I’ve always had this very complicated relationship with the country in which I live. Think about it like this: a daughter and her abusive father who will never stop yelling about how ungrateful she is, how good she has it. “This?” He exclaims, bottle sloshing in his hand. “This is as good as it gets. Now stop crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
Or, if that doesn’t work, think about it like the concept of give-and-take found in any successful relationship: my country has already given up everything worth sacrificing to little old me, and now there are no more freedoms with which it will part ways. Once it gave, but now it takes. I am, apparently, unworthy of mention in founding documents, unworthy of an Equal Rights Amendment, and unworthy of full bodily autonomy. Yet my body is not above being turned into a hot-button issue. Each year I watch as politicians promise that they will improve things for us. Vote, and we shall codify Roe into law! Vote, and we shall reinstate Roe!
I refuse to stand for lies. Yet every morning I feel guilty, guilty because sitting is supposedly rude. I worry what other people think about me, that I’m disrespectful, that I’m a snob.
Most of all I remember the night that a simple majority made me feel so helpless. When my faith in justice was overturned. Given time I may forgive, but I will never forget my anger at such a betrayal. Like the cold and final rage of an unwanted daughter abused too often. Someday, when I am old enough, I will leave. Then, perhaps, you shall wish that you had not raised your hand against me in such an unforgettable way.
About the Author:
Savannah Sisk is a seventeen-year-old woman whose writing ability more than compensates for her lack of years. Thus far she has had poetry published in the Alcott Youth Magazine, the Quail Bell Magazine, and Blue Marble Review. Her essays have been published in Across the Margin Literary Magazine, Anti-Heroin Literary Journal, and Adanna Literary Journal.
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