Who Made Me god?

Who was I to tell you—you can’t dance, little girl, you’re no good?

Who was I to tell you—you can’t sing, little girl, you’re no good?

Who was I to tell you—you can’t play, little girl, you’re not strong enough you’re not fast enough, be dainty, be pretty, you’re no good?

When did they make me god?

Who was I to say, little boy, that you can’t climb, sit down, don’t talk, be good?

Who was I to say, little boy, be good, be good, be good?

When being good means eating everything you are, put it in the lunchbox with your sandwich, locked in the closet until recess.

Who was I to say, play sports, don’t cry, stand up straight, have a strong hand? 

When did they make me god, that I can tell you what a man is? 

I am the teacher, I am god

I am the mother, I am god

I am the father, I am god

I am the man in the suit, I am the man in the football uniform, I am the man in the police uniform, I am god. 

Go dance.  Go sing.  Go climb.  Say fuck, damn, and hell.  Cry.  Throw things.  Yell.  Play in the rain.  Work hard.  Being you. 

Go be god.  

(I object to the capitalization of the word "god."  There have been many gods to all the many peoples of the world, for one thing, and for another, the very act of capitalizing the word "god" imposes a mental pause in the mind that enforces the subordination of the humin spirit to some external, Other, Patriarchal, Male being.  I think we are more powerful when we view ourselves as responsible for the course of our lives and the quality of our own character, rather than leaving it up to some external force, especialy one who seems so inclined to judge us arbitrarily for our efforts.)