When you asked my name, and I gave it to you, I really ought to have thanked you. It’s something I say all the time. The best people accept it and move on. If you ask me if it was my mother’s favorite (or, worse, if it was my favorite), I usually assume you are not to be trusted and will never again give you the time of day. You were one of the best people. You nodded and kept using it like you would any other name. No jokes. No questions. No raise of your brow. All the while, I felt safe with my name in your mouth, which is a creepy way of saying it, but it’s true. Thank you.
When you pushed me and pushed me and pushed me some more, I really ought to have thanked you. I hadn’t been pushed in years. Most people gave up as soon as they saw the fire light up behind my eyes. They would get scared and give me the win, even if I didn’t deserve it. You never did that. I drew my sword, and you drew yours. I never accept the en garde from anyone else, but with you, I feel like I’m getting something done. Thank you.
For all the times you made eye contact with me, I really ought to have thanked you. I spent the first two decades of my life feeling mostly overlooked and unimportant. Like I might be worth something, just not worth enough. But when you would look me straight in the eye and carry on conversations with me, conversations that made me feel understood and not anxious (the ultimate rarity), I could feel myself becoming a little less invisible everyday. Thank you, for seeing me.
When you were weird and loud and annoying, but you weren’t afraid to be any of those things, I really ought to have thanked you. I knew I had a weird, loud, annoying soul rattling inside of me, but I didn’t know how to let it out. Most of the time, when I tried, I was met with ridicule and not-so-secret snickers as soon as I turned my back. But you were different. You encouraged the noise. After a couple of weeks of watching you rattle cages, even your own, I found the key to mine. I’ve felt a little better ever since. Thank you.
When you smiled at me, and my whole body lit up like a firework, I really ought to have thanked you. Everyone deserves to know someone who makes them feel like a firework in one way or another, and I had you for that. Thank you.
When you told me I was funny, I really ought to have thanked you. I know it’s just a word, and it doesn’t have to be special, but I smiled and then I smiled again. I don’t show my teeth often because I will not be prey. But maybe the world isn’t one of predator and prey. Maybe it’s just a world, and in that world, maybe a woman can smile if she wishes. Thank you.
When you said that a woman was not an angel, I really ought to have thanked you. I did thank you. Silently, in my journals, for years after you first said it. I’d long stared at my body in the big mirrors of a dance studio, wishing it wasn’t mine. Wishing I was of some other flesh. I’d long cursed my tongue for saying what it wanted to say. But maybe that wasn’t a cardinal sin. Maybe I was just a woman. Thank you.
When you showed me all the things that strength can mean, I really ought to have thanked you. Strong isn’t just the ability to pick up a car and throw it over your head like Superman (or deluding yourself into thinking you can). Strong is bright and fierce and fighting, and it’s everything you are. It’s everything I want to emulate as I grow. Thank you.
When you seemed to kind of like me a little bit, and you didn’t say a word about it, I really ought to have thanked you. I put people off. I’m brash. I’m smart. I’m intense. I’m a woman. I’m no longer ashamed of any of these things, but according to many, I should be. But you’re a lot of those things, too, and if I admire what I see in you, I can admire it in myself. Thank you.
For every time I’ve made myself painfully obvious, and you’ve pretended like you didn’t notice, I really ought to have thanked you. Every year, I’m supposed to grow up, and every year, part of my heart beats on in Neverland. You pretend like you can’t even hear it, and I can breathe easier. Thank you.
