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I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say come dance with me
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems
At seventeen
A brown eyed girl in hand me downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said, "Pity please the ones who serve,
They only get what they deserve"
The rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
Remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debentures of quality
And dubious integrity
Their small town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen
To those of us who know the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
And dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me
We all play the game and when we dare
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
That call and say, come dance with me
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen
Janis Ian
Last week, we had the quiet blessing of staying on a friend’s land near where the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival once came to life. When the festival ended ten years ago, after four decades of song and sisterhood, many hearts broke. But the spirit of that gathering never really faded — it lingered in the trees, in the paths, in the songs that drifted on the wind. It lingered in the bones of women. Women have kept returning, tending the flame, finding donors.
My partner went for 28 years; I only joined her for the final gathering, among thousands of women. I didn’t truly know the quiet sanctuary of female-only space until I stood there myself. So many of us move through the world with stories of unwelcome eyes and hands, of glances over our shoulders, of bracing ourselves on a crowded bus. But on that land, there were no men. There was no need to listen for footsteps behind you, no stranger pressing too close, no one insisting you smile or taking something you did not wish to give. There, a woman’s voice rose without apology. No one asked her to hush, no one needed her to shrink. Women walked unguarded — bare-chested, naked, clothed in the comfort of trust — without fear of a comment or a sneer. No catcalls, no crude demands. Just the sound of women laughing, singing, speaking freely.
Away from the land, conversations bend when men are near. But under those trees, under that moon, we could simply be. Not prey, not polite, not small. Just women, whole and unafraid.
Now, the land is calling us back. A new generation is stepping forward, ready to remember what our elders knew — the quiet power of gathering in a space that belongs only to females. Under the watchful light of the full moon, the trees will embrace them and the ground will kiss the soles of their feet and they will stand together, clothed in her silver rays, and find healing and belonging in each other’s voices. We will sing our music and tell our stories, raw and unfiltered once again.
We Want The Land Coalition - We Want the Land Coalition
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