouse slides easily into the home
of the previous occupant and soon the new mouse will expand-- making
its home filled with its own belongings.
And once Billy is done, he will hopefully,
wash his hands and wave to his onlookers on the shore all the while
squishing his legs together, hoping that no one will
beat a confession out of him and ask him if he's had an introduction
to this.
-sonja lynn mata
which you can read here.
After a day of waterskiing,
I'd ask him to yank a dead mouse
from between his legs and watch it
dangle from its bloody tail.
Watch it twined in cotton rope while its little
mouth hiccups one last breath before catching
a whiff of his own stewing insides and taking those
pinched fingers
and plopping the dead mouse next
to used tissues and fingernail clippings.
His fingers stained and his nose turned he will proceed
to give the dead mouse some decency and place a
single square over its body.
But because the body is still warm, the white
bleeds red and he will not notice that the dead mouse
isn't finished with him for he is fumbling
with another mouse-- a new mouse.
And this mouse slides easily into the home
of the previous occupant and soon the new mouse will expand-- making
its home filled with its own belongings.
And once Billy is done, he will hopefully,
wash his hands and wave to his onlookers on the shore all the while
squishing his legs together, hoping that no one will
beat a confession out of him and ask him if he's had an introduction
to this.
-sonja lynn mata
6.25.2010
my little red book/ my first period
is a book about getting your first period.
The experiences range from being a seat-bleeder on a water skiing trip with your grandfather to one woman who was on her period and was also at the time fleeing Poland so she wouldn't get deported to a concentration camp and once she go to the German border she didn't get stripped searched by Nazis. They let her pass and she escaped.
I'm only 20 pages in and I am blown away about the openness this book produces and just how these stories are not like my own, but as a woman myself I completely relate to those feelings of utter horror and shame. I'm really glad I have to read this book for my Human Sexualities class. My professor is looking for a male equal to the book. So if you know anything let me know and I will pass on the information.
Now, for the sake of this not being a short post I'll share my own experience of when I had my first period. It is in no way a unique story. It is very well quite boring.
I was in the seventh grade. I can't recall any pain or anything leading up to that day at Copper Middle School in Buffalo Grove, Illinois, but I do remember going to the bathroom and once I was done wiping I looked at the toilet paper and there it was-- a faint shade of pink.
Reflecting upon it now, I believe that I was more annoyed than anything. Although my own mother never talked to me about periods or the birds and the bees I had two older sisters to look up to. I'm sure by this time Ashley (the middle child and two years older than I) had already had hers. Still though I didn't ask her and to this day we've really talked about any of these things.
After flushing I probably went to the main office, because the bathroom I was in was right next to the gym which was across from the main office. I'm sure I called my mom, who to this day still works at Kraft Foods. She wasn't close and it would be a while picking me up. I don't remember if I put toilet paper between my legs for the time being, but my next memory was at my locker and I was crouched down. I was shoving books into my bag in a fury. I think I was crying, because my psychologist, Ms. Ginsburg, found me and asked what was wrong. I think I had the nerve to sigh like she was bothering me and I distinctly remembering saying, "It's something all girls get." After that I don't remember my mom picking me up or going to the store and buying me pads. I assume we already had some at home and I could just take Ashley's. I'm sure I did that many months after. But I'm also sure that my mother and I didn't really talk about it after that.
Once in a while she would ask if I needed pads from the store. I was still embarrassed so I said, "No! Leave me alone." Sometimes she would return with three bags of super! I was running out of places to hide them in my room. On the other side of the spectrum I always tried to hide my period from my Dad. I didn't want him to know. It was even more awkward with my father. I do remember one time, riding in a truck with him. I was in the middle seat so someone had to be on my left, but I remember I was in shorts. I never really liked the way my thighs looks in shorts. But somehow the conversation ended up on "baby fat." I didn't know if I still had mine. My Dad told me I didn't. I assumed he was talking me getting my period.
