This summer in NYC - a poem

Cet été, je suis donc allé passer quelques jours entre amies à NYC. Pour revoir une vieille amie, s'amuser un peu, changer de décor, fêter un anniversaire. Et puis un bon matin, en route vers Williamsburg, au feu de circulation, juste avant de passer sous un pont surrélevé, cette fille apparaît dans mon champ de vision. Elle est magnifique, toute grande et fine, un chignon sur la tête et des vêtements de plage sur le corps. Ce qui la rend belle ce n'est pas spécifiquement sa tenue ou sa taille, mais bien sa démarche. Elle flotte et on la sent bien. 

Tout de suite, avant même ses vêtements, je remarque pourtant ses jambes. Ses mollets, pour être précise. Ils ne sont pas épilés. Moi, ça m'interpelle. Je réfléchis depuis un moment à tout laisser aller. J'aime mes poils de corps. Et je veux me libérer de la pression naturelle, malheureusement, que je me mets de m'épiler. Cette fille, cet ange tombé du ciel, c'est mon "trigger", mon élément déclencheur.

Alors dès mon retour à Montréal, j'obtempère. Je ne fais plus rien et j'observe. Et puis j'écris ce que je ressens sur papier. J'ai l'impression d'avoir tant de choses à dire. Rien de nouveau, sûrement, mais ce n'est pas assez dit en public. 

J'ai l'impression d'avoir la responsabilité de le dire à voix haute à d'autres femmes, plus jeunes, moins jeunes, peu importe.

Pas la responsabilité de le leur dire quoi faire, non. Plutôt celle de leur faire réaliser qu'elles ont un choix, et que les poils, c'est pas dégueux, c'est pas sale.

Tout comme mes précédents poèmes en anglais, j'ai plus de facilité à cerner ce que je ressens quand je dois le penser dans une langue étrangère, car elle me force à la base à clarifier mes phrases pour me faire comprendre des autres.

J'espère ainsi qu'à celles ou à ceux (comme de nos jours ça va dans tous les sens) concernés, ce que j'aurai tenté d'exprimer vous fera réaliser que vous avez un choix, que vous pouvez vous aimer en entier, qu'être vous-même veux aussi dire explorer les options que vous avez pour choisir celle que vous préférez, en toute connaissance de cause. 

Avec tout mon amour,

Evelyne

-------

This summer I visited a big artistic city called New York.

They say that over there, by the the Hudson River, people are free.

Free to grow, free to follow, free to flow in their own path

free to overflow, people like that.

This summer I walked in those sleepless streets for the third time but she

was a first.

Like a glimpse of rainbow on a rainy day, you know it’s coming.

You’re waiting for it to show, impatiently looking through the window’s glass.

She was walking in front of me, nonchalant, in harmony with the world out

and inside of her.

She was hairy.

As hairy as a girl could possibly be, all the hairs showing in knowned places

though it is poorly looked upon.

Legs covered, thighs, arm pits, mustache, head included.

What a crazy idea, this one…

She looked like an angel.

A delicate angel, an airy one ready to fly, so light and alive in all meanings.

Her clothes, floathing around her, dancing along with her at every step

simply enhanced the picture of perfect normality she already was exuting.

And it was that feeling of normality, of a body at ease

so as to become a banal exemplary of human life

or rather, a being which needed no more attention than another one

it was that feeling I had, through looking at her, that made her so special to me.

She had discovered she loved her hairs.

Or maybe she already knew deep down and had somehow managed to bring it up

Making her own voice louder or loving-er than the others’.

As we crossed the street,passing under a high bridge,nobody yelled at her, nobody laughed at her.

In fact, everybody did saw her, because she was beautiful, and continued with their day in peace

As one would do, being free of thoughts and compassionate and respectful.

The next time I saw a hairy girl, she was sitting right next to me, her hairy thigh touching mine.

I couldn’t stop fixing her legs.

They were slim, muscly, sexy and full of hairs.

But the arm pits were the best, all puffy and dark

so as to create a flashy contrast with her pale skin when she lifted her arms

To reach for chips.

And really, I keep telling myself

it’s no use calling a girl with visible hairs where the media say it shouldn’t be

A “hairy” girl

since everyone has them in the beginning. But. But shaved body parts has been normalized

And so I need to say the word out loud: hairs.

They exist and I love them. I choose to. That’s the real freedom.

If I wanna wax my butt, I shall do! If I wanna have a heart or a forest between my legs

That’s okay too.

After all, it my body. And nobody’s making me feel like a should do one thing only

Putting be in a box I’d get afraid to get out of, drowning me under water,

not knowing we’re the top is, pushing me in a one-way tunnel

Not knowing it’s just under a whole buzzing city.

Clean isn’t properly used to describe free girls.

You aren’t clean because you’ve shaved all the hairs that keeps you refreshed

When its 39 degrees outside.

Clean means you take care of your body: you wash it.

That’s right, you wash it, hairs or no hairs.

Do you love the hairs on your head? I bet you do. I bet your friends love passing their hands

in them.

I bet you like it. I bet some special person in your life likes that you have long nice hairs

To hold on to when…

Hairs are all the same.

I follow the girl pass the high bridge and I think.

I think that she must have pushed away disgust, ignorance towards her own body.

I’m home.

I decided to own myself. After that, it only gets more exciting.

I appreciate the new softness of my legs leaned against eachother,

catch my hands caressing myself, fascinated.

I’m home.

My body breathes. He simply exists.

And I feel pretty bloody well with myself.

I’m home.

And I feel whole again.