I don’t wear jewelry, because I’m not a jewel

Who do I think I am, an ornament? That if adorned Would be worthy of being adored?

If I tell them Look at me Then everyone will see There is nothing to look at And they will judge me Sucking my self worth out through a straw Leaving me more empty Then I already am

So I avoid their eyes Effortless by necessity Laidback to protect me

So they won’t be disappointed That the makeover fell short That the best version of me Is a polished rock That’s reached its limits for shine

I’m safer as a diamond in the rough As someone’s discovery Than a debutante out there to be judged Who finally feels she is worthy Just to be told my someone else That she’s not enough

So I keep the jewelry off For a rock like me It’s better to hide Then to try

Ridiculous dress Such a mess The family crest Trying my best

Not good enough Trying to be tough The wrong stuff Not up to snuff

Beauty of the ball The last call Trying to stall Giving my all Tessa🦋

The year is 1934. Seventeen is my age. My Daddy is a textile tycoon. My Mommy is the “handler” of me. Oh how they hate to be called Daddy! Mommy! — Speak properly, Leonora! Just more the reason I keep calling them, Especially today.

Today I am presented at the court, Court of King George V. Mommy is beaming at compliments of my “Great beauty”, Because she’s my handler. And I her carefully trimmed Poodle.

They admire my expensive dress, Cream silk, lace, pearls. Daddy is casually mentioning The very many thousands of pounds To have this dress made. A whole family’s allowance for lifetime, Crusted over my body, Telling the world, Leonora is “FOR SALE!”

Oh what great bore! —— Can’t pet the dogs Can’t touch the books Can’t even talk, Unless Mommy permits.

Many more hours to go. Then it’s my books My paint brushes And a shrinking lease On my freedom.

(Inspired by Leonora Carrington)

The words my mother says to me Pass right my by my ears The only sounds ringing through my head Are my tireless fears

My back does ache, my feet are sore The ochestra playing’s quite the bore The girls around me flutter their hair A gentleman’s staring from over there Our eyes do meet My heart began to sputter Maybe I AM ready to be a mother… 😳😳

Quick brainstorm: What would cause a debutante to be unwilling? What qualities or experiences do they anticipate that make them shirk from what is meant to be a coming-of-age ritual of great import?

• Affectations of rank and file
• ~Bad food (or great food, perhaps)~
• Undue or unwanted attention
• Uncomfortable clothing
• Family expectations; failure of such
• A desire to remain a child (out of love of fun or dislike of adulthood)
• Social anxiety/introversion/misanthropy
• Some weakness that will be revealed by attending
• Bad at a core event/skill
• Distain towards the monarchy/court/their family

“I would rather eat puce-colored rutabagas, find them putrid, and toss my guts for the next fortnight than attend to this drivel!”

His father sighed, but simply shook his head and continued to walk before him along the grandly-furnished hallway and, protest though he might, the boy continued to follow him closely.

Plush woven rugs and finely wrought scrollwork made of exotic textiles and woods ensured that the eyes of those marching their way on through would never lack for interest to rest upon—even if one’s gaze intentionally avoided the glassy stares of the numerous vibrant paintings and prominent busts that lined the corridor, as did the boy’s with remarkable dexterity and fortitude.

“Father, it was you who has regaled our family with endless stories detailing just how drab these affairs are, how the only redeeming quality is being able to observe just how vastly ‘these young dandies muck up their introductions’! For what earthly reason must I subject myself to scrutiny and ridicule…”

His father’s voice was stead and unperturbed. “For the same reasons that each of those children stepped forward and met their fates, as you are now; to show one’s metal, to honor Queen and family. To be a man, son—and a man is what I know you to be.” Kenan’s pride stirred to life, overcoming his ire for a moment. Then, his father continued. “Whether any will see that man this day…” He trailed off uncertainly and Kenan’s jaw set.

“We will see indeed, Father.” His thoughts were accompanied by a kind of grim satisfaction. He was ready for this, but doubted that the court would feel the same once he was able to get things started. “You, and the rest of the court, will all see!”

The king is a monkey The queen is a bear The prince is an elephant Balancing on a chair

The princesses are big cats Of which there are two Jumping in tandem Through a flaming hoop

The jester is the ringmaster And he calls my name To present me to these fools one and the same

I stand in the limelight A thousand eyes on me Somehow I’ll blunder through — in a moment I’ll be free

I curtsy first to the crowd And what follows is a hush As I spin and drop a bow To the offended royal flush

I know it immediately I did something wrong They kick me from the farce And push me through the throng

I leave the Royal Circus To the sound of a wail To the tears of my parent: “Oh - how could you fail?!”

Guilty or not, here she comes Ms. Martha DuPont has been on the run Nailing the role of grieving widow, How’d her husband die? How the hell would she know?