When I was young I wanted to be skinny and in shape-- still do to this day! I figured once I'd lose the baby fat I'd start getting in shape. Or so I thought. But after that ride I thought I was fat, because I was fat and not because I had "baby" fat to still lose. It had already gone and I was this way because I was just now fat. My logic was false, but slowly I'm learning to love my body the way it is.
Now that I had regular periods my product of choice was pads. I knew which ones to wear at night. Which ones to wear with these pants and so on so forth. I thought I had a pretty good system and for the most part smell wasn't an issue. I can hardly smell myself. As for those other middle schoolers I can't say. And the only time I remember pads being brought forth in a middle school setting was actually a really mean prank pulled on someone I knew around the halls. My friend Sam Smith (?) had a pad and a red marker. She opened the pad and took the marker and scribbled all over the pad. And as we were in the hallway she took the red stained pad and rubbed it all over Mike Messermans head. She was short and he was already about 6 foot, but it still somehow managed to stick to the top of his head. Everyone laughed and I felt horribly for him. Somehow I feel as though that made me ashamed of asking for pads to other girls and ultimately the school nurse.
Then came Wheeling High School. It just so happens we were a school that had a swimming pool and thus a swim unit. I was 14 or so and still wore pads. I didn't discover till I was junior that I still wore training bras! I didn't know how to handle having my period and having a swim unit at the same time. Of course the teachers give the speech that girls get two days off of swimming for the month. Instead of swimming though, they had to run 24 laps in the field house. And that was no easy task if you had cramps like a bitch. Or that shifting your legs back and forth and only wearing a pad that felt like diaper really drove up the smell factor. The fact that you were already bloated and hot just magnified the whole experience. Granted if you had tampons you were golden and probably were expected to still swim. I'll get to that in a moment. Again, I wasn't a tampon user. They scared me. I didn't want to shove anything in a tiny hole that I couldn't see. And as a side note. I've never fully masturbated before. I really never had the urge to touch myself. And the first time I watched a porno I was like 12 and my best friend was sleeping over. We didn't understand and didn't want the t.v too loud, because my room was right next to my parents. I went to bed confused.
So tampons were scary and I had a swimming unit. I've had male and female gym teachers in high school. No one really cared that you had your period. And my male teachers made me feel even more ashamed when I had to walk over to them in front of everyone and say I had to go running. And once in the field house, everyone pretty much knew you had your period, because you were the only kid from the other class not in the swimming pool!
And this might offended and disgust people that have attended and have swam and swam in that very same class as I, but sometimes I would wear underwear and a pad under my swimming trunks. I really truly did not know better. Of course it served no purpose, but I figured it better than wearing nothing! I only did that once or twice and the one time I didn't want to do it, my teacher said that I should just put in a tampon. But she didn't understand and she kind of just rolled her eyes. I'm sure that day I didn't complete 24 laps and thus got no credit that day. I do understand that girls use their periods to get out of swimming. Swimming at 7:25 in the morning or mid day or at 2:50 sucked. And during the winter in sucked even more. You only get so much time to shower and put your clothes back on. There were only 4 bathroom stalls. How could you shower, grab a stall and put in a new tampon, blow dry your hair if you had your period and even if you didn't-- it was a circus in those changing rooms. So as it goes, all throughout high school I wore pads.
It wasn't until my second year of college, fall quarter, that I tried a tampon for the first time. I walked with my legs like a crab, because closing them I felt like I could feel the cotton pillar up there. And once I yanked it out it looked like a dead mouse dangling for a soaked string. Perhaps I'll write a poem about it. And now I wear tampons and it was an experience. They are way better and no longer figuring out which pad to wear with what type of clothing. But there are still rules.
You can't pee with it in. The string and lower half of the tampon will soak up the pee. So if you just put one in, you just wasted one! Turning on the water to wash your hands personally makes me feel like a jerk. My fingers are sticky and red and smelly. I try to wash the sink after I put in a tampon. Which depending on the day can be 3+ times a day. Also as a general rule of pads and tampons you ruin A LOT of good pairs of underwear. That more than anything pisses me off. I forget to check and I only know a tampon has overstayed it's welcome when I started smelling it or it already has stained through the jeans!
