Dude – a poem for Caty

[My daughter is tall and often gets call “dude” or “sir.”  She’s good at keeping her head and giving the speaker the benefit of the doubt – but when she’s in heels and earrings – come on.]


Did you call me that, because my hair is short?

Because I wear combat boots and jeans?  Or was is my loose t-shirt – no cleavage as a clue?

Yes – I take a D cup – which you should know from staring at my chest.  It doesn’t take that long to decipher the logo or words or picture.  Was it because I dared to stare back?

Did you call me that, because I’m tall and broad-shouldered?  Does is make you feel better when you’re looking up at me and I’m looking down at you?

Is it because I’m strong?  Because I don’t fit in the mold of petite, dainty, feminine human?  Because I didn’t step back when you invaded my space?  Because I didn’t bat my lashes and coo at you?

Didn’t you see a woman?

Smart, sharp, witty, not scared of what you are?

Because when I look in the mirror, that’s the reflection I see.

Maybe you need to take a longer look at yours.