Why

You ask me, why?

Why do I care about that woman sitting at the bar,
without any friends and too many leering admirers?

Why do I care about that girl, sitting alone in the cafeteria,
not eating because the shaggy haired boy called her fat?

Why do I care about the woman in the office,
crying because someone told her she couldn't make it as a teacher?

Why do I care about the girl in the classroom, alone
amidst a sea of boys who have never been asked,
"Are you sure you want to be an engineer?"

Why do I care about what happens to all these women,
all these girls, when none of it happens to me?

Because one day, my friend will run late, and I will
be that woman alone.

Because I used to hate how big my thighs were under
elementary school desks.

Because I cry when someone I admire tells me
I might not be good enough.


Because I know those women. I knew them as a girls, too.

Because one day, I might have a daughter who wants to be
an engineer or a biologist or a chemist or a
doctor or a pathologist or a writer or a teacher or
a nurse or an artist or a historian or a CEO
or stay at home mom or a graphic designer
or a farmer or a soldier or a professor or a senator
or a president.