Where is the clitoris?
The following is a letter from my clitoris to the world (and me):
The sexual liberation forgot about me. Hanging-in-the-air boobs and wide-open vaginas were released into the world of freedom of expression, but my voice was never heard.
I wanted to proclaim my existence and value. I wanted to scream to the world that I’m still worthy, even if I’m dry. Tongues, fingers, and penises can come and go, yet the mighty hand I dream of never touches me. She’s not allowed to look at me, to feel me, to connect with me. She’s been kidnapped and she’s suffering from Stockholm syndrome.
She thinks that I can only exist when a hand touches me. And when I don’t like the hand, she gets mad at me for not giving her the only thing she thinks I’m good for. She blames me, hates herself, and her feminine soul.
She uses me whenever she wants to feel sexy, but she hides me when she needs me the most. She doesn’t know that we’re strength and weakness, war and peace, quietness and loudness. We’re not whatever they want us to be.
She turns around when she hears of other clitorises. I can’t.
I cannot stay silent when guns and batons are destroying them. I cannot remain calm when I hear their voices roar and call for unity. I cannot cover my eyes when I see pictures of dumped naked clitorises on the streets, as if they were garbage.
I’m part of her, but she never sees me or listen to me. She has grown apart from me and got lost in her path to success. She hasn’t realized I don’t belong to this world, but she keeps forcing me. This North American feminism doesn’t include me.