Phenomenal Woman, by Maya Angelou
"Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size.
But, when I start to tell them, they think I'm telling lies.
I say, it's in the reach of my arms, the span of my hips,
The stride of my step, the curl of my lips.
I am woman. Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, that's me.
I walk into a room, just as cool as you please.
And, to a man, the fellows stand or fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me, a hive of honey bees.
I say, it's the fire in my eyes, and the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist, and the joy in my feet.
I am woman. Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, that's me.
Men themselves have wondered, what they see in me.
They try so much, but they can't touch, my inner mystery.
When I try to show them, they say they still can't see.
I say, it's in the arch of my back, the sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts, the grace of my style.
I am woman. Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, that's me.
Now you understand, just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about, or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing, it ought to make you proud.
I say, it's the click in my heels, the bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand, the need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman. Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman, that's me."
Educators ought to teach a class in phenomenalism to every teen aged group of young women. It would make a world of difference to humankind.
I grew up thinking I was quite phenomenally challenge. Partly because I survived these awkward teenage years:
And, partly because, even as an eventually filled-out grown woman who had become a contact lens owner and learned her way around a pair of tweezers, I would still be known to trip over my toes, legs and tongue a little too often for comfort's sake.
If a Maya Angelou class were a prerequisite in my high school, I may have had a different focus in life back then, besides dreaming of ways to have my butt fat injected into my breasts.
So much of our adolescence is spent worrying about the wrong things. How to get attention, how to look a certain way, where to learn what's cool and who to hang out with to get you there. And, even those who'd mastered those things, were still usually caught up in a case of "Whoa is me".
Although my teenage years came to fruition with me looking as seen in the examples above, there was alot of good not noticed until looking back in retrospect.
I didn't belong to any particular clique, per say. I was friendly to all and didn't really have any enemies. I never had a lack of friends. No one seemed repelled by my paleness or the unusual chisel of my nose. I made people laugh and comfortable enough to confide in. And, my second kiss was a clumsy surprise by a sweet teenage boy who was simply excited to be in my presence. (Let's just not talk about the first one right now... *shudder*)
All of these ingredients add up to what should have been sublimely happy high school years, but I also suffered from that lack of confidence and a pretty major case of "Whoa is Me".
Whoa is me? Whoa should be no one.
I say "Whoa" to the teenage girl I saw shopping this week. Not one ounce of cellulite, perfect hair almost down to her waist and half of her ass cheeks hanging out of her cut-off shorts. Whoa to her self esteem, for that being her only way to get noticed. Whoa to her talents for being undiscovered and overlooked. And, whoa to her damn daddy for letting her leave the house like that!
Why don't young girls understand we are all the phenomenal woman described in Ms. Angelou's most famous poem?
We all have arms and hips and a curl to our lips. No matter the shape or size, we all have breasts, a waist and a potential smile on our face. It was never perfection that made a woman. It was the God-given female parts that are not just physical, but also radiate from the heart and soul.
This can even be recognized as a gangly twelve-year old on her first babysitting job. Why does that little toddler cling to her leg, grasp on to her shoulders; be comforted in her voice, her heartbeat and the gentle rock in her step? It's the first signs of womanhood radiating from one's spirit and doing its job. This womanhood will always be recognized in her for the rest of her life, no matter what she ends up looking like and what pant size she may become.
Never does Maya mention the phenomenal woman as being known for the smoothness of her thighs or the flatness of her belly. Never the shortness of her hem or the looseness of her morals. What brought her men to their knees and made them swarm like honey bees was her just being there, being real and being the woman she was meant to be.
Yes, the last time I sat it a man's lap, he may have said "Oof!" But, he didn't push me away to the floor. I was a woman and my presence was welcome, even if it was slightly uncomfortable in the physical sense. Good people tend to accept the companionship and goodness of others. They're not constantly focusing on the lines on your face, the folds of your waist or the lack of symmetry in your physical make-up.
Today's challenge will be to teach the young girls in your life their own phenomenalism.
Raise them with the strength to say "no" and the guts to say "yes". Raise them with confidence in things other than the shape and looks of their waist, eyes, teeth and thighs. Point out to them their talents, they won't always have confidence to recognize these on their own. Take notice of their interests and hobbies, even if they seem unusual or lame. Set an example of not worrying about what others think and needing superficial attention. Be an example of nurturing. Applaud their kindness, laugh at their humor and encourage their unique paths in life. Help them find strength in their independence, but the humility to accept the love of others. Bless them with hugs, be patient through their moody days and never give up on your part of helping create another phenomenal woman in this world.
