My name is Jessica Blandin,
and the title of this poem is,
"I Was Told Mama Had
All The Answers."
I feel as if I were conceived
in a cacophony of imperfections,
holding lies that were neatly
hidden in my whole existence
from my image to my first name.
Missing pieces as if I had
left them in the womb at birth.
Mama, I need you and
your nimble words,
because fingers can no longer
trigger the gag reflex,
and all I want to do
is become a woman.
That woman, and I know I'm not
an artist, but for a while now,
I've been trying to paint a portrait
of the truth, finding it impossible
to paint a picture of something
you don't understand here, Mama.
The truth paints a
picture that I can't see,
because I've been sitting too
close up to my television screen.
Mama, where are you?
See, the teen years are here now,
and I find myself feeling bewildered,
see, half of the things I deal
with on a day-to-day basis,
leave me confused, and no, I'm
not talking about trying to figure
out how to tie my shoes
at four, confused.
No this is far from that.
And though you have never
heard my lips whisper words
of an insecure child,
when I asked you
for colored eye contacts,
you should have known.
When I told you that curly
hair wasn't quite what appealed
to my classmates' eyes, and asked
you for a perm, which, by the way,
made my hair fall out,
you should have known,
or maybe even the time I
cried because I couldn't fit
into a size three, Mama, weren't you
watching out for your only baby girl?
Mama, I need you to write me a
letter that can explain why teens
across the nation find blood
to be the color of solace,
after dealing with problems
far beyond their understandings
and why I am one of them.
Sing me lullabies that
can wash demons
of media's causings away,
Mama, are you listening?
Are you listening?
See, nowadays, I feel as if the only
thing I have to offer this world,
are the words I manage to squeeze out
of a pen I found inside my book bag,
and lately, those words
haven't been worth much.
A hundred and thirty
pounds at five-three.
Fifteen years of age, dang, Mama,
I'm overweight thighs rubbing
to the tune of many insecurities.
My arms jiggle when I
wave, hanging face first
over a toilet bowl tonight is more
than what yesterday couldn't fix,
but what tomorrow will
have to deal with.
Nothing, but another pair of jeans,
European cut so they can't fit,
and though I hate math, the
numbers never lie, right?
And I can never turn a size
five into a three, overnight.
So yes, Mama, here I am,
holding on to a self esteem
that isn't even knee-high, trying
to understand if beauty lies
in silicone implants,
facelifts and tabloids -- Mama,
all I want to do is
dream unsightedly.
Look into my mirror, and
not ask my television screen
if I fit its vision of perfection.
See, at 15, the only thing I'm
aiming for is to become a woman,
and I swear that the announcer guy on
Channel 52, just called Paris Hilton
and Nicole Ritchie, women.
Beautiful, perfect women.
Thank you.
