By Jeannie Marschall
Look at that.
As a female, once you’ve edged past puberty, they’ll ask you with the inevitability of day-night-day no matter your other achievements or goals or dreams or hard-won skills or sodding wishes
at some point
real nice-like
or curiously
or over and over and over with accusing askances and dire lonely-old-age augurings as if they don’t know six folks at least whose kids refuse their names or visit once a year from some continent they winged it to
maybe they’ll even give you a flat-out nosy wink when wondering “and when will you” exactly have some sweet small selves yourself and I know it’s mostly making merry, the prestigious part of the human habitus, seemingly safe in its predictable pattern but (—and by the way what are you doing asking like that, what if someone wants kids and tries & tries & sobbing tries but can’t what are you doing shut up—) I’ve seen a lot of people squirm and hedge having such private expectations thrown their way. Some rejoice!—and I’m so happy for them. Some [daydream/pictureperfect/long for] lovely littles and glow with soul-fulfilling purpose, pride, and joy—
but some just …
don’t.
And I feel that.
Something has changed since my rainbow flags though, as much as some people sneer at me—and really, relax, I’m not about to woo you when you pull a face like that—the kid questions just …
stopped.
I never knew that a self-determination proclamation which opens me up for unforeseen attack also carries elimination of justification obligation, somehow suddenly free of all the well-meant well-meaning elbow-nudging female reproductive camaraderie, I don’t know if this says anything nice about people’s ideas, really I truly don’t, and it feels almost like cheating but…
Look at that.
Jeannie Marschall (she/her/any) is a teacher from the green center of Germany who also writes stories, time permitting. She enjoys long walks, foraging, and inventing tall tales with her partner. Jeannie mostly writes colorful, queer SFFH (science fiction, fantasy, and horror) stories, as well as the occasional poem.