Dear Mr. Governor

This is just another story that doesn’t matter to you. You think if you never listen, then I’ll just be silent eventually. I’m tired of asking to be seen. I’m tired of asking to be treated with just a mere shred of importance. I am not just a constituent. I am not just a vote. I am a person. I am 98.6 degrees. I breathe. I bleed. Just not the same way you do.

You see, I hold my breath as if it’ll hide me from predators. I focus on my breathing patterns as I am running like my life depends on it because it does. Every time I get through a parking lot back to my car, I finally catch my breath again. Can you imagine being thankful for the very breath you take for granted since it’s always been automatic? Can you imagine going to the store because you need carrots one day and thinking it might be your last?

My blood is the same shade as yours, but you govern mine because of its differences. The difference is that you only see yours on the rare occasion that you cut your finger opening an envelope whereas I’m defined by the blood that pours out of me. The doctors can’t explain it. They think it’s normal. I bleed until my face is drained of every drop of color and my veins shrivel up. During my flare ups, my knees get weak and shatter on the floor begging for my blood to lubricate them again. It’ll take what seems like a lifetime to bounce back. Sometimes, someone will notice me lying lifeless and help me onto a bed or a stretcher, but more often than not I’m left defenseless on the ground. And your doctors think this is normal? I guess that makes sense since you have proven that medical responsibility and rationality are lost on you.

I’m not sure how else to convince you that I’m not just a number. I’m sure you’ve been told several horror stories of what it is like to be a woman in your America. So, either you don’t care, or you think they’re strange one-off events. Maybe you just ignore us in order to push your own agenda to keep another demographic under your thumb. I wonder, what will it take for us to actually matter to you? Maybe if you lived like the majority of us, you might understand.

Maybe if you witnessed your mother being used and abused while you were told to wait quietly in his filthy living room until he was finished, you’d understand the fear and disgust I feel when I smell stale cigarettes and beer off a man trying to get me alone. The day my mother said no was when I learned that standing up for myself may kill me. He launched a cinder block into our car from three stories above. We hadn’t quite made it to the car yet, but he didn’t know that. But that’s what we have police for, right? Yet another day of lessons. Your police said since no one was actually hurt and we couldn’t prove it was him, they didn’t think it was worth the trouble and they left.

Maybe if you were 7 years old when your brother invited the wrong friend over for the night, you’d understand the constant violation and injustice I feel when I don’t get a say in whose hands, eyes, or laws are on my body. I was getting my laundry out of the dryer when he followed me into my bedroom, shoved me on the ground, and told me he “just wanted a glimpse.” I said no. I fought back. I did all the things you require of me to remain safe, but he said he liked a challenge. I thank God I was still very young when this happened, because if I were older, you’d force me to carry his child. You’d force him in my life forever just as he forced himself on me.

Maybe if you had lived a woman’s regular Tuesday where your life had simply been threatened while pumping gas because you wouldn’t smile for a man or if you had been followed around a store and told to stop being a tease by running away, you’d understand the danger our lives are always put in. Women are never safe and never will be safe when the predatory species is telling us to stop seeking out safety. Safety isn’t sexy, sir. You really think my leggings, my dresses, or my ripped jeans are the reason you’ll find my dead body tossed in a dumpster somewhere? You think my “bad attitude” is the reason my mother will have to bury me? I am not the problem. Women are not the things that need to be regulated. Rather, we are actual living, breathing people demanding the advocacy from your office that we are just as entitled to as you are. Moreover, your voters are hurt and scared because you fail to acknowledge one simple thing, Mr. Governor: I am not rare.

Dear Mr. Governor, I do not ask for you to apologize for the sins of your brethren. All I ask is for you to listen to the women that you are dismissing. Your ignorance, your refusal, and your uninformed opinions are killing us off one by one. Who will you have to make you feel powerful when we’re all dead, sir?