Moving forward, during the F-Word Ladies first show Touch on Bodies (I had yet to join the group), I was asked to read poetry for the open mic after. I agreed and shared some poetry about some past sexual experiences. After that I pulled out one of my moleskin books and it listed the exact time and date that I had first used a tampon. It a crowd of gosh 50+ and I told them that only a few weeks ago I put in my very first tampon. It was a great moment and I had a very nice applause.
Edit: I found my moleskin book! Thus finding the exact date and time I used my first tampon! It was on 9.09.09 at 3:08 pm. Check that. Hah.
Lastly as a too much information bit, cover your eyes, I am on my period right now. And yes-- I have a tampon in.
Submit your first period stories or other stories like it to thefwordladies@gmail.com. Please include your name and if you will allow us permission to re-post your story on the F-Word Ladies blog.
-Sonja
EDIT: GREAT NEWS! Fellow F-Word Lady Glenna Brucken shared her experience of getting her first period on the F-Word Ladies Blog. Be sure to read it and submit your own stories to The F-Word Ladies at thefwordladies@gmail.com
The experiences range from being a seat-bleeder on a water skiing trip with your grandfather to one woman who was on her period and was also at the time fleeing Poland so she wouldn't get deported to a concentration camp and once she go to the German border she didn't get stripped searched by Nazis. They let her pass and she escaped.
I'm only 20 pages in and I am blown away about the openness this book produces and just how these stories are not like my own, but as a woman myself I completely relate to those feelings of utter horror and shame. I'm really glad I have to read this book for my Human Sexualities class. My professor is looking for a male equal to the book. So if you know anything let me know and I will pass on the information.
Now, for the sake of this not being a short post I'll share my own experience of when I had my first period. It is in no way a unique story. It is very well quite boring.
I was in the seventh grade. I can't recall any pain or anything leading up to that day at Copper Middle School in Buffalo Grove, Illinois, but I do remember going to the bathroom and once I was done wiping I looked at the toilet paper and there it was-- a faint shade of pink.
Reflecting upon it now, I believe that I was more annoyed than anything. Although my own mother never talked to me about periods or the birds and the bees I had two older sisters to look up to. I'm sure by this time Ashley (the middle child and two years older than I) had already had hers. Still though I didn't ask her and to this day we've really talked about any of these things.
After flushing I probably went to the main office, because the bathroom I was in was right next to the gym which was across from the main office. I'm sure I called my mom, who to this day still works at Kraft Foods. She wasn't close and it would be a while picking me up. I don't remember if I put toilet paper between my legs for the time being, but my next memory was at my locker and I was crouched down. I was shoving books into my bag in a fury. I think I was crying, because my psychologist, Ms. Ginsburg, found me and asked what was wrong. I think I had the nerve to sigh like she was bothering me and I distinctly remembering saying, "It's something all girls get." After that I don't remember my mom picking me up or going to the store and buying me pads. I assume we already had some at home and I could just take Ashley's. I'm sure I did that many months after. But I'm also sure that my mother and I didn't really talk about it after that.
Once in a while she would ask if I needed pads from the store. I was still embarrassed so I said, "No! Leave me alone." Sometimes she would return with three bags of super! I was running out of places to hide them in my room. On the other side of the spectrum I always tried to hide my period from my Dad. I didn't want him to know. It was even more awkward with my father. I do remember one time, riding in a truck with him. I was in the middle seat so someone had to be on my left, but I remember I was in shorts. I never really liked the way my thighs looks in shorts. But somehow the conversation ended up on "baby fat." I didn't know if I still had mine. My Dad told me I didn't. I assumed he was talking me getting my period.
When I was young I wanted to be skinny and in shape-- still do to this day! I figured once I'd lose the baby fat I'd start getting in shape. Or so I thought. But after that ride I thought I was fat, because I was fat and not because I had "baby" fat to still lose. It had already gone and I was this way because I was just now fat. My logic was false, but slowly I'm learning to love my body the way it is.
