Orla
THE STORY OF LOOKING
Hail, Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Blessed art thou, but only amongst women. Blessed are we in our own company. But in the glaring male gaze we take on subhuman status. They take away our holiness and reduce us to property, coverture, our husband’s tax number. It’s free to look. Sure, who’s it hurting? I’m not touching you. Yous are gagging for attention, really. Prude. Whore. Virgin. Mother.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
We’re the responsible ones, after all. We’ve to clean up the mess, hoover the cobwebs, dust the neglect from our shoulders. It’s our duty, after all.
Article 41.2, The Constitution of Ireland: “In particular, the State recognises that by her life within the home, woman gives to the State a support without which the common good cannot be achieved.” Tidy up after them. Cook your brother his dinner. Just take the child out. Ignore them looking. Just don’t engage. They’ll get bored. It’s a compliment, really.
On the U8 last month a man stared at me. He travelled 8 stops. The train was packed. He moved for a better look. My skirt was too short and my coat was pulled over to hide my chest. I didn’t engage. I watched him in the window. When the crowd became too thick for him to look through, he found me in the reflection. I turned my head away. I locked eyes and sneered at him. He only stopped when he alighted. He went on with his day. I tugged down the edge of my skirt.
Amen.
