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Women's
History Month Writing Contest
Sponsored by the Student Advocacy Committee of the Center for Women,
this contest is open to any undergraduate student at Emory, male or female.
Entries must address the Women’s
History Month theme in their own words and voice. Prose and essay
submissions should be 700-1,300 words. Poetry submissions have no minimum
and may not exceed 1,300 words. The winning entry receives a cash prize
and may be published in Emory Report.
Check back soon for the 2005 Women's History Month theme and
deadlines for this year's contest entries.
In 2004, the Women's History Month theme was “Women Exploring Truths
through Expression.” Below is the winning entry, a poem by Julie
Zinamon, '05C. Zinamon was featured as a Woman of
Note, and wrote a first-person article
for Emory Report about the process of writing the poem and her
influences and experiences as a writer. Congratulations, Julie!
Opening Night
“Keep climbing,” the woman laughs.
“Go as high as you can,” she tells you
on the stairwell at the Fabulous Fox. You didn’t
ask for help. Inside the ostentatious portals
and white bricks, surrounded by silk dresses
and mink coats doused from drizzly rain,
you think. You are in section GRC row R seat 48.
The snooty people disgust your friends,
the English arias and new age Mozart
production disgust you. The opera regulars flee
like flies at intermission, soaring down
the red carpets, swirling ten dollar glasses
of Cabernet Sauvignon toward the bathrooms.
“The last time I saw the opera
was in Broward County,” the woman remarks
as she butts into your shoulder, cutting the line.
“Excuse me,” she shouts into your ear,
as if to say, I am better than you, let me through.
Her Jackie O.-gone-wrong eyeglass rims
and mismatched suit make you want to say,
who are you to talk? If you could see past
her wrinkles and silver streaked hair, you would tell
her that even though you’re young, you still
matter. Her stocky smiley friend makes small talk.
Every few minutes they accidentally shove you
with their sequined bags and broad shoulders.
What they say starts to interest you. The overdone
poodle rants, “I grew up with four parents, my two
eldest brothers included. I married to escape.”
Your gaze fixes on the stalls ahead, your bladder
pangs. You tilt your head back to eavesdrop.
Stocky Smiley shows her dimples, “I married for love.
He was so handsome, I could never leave
his side. Talmino and Palmina remind me
of our young love.” At least one of them is not
jaded, you think. The poodle speaks,
“I was a sophomore in college. My dad wouldn’t let
me move to New York, so I ran off.” Young single
girl desires fast spontaneous life, a personals ad
might read. The fine print does not inform you
that in eras past, girls did not live alone, you attended
college for your MRS degree, or else you welcomed
spinsterhood, so you settled.
Inside, you want to scream. “I never loved
him. He knew that,” the woman states. You feel
sorry for her. You realize she is human too.
Stocky Smiley stands in shock. You imagine
living in a dead-end marriage for the sake
of marriage, so you can have that apartment,
those clothes, that life. You think
of your retired uncle who only watches TV,
who only speaks to his wife when he feels hungry,
whose breath reeks of Jack Daniel’s. You remember
watching your aunt weep, then maintain
a stoic presence when he returns from dog walking.
You balance yourself and stare
at the Egpytian hieroglyphs and Osiris figures
adorning the fireplace. You see Anubis
weighing the heart of a deceased man as he passes
through the rites that will grant him entrance
into the afterlife. You intend to do great things.
A door swings open. You’re next in line.
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