the womens bathroom
the women's bathroom
once my mother and I
stopped by a gas station to use the bathroom,
but somewhere in the wafts of air that emerged from the glass doors
and the hum of the refrigerators
mom got a bad vibe
we anxiously hurry past the longing eyes of two male cashiers
the consuming amber glow of vanity light spills through the cracks
of the bathroom door as she opens it
the hinges squeal in desperation as we hurry in
in our efforts to escape the threat of whatever it is that mom felt
and we cram ourselves into the closet-sized women's restroom
our eyes pan the perimeters of the neglected space
and we're met with one vacant soap dispenser,
wads of white paper blanketing the sticky tile,
and the carvings of teen initials and obscenities that make you lose your faith in humanity at once
holding her index to my lips,
mom locates the light switch
and flicks it off
the weight of silence and blackness fill the room
the four walls feel as if they're plotting to swallow me
she whispers in my ear
to search for red or green light peaking through the walls
what, why mom?
please just look
what is going on mom?
just look for hidden cameras, okay? I'll explain later.
...
not only do we feel observed
in our journeys through adolescence
and our emergence into puberty
bearing the weight of the desperate eyes
that surround our changing bodies
but we also feel it in womanhood
in our transition from student to employee
from single to married
or from wife to mother
we feel the longing gaze of victimizers
who plant ploys
like those of hidden cameras in women's bathrooms
as they seek to gain access
to moments that we are most vulnerable
and gain access
to the moments we locate asylum
where we can closet our social anxieties
or powder our noses
where we foolishly perceived
was our only safe space
to lock the handle
and escape the grip
of the male gaze
it seems to ooze beneath the door
and overtake us
even there
in our "safe" space
the women's bathroom
