trembling,

like water in a glass on a train,

railway sickness

a little too close to my brain

it's in the sky,

clouds roaring their warning,

ground shaking,

choking dust clouds forming

melodramatic,

when it's all in my head,

hold it in,

quivering thin as thread

close the door

or your eyes

hide under mismatched bed spreads

leach the feelings out

laying in a pool of your own dread

still trembling,

rocking with the earth beneath your feet,

seawater nausea

slipping down into the deep

until

we're clinging to the window light,

reminding ourselves we're still here,

sinking our toes into the carpet weave,

drawing the light beams more near

a shiver

to run through your bones,

and the sun and moon to wink it away,

a breath to calm the nerves,

and the steadiness to finally stay.

I grew up in a fairly conservative Christian family. I think every family wedding I’ve ever attended, the topic of “wives, submit to your husbands” was mentioned somewhere during the ceremony. My aunts, my female cousins, my male cousins’ wives (I have a big family) were all lauded for ‘submitting’ to their husbands.

I remember asking my mom about it once. My mom is not the submissive type. She does what she thinks is right and will speak her mind, no matter what anyone says. As a kid, I saw her as the head of the household rather than my dad. My dad was the breadwinner since my mom was a stay-at-home mom, but my mom did literally everything else, and I never really saw her ask my dad’s opinion on any of her decisions.

When I asked her, she told me that she did believe that women should submit to their husbands, and when I pointed out that I didn’t think she behaved that way, she told me that she thought she did. She described discussing things like high-value purchases and big decisions with my dad, and only going through with them if they both agreed. To me, that didn’t sound like submission; it sounded like a partnership.

At the time, I didn’t like the idea of submission. I was a proud young woman. I had only dated one man before my husband, but I spent much of my youth as “one of the guys” in the various groups I was involved in, and I always felt like I had to prove that I fit in. I had to prove that I was as strong as them, as tough as them, as independent as them.

And then I started dating my husband, who shows his love through acts of service. I was baffled by this man who insisted on holding the door for me. He would even walk to the passenger side door to open it for me before closing it after I was comfortably seated and walking to the other side of the car to get in the driver’s seat. It was probably the only thing we ever really fought about. I was too proud to let this man do things for me just because I was a woman.

It took me far too long to realize that he wasn’t doing things for me because it was “chivalrous.” He was doing things for me because he loves me. He was putting me first.

I think that’s when I realized what submission should be. If you look at a couple practicing submission, I don’t think it should look like one person bowing before the other. Instead, it should look like both people showing each other kindness, thinking of the other person before themselves. It should look like a partnership.

I'm still not terribly fond of that scripture about wives submitting to their husbands, but I think that’s more because of how some people interpret it than the scripture itself. Because the other half of that scripture tells men to love their wives as Jesus loved the church, and Jesus died for the church. He put the church first before his own life. The thing that made Jesus so different from the other spiritual leaders of his time was that he was a servant leader. He showed others his love by serving them.

There are still a lot of things that I don’t agree with my conservative family about, and I probably don’t see this topic the same way they do, but after being married to my wonderful husband for ten years, I no longer see submission as a weakness, like I once did. It’s not a strength either, at least not for an individual, though I suppose it can be considered a strength for a couple. It’s an act of love.

My first 4th of July in the U.S, I was 17. My now-husband (then-tummy-flutterer) took me to his grandparents’ cabin near a small lake in remote Missourian back-country (to be eaten alive by “skeeters” which I, in my stubborn ignorance, called “mozzies.”) He made me ’smores and we set off fireworks while he told me about his childhood excursions to that very same cabin. My Aussie pride piped up and proclaimed that America was quite the spoiled child. Rebelling for the sake of rebelling. After all, my country was literally made up of convicts and we managed to remain loyal to the crown. He countered that Australia was the real spoiled child, living in Mama-Britain’s basement eating lamingtons and sipping tea. We got a good chuckle outa that. How I adored the rebellious streak in those darkly browed eyes...

It remains a source of delighted bewilderment to me how attracted I was to his adamant defense of independence, all while we were flirting with the idea of becoming dependent on each other forever.

A comment, just one line

to reveal a hush-hush held for some time,

in support of a previous regime

condemnation of our new leader’s first weeks,

she was always one of them, not what she seemed.

Well, burning bridges is not the finest way

although let me just say,

I have a desire to knock down every

pedestal that held that man in esteem,

every frail column that bolstered his steam.

She was supporting right under my nose

a despot who would strip me of my rights

my dignity, my life,

and I don’t want to say, but maybe it’s just,

a comment can make a friend former these days.

© Jasper A. Flintsmith 2021

#politics #poetry #friendship #fucktrump