Plunging my hands, wrist deep, in the greasy pan I left
socking for hours. Grease floating on top, a tornado of dirty smog. I press the
rough side of the sponge hard against the bottom, scrub the stubborn grime
stuck to the sides, in a circular motion my gloved palms move. Something
excruciating about the mundane, something lulling about the familiar.
Who taught me this skill? I imagine the myriad women that
came before me, centuries of the same repeated, mind-numbing motion. Aching muscles,
dry skin, prematurely aging hands, despite ointments and rubbers.
There is a diplomacy, an intelligence, to knowing how;
erasing water spots swiftly from bathroom mirrors. Removing cat hair from sofas without damaging the fabric. Knife cuts and oven burns, ugly and
permanent, backpain from kneeling on ironing boards, and bathtubs, proof of qualification.
And another rigid, fascist world outside, reeking misogyny
and unfairness, I learned to maneuver. Mountains of ancient filth laborious and
obstinate. Stings unlike tinfoil cuts, bruises unlike stretch marks. Ferocious
eyes, perverted hearts, unobtainable standards. A world where I was told to learn
compromise, and sacrifice, and be submissive. A world where I was told to learn
to be afraid, and apologetic, and feign weakness. A world where every day I insist on unlearning.