Yes, she was dripping in diamonds Everything about her classy, high end They’d never be able to prove what happened Who’d blame a beautiful widow, so rich and well known? They had nothing on her, at least she thought so

As far as anyone knew, She was happier than ever With her loaded husband, No trials they didn’t endeavor At one point even she’d believed, they’d be married forever and ever

They’d never know that she had called The unknown number, that’d been on his phone Figured out he’d been lying all along When a woman answered, on the second dial tone

She plotted her revenge, Heard of the policy, then knew in an instant She would give him just what he deserved One night after dinner, she’d make his favorite dessert He gobbled it down, as she watched smiling A fresh cherry pie, secret ingredient, cyanide How innocent she’d look when they’d announce the cause of death She’d gasp, her hand clutching her chest Who knew you had to remove all the seeds? She was just trying to make her hubby something sweet

Just to be safe, she packed her things Headed out of town, on her merry way Unaware after her departure, a bounty had been placed Ms. Martha DePont, must have killed her husband Why else would she have left , if that wasn’t it?

Driving through a small dingy town, she saw blue lights flash She pulled over, her heart beating fast She was told she had been speeding Handed over her license, with a huge sigh of relief

The arrogant cop headed onback, made her step out of the car Held his gun to her back, Questioned her reasons for traveling so far Told her about the bounty, Placed her in cuffs She looked him up and down, Eyes filled with disgust

This must be a mistake, she exclaimed at the jail Let me out, I’ll pay my own bail The small country sheriff laughed in her face, Told her she was to go to court, the very next day

She couldn’t believe they’d dare allow, these lowlife people anywhere around They all were dull, had dead end jobs Dressed in sweats, dirty law breaking slobs

Ms. Martha DePont demanded the phone Her lawyer picked up, it’s like she’d already known When Martha told her where she’d been arrested, her lawyer was annoyed and openly expressed it

I am not going to be able to get you off In small towns, we’re not equal with men, at all

With that Martha hung up, she’d represent herself she insisted, Because women who try to be equal with men, clearly lacked ambition

She dusted her clothes, crossed her feet in red bottoms Sat in the jail, ignoring everyone and their problems Ms. Martha refused to stress, she’d be out of here soon She’d woo the judge, it’d be over by noon

As she entered the court, all eyes were on her The way she swayed as she walked, dress hugging every curve The whole town present, hillbillies and trash No wonder she’d never left LA, this was whack

Head held high, heels even higher
She place her right hand on the Bible She swore the truth and nothing but, then started working magic on the judge

No question she was out of their league, she confidently announced her
“not guilty” plea Fake tears and cries, winning sympathy

She thanked God it was mostly men that would vote, she batted her lashed, patted her nose Of course she’d never hurt anyone, came out smelling like a rose Poor beautiful, rich little widow

Just as she thought, she was let free Promised herself to stay in big cities On her way out she winked at the cop, while he threw a fit saying they were a dumb lot

The small outdated society was more than enough, she’d gotten off but being there was tough

She stayed filled with detest that she had to appear in court, and any other options had been out the door Indignant she was, Ms. Martha DuPont Forever remembered as the passing through debutante

All the lace in the world won't make me beautiful, thank goodness. It was never my idea, This coming out into the world, A mass of crinolines to disguise my shape, Arranging my hair this way, and that, and just anywhere to hide what can't be hidden. Custom is cruel like this. We must all go through the motions, The singers try to write of my youth, fragile and pure, Beauty like a flower, they say, and then fall about laughing. I would, too. How grateful I am not to have the burden of actually being a flower. Gentle, resigned, looking out from under lashes so too much spark of curiosity won't show. When you are a scarred oak, You can spark as much as you like. You can stare brazenly back when they stare at you. You can laugh, which is the only time you love your own face. When they call your name, You can raise your head to the sky and be proud. Beauty must pretend not to be vain, But the broken who know their worth lift their eyes.

I am the Ugly Stepsister The comic relief the selfish foil to the maiden fair Ha!

But I was never one for dances anyway I never longed to be a pretty face I don’t want to be desired because of the way the small of my back fit another’s hand what will happen when summer crackles to fall I want to be loved with crow’s feet and laugh lines and stretch marks

let’s face it the breathtakingly beautiful have it pretty easy the assumption of intelligence and kindness that comes with a comely smile I’d rather my battle scars decorate my skin I want to be loved for what I have endured and what I can create save the glass slipper for another’s soft feet go toe to toe with over the patriarchy of class structure or how women are pit against each other sparring for the attention of menfolks and then criticized for being vain or fat or single

you want to tango with me princeling Step up Let’s dance

It was time. I was all dressed in white. Nineteen years old, the world ahead of me.

“You just go down that aisle, honey,” mama said. “Declare that you want to be saved. That your life belongs to Jesus.”

“That’s all?” I asked.

“Then you jump in the pool,” she said.

I never wanted to. I didn’t want to be forced. I wanted to love Jesus on my own terms, not everyone else’s.

I did walk down that aisle. I raised my arms. I sang along with the choir. I spoke in tongues, deliriously.

Then I ripped off the white dress and ran for my life through the side exit.

Mama hasn’t spoken to me since that day, but I hope one day she’ll understand.