Now that I had regular periods my product of choice was pads. I knew which ones to wear at night. Which ones to wear with these pants and so on so forth. I thought I had a pretty good system and for the most part smell wasn't an issue. I can hardly smell myself. As for those other middle schoolers I can't say. And the only time I remember pads being brought forth in a middle school setting was actually a really mean prank pulled on someone I knew around the halls. My friend Sam Smith (?) had a pad and a red marker. She opened the pad and took the marker and scribbled all over the pad. And as we were in the hallway she took the red stained pad and rubbed it all over Mike Messermans head. She was short and he was already about 6 foot, but it still somehow managed to stick to the top of his head. Everyone laughed and I felt horribly for him. Somehow I feel as though that made me ashamed of asking for pads to other girls and ultimately the school nurse.
Then came Wheeling High School. It just so happens we were a school that had a swimming pool and thus a swim unit. I was 14 or so and still wore pads. I didn't discover till I was junior that I still wore training bras! I didn't know how to handle having my period and having a swim unit at the same time. Of course the teachers give the speech that girls get two days off of swimming for the month. Instead of swimming though, they had to run 24 laps in the field house. And that was no easy task if you had cramps like a bitch. Or that shifting your legs back and forth and only wearing a pad that felt like diaper really drove up the smell factor. The fact that you were already bloated and hot just magnified the whole experience. Granted if you had tampons you were golden and probably were expected to still swim. I'll get to that in a moment. Again, I wasn't a tampon user. They scared me. I didn't want to shove anything in a tiny hole that I couldn't see. And as a side note. I've never fully masturbated before. I really never had the urge to touch myself. And the first time I watched a porno I was like 12 and my best friend was sleeping over. We didn't understand and didn't want the t.v too loud, because my room was right next to my parents. I went to bed confused.
So tampons were scary and I had a swimming unit. I've had male and female gym teachers in high school. No one really cared that you had your period. And my male teachers made me feel even more ashamed when I had to walk over to them in front of everyone and say I had to go running. And once in the field house, everyone pretty much knew you had your period, because you were the only kid from the other class not in the swimming pool!
And this might offended and disgust people that have attended and have swam and swam in that very same class as I, but sometimes I would wear underwear and a pad under my swimming trunks. I really truly did not know better. Of course it served no purpose, but I figured it better than wearing nothing! I only did that once or twice and the one time I didn't want to do it, my teacher said that I should just put in a tampon. But she didn't understand and she kind of just rolled her eyes. I'm sure that day I didn't complete 24 laps and thus got no credit that day. I do understand that girls use their periods to get out of swimming. Swimming at 7:25 in the morning or mid day or at 2:50 sucked. And during the winter in sucked even more. You only get so much time to shower and put your clothes back on. There were only 4 bathroom stalls. How could you shower, grab a stall and put in a new tampon, blow dry your hair if you had your period and even if you didn't-- it was a circus in those changing rooms. So as it goes, all throughout high school I wore pads.
It wasn't until my second year of college, fall quarter, that I tried a tampon for the first time. I walked with my legs like a crab, because closing them I felt like I could feel the cotton pillar up there. And once I yanked it out it looked like a dead mouse dangling for a soaked string. Perhaps I'll write a poem about it. And now I wear tampons and it was an experience. They are way better and no longer figuring out which pad to wear with what type of clothing. But there are still rules.
You can't pee with it in. The string and lower half of the tampon will soak up the pee. So if you just put one in, you just wasted one! Turning on the water to wash your hands personally makes me feel like a jerk. My fingers are sticky and red and smelly. I try to wash the sink after I put in a tampon. Which depending on the day can be 3+ times a day. Also as a general rule of pads and tampons you ruin A LOT of good pairs of underwear. That more than anything pisses me off. I forget to check and I only know a tampon has overstayed it's welcome when I started smelling it or it already has stained through the jeans!
