Rant for "Images of Women in Theatre"

This was from 2013, for "Images of Women in Theatre" class at NYU. We were asked to submit a memory, monologue, rant, or prayer, like the Eve Ensler book.

If you know me well, certainly a rant was my medium of choice.

A Rant by Francesca Erni

Dearest loves of my heart, people that I care about: fucking shut your mouth. Wait, understand that I don't want you to be silent. That is the opposite of my desire. I want you speak freely and without shame. That is why I ask you first kindly to shut it, and learn my purpose.

You are all beautiful. You are all ugly. So am I, both together. You can be brilliant, and ignorant as hell. So am I, both together and it cheers me to say so. Tell me if I am wrong! I like nothing better than to learn. Honored is the person who allows herself to be as ugly and multifaceted as any man.

When I ask your opinion, promise you'll never again give this reply:
". . . I have nothing to say. I don't know anything about it."

This is foolish! This is so goddamned tragic that it burns in me with frustration.
This answer is easy, and lazy, and false! I know. I've given it myself. But never again.

You put in time in this world. You were raised in a way that molded you permanently, like feet bound to fit into a smaller shoe. You arrived at this point, partly by chance, partly by circumstance, and partly through your own decisions. To claim ignorance is to erase, to waste, and to lie.

I thought I was not the type made for academia. I thought I would never be the type to make serious decisions, or take risks. But here I am. I'm in the high place, that special, blissful state of accomplishment -- the place no one in my family has been. And freedom hurts, and I love it. And I'm with you, so I already have some idea of how you got here. You worked hard. You had purpose, and means, and a certain amount of luck. You know what exists in the future for a woman, and you decided to find out why. And guess what? You have the opportunity to get that answer.

Please, think enough of yourself to realize you have an opinion. Please remember it's fine to be wrong, and even finer to be right. But the greatest gift of all is the ability to have an opinion, a thought in your head. Of all the people on television, and radio, in magazines and newspaper columns, published in academic journals and seated at congress, who are allowed to spew opinions, how many are worthwhile? You would think we 'ordinary people' would be more outspoken. We live the stories told in the news. The ordinary are the inspiration.

So for the love of women, please do something besides listen. True love is in a stunning sentence, a thought connection made, an understanding. Show some love.

Spring 2013

Untitled poem

May-June 2014

Patience.
It's important.
Like most worthwhile traits,
The getting feels painful to wear,
But the having fits perfectly.
I play the game for you,
Though I despise the wait.
The between times sicken my soul,
Fill my lungs with longing.
But the worth!
Oh how worthy the prize.
How I detest you for being so worthy.

Transaction: A new(ish?) poem

This one's from June 25, but I just found it on my phone.

(I highly recommend the "Writer" app for you Android fans.
It's clean and neat and lovely.)

Transaction

Transaction.
You give me time;
I have an ear to bend.
I'd trade you a heart for a mind,
But I'm out of parts I can lend.
Each instance in which I bitch,
You switch your mood.
I alter myself, color and pitch,
My body canvas, thought for food.
I become what I think you wish,
You think you'll be becoming soon,
Becoming a font of tones delicious, which
Make food of my psyche, lick the spoon.

25 June 2014

Celebrating Freedom

On Independence Day,
I decided against going to see the pageantry out on the water.
The East River banks were bloated with tourists and townies alike.
Instead, I stayed at home, in Ridgewood, waiting for the noise to begin.

I followed the sound to find the bright burning colors in the sky.
I was never much of a patriot;
Then again, I never fought for my right to exist.
I left home, taking the road with my ears open.
Every family sat outside, smiling, prepared with sparklers.
In the road there were soda bottles, plugged with rockets!

On every street the fireworks crackled.
They boomed, banged, clanged and rang out
On the usually quiet suburb streets.
Fizzles and hisses,
But also great explosions!
The cops got to see them just as soon as I did;
Shortly after, the lights were gone.

I kept walking from one light to the next, and each boom
Brought me further away from home.
I added harmony to a drunken chorus of "The Star Spangled Banner"
Come from a nearby house; they were laughing all the while through.

I walked in silence past an enormous, peaceful cemetery
Full of large and ornate headstones.
Today I didn't feel fear. They celebrated too, I think.

And then, I arrived.
The trees blocked my view at first, but then I saw it --
The East River, at a distance. Piled in front of a large, fenced in area,
Were dozens of families, peering eagerly through the chain links
To see the fireworks, likely a mile away.
I was in the Mexican neighborhood now,
And their fireworks interested me more than the
Explosive extravaganza of our Manhattan friends.
The reason I admired their show is mixed
Somewhere between their fresh patriotic love
And their superior party-throwing skills.
Most of all, they still have hope that
This country will provide if they remain faithful.
I wish I thought so, too.

What a beautiful and strange sort of party.
What a wonderful night.