If you could have dinner with three people, real or fictional, who would it be and why?
At my dinner table sit three other women: one whose hair writhes and hisses, one whose beauty has been a battle cry, and one whose greatest sin was living. I can feel their shame like humid air. Medusa and her anger. Helen and her hauteur. Eve and her meekness. I know them for what they are. Because I, too, have glared and turned my nose up and snuck apologies in between breaths, and all of them meant the same thing: I am afraid the weight of this life is far too much for me alone. But at my dinner table, we are not alone. We sit together, the four of us and our shame. All of us monsters, all of us selfish, all of us wrong, and all of us women because of it. And to Medusa, I say, “Nothing that has been done to you has made you a monster.” To Helen, “Just because they blame you doesn’t mean the blood is on your hands.” To Eve, “It isn’t wrong to ask questions or seek knowledge.” Then we eat chocolate and apples and other sweet things, and we laugh and cry, and not once do we apologize. With hands clasped together, to each other, we say, “you’re not alone.” And our shoulders feel lighter because of it.