Moving forward, during the F-Word Ladies first show Touch on Bodies (I had yet to join the group), I was asked to read poetry for the open mic after. I agreed and shared some poetry about some past sexual experiences. After that I pulled out one of my moleskin books and it listed the exact time and date that I had first used a tampon. It a crowd of gosh 50+ and I told them that only a few weeks ago I put in my very first tampon. It was a great moment and I had a very nice applause.
Edit: I found my moleskin book! Thus finding the exact date and time I used my first tampon! It was on 9.09.09 at 3:08 pm. Check that. Hah.
Lastly as a too much information bit, cover your eyes, I am on my period right now. And yes-- I have a tampon in.
Submit your first period stories or other stories like it to thefwordladies@gmail.com. Please include your name and if you will allow us permission to re-post your story on the F-Word Ladies blog.
-Sonja
EDIT: GREAT NEWS! Fellow F-Word Lady Glenna Brucken shared her experience of getting her first period on the F-Word Ladies Blog. Be sure to read it and submit your own stories to The F-Word Ladies at thefwordladies@gmail.com
6.22.2010
I STARTED
this blog along with its sister blog The F-Word Ladies as a tool for me to cope, heal and transition into and away from these last few years of my undergraduate education. And ultimately share the experience of being a part of an all female theater company.
First off, my name is Sonja Lynn Mata. I was named this because my own mother threw a fit and left the hospital leaving my father with a pen and blank piece of paper. Once she returned I had been named Sonja with a 'j'-- for Jesse (my fathers name) & also from the movie The Red Sonja (which I have yet to see!) and Lynn which was short for Linda (my mothers name).
Currently it is summer and I am working for the Ohio Valley Summer Theater here in Athens, Ohio which is a college town for Ohio University. Later this summer I plan to return back to my native Chicago-land home and continue theater with another community company. I am entering my junior year and I am planning to get a B.F.A in Theater Performance, a minor in English (Creative Writing) and a certificate in Women and Gender Studies.
I'm also 5'2.5 and I have one hell of a story to tell-- or at least I think so.
At the beginning of spring quarter I was hit and injured by a drunk driver. Now, this isn't what inspired me to join The F-Word Ladies, let alone start this blog, but you know how these things go-- I appreciate life more. So on and so on. Rather it was a situation I could hold and say "That's where it started." What started? I still don't know. I don't know if I actually care to know what that what was, but with that I joined an all female theater company.
The F-Word Ladies are rooted in Feminism & I declared myself a feminist on May 28th 2010. I took an intro level to WGS and I'm not done learning. I do not claim to know anything about feminism or feminist theory. I only know this company and what I believe it shares with this campus.
So this is my journey. You are welcome to come along.
-Sonja
First off, my name is Sonja Lynn Mata. I was named this because my own mother threw a fit and left the hospital leaving my father with a pen and blank piece of paper. Once she returned I had been named Sonja with a 'j'-- for Jesse (my fathers name) & also from the movie The Red Sonja (which I have yet to see!) and Lynn which was short for Linda (my mothers name).
Currently it is summer and I am working for the Ohio Valley Summer Theater here in Athens, Ohio which is a college town for Ohio University. Later this summer I plan to return back to my native Chicago-land home and continue theater with another community company. I am entering my junior year and I am planning to get a B.F.A in Theater Performance, a minor in English (Creative Writing) and a certificate in Women and Gender Studies.
I'm also 5'2.5 and I have one hell of a story to tell-- or at least I think so.
At the beginning of spring quarter I was hit and injured by a drunk driver. Now, this isn't what inspired me to join The F-Word Ladies, let alone start this blog, but you know how these things go-- I appreciate life more. So on and so on. Rather it was a situation I could hold and say "That's where it started." What started? I still don't know. I don't know if I actually care to know what that what was, but with that I joined an all female theater company.
The F-Word Ladies are rooted in Feminism & I declared myself a feminist on May 28th 2010. I took an intro level to WGS and I'm not done learning. I do not claim to know anything about feminism or feminist theory. I only know this company and what I believe it shares with this campus.
So this is my journey. You are welcome to come along.
-Sonja
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