by anonymous

never again will I envy
the girl who gets a debutante ball
or six.
thrown as a celebration of
money?
knowing people?
being beautiful at the right age?
being the color of a band-aid before her spray tan?

she floats in white around a smiling room
carefully guarded by white hoods hidden under black tuxedos,
champagne half spills out of dawling accents;

“my, what a doll you are”
“the vision of your grandmama”
“prettiest girl in the room”
“now do you have a young man of your own?”
“well I’m sure you would have no trouble getting one 
if you wanted to”
“you know your mother was just the 
prettiest debutante 
there ever 
was”

some say womanhood comes the first time she bleeds
others says it’s the day she floats 
down the aisle of a country club ballroom
in a conservative wedding dress 
towards a groom
who is impolite to waiters 
but always holds the door open for those who are
well-dressed enough.

or she’s twenty years old and the groom is
money?
knowing people?
being beautiful at the right age?
being the color of a band-aid before her spray tan?

never again will I envy
the girl who gets a debutante ball 
or six.
here lies nostalgia for 
antebellum royalty
bricks of what they call good southern tradition 
laid by 
and on 
the backs of color
the ghosts of slave women longing to be seen as beautiful
to be given a celebration of their own
to marry men who hold the door open for 
the tired the poor the huddled masses
who still aren’t free
they scream in pain beneath
the ghosts of masters who used them instead.

band-aids don’t fix bullet holes.
never again will I envy
the girl who gets a party
or six
that celebrates nothing important
that doesn’t welcome the tired and the poor to the table
that remembers fondly a time 
we 
must 
stop 
being proud of.