Women’s History 101 by Steve Gerson, scalding coffee

"How many times do I have to be sneered at, have my ass pinched, get left a quarter tip, wipe up after some kid spills syrup on the floor, get stiffed when a guy skips on his bill then pay out of my pocket-change earnings, pour scalding coffee on my arm, cut myself on a broken plate, accept minimum wage with a smile that hurts my teeth, be hectored by complaints—'Hey girl, I didn't order this, and I ain't paying for it' or "This ice tea's from the bottom of the pot, tastes like old socks!' or 'My soup's too cold' or 'My water's too hot,'—be ignored, while I'm standing at their table to take their order, while they're talking about me, like I'm roadkill to be driven over, like I'm a fence post, like I'm a mailbox with my flag down waiting for a message, then lose a job when the cafe goes under, stand in line at the unemployment bureau with other women whose makeup is smeared with tears, whose eyes are as red as their hot water-scalded hands, whose dresses are torn and mended with miscolored thread, whose ring fingers on the left hand show a tan line where a ring had been?" she huffed breathlessly.

"And my mom did it before me. How damned pitiful is that? I could have seen it coming. I'd watch her get up at 4:00 am to make the morning shift at some shithole restaurant run by a sleezebag. She'd struggle into a too tight uniform so her breasts might get her more tips. She'd dye her hair with store-bought henna so she might get more tips. She'd put on bright red lipstick so she might get more tips. And at the end of her ten-hour shift, her feet barking, her arms weak from carrying trays, she’d count off soiled bills that added up to more lost wages than hours worked. Then the next day, she'd do it again, until her hair started falling out from teasing it, until her tight uniforms fell slack on her thinning body, until her eyes looked empty as dry wells. And here I am repeating history. I see my future in the reflection of a diner's yellowed Formica tabletop, scarred."

About the author 

 

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his six chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; and There Is a Season. 

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