Response to Nitoo Das's Geeta Sings a Thumri

Dear Stefani Joanne Germanotta

“Love is objectified
By what men say is right
Scheiße, scheiße be mine
Bull shit, be mine
Blonde high-heeled feminists,
Enlisting femmes for this
Express your womankind,
Fight for your right” 

The bucktoothed sixteen year old me
Half whispered, half sang those words
In a science class in a convent school
While balancing equations of carbon molecules.

I often dreamed of your teal wigs,
Waiting desperately to color my own hair
Going through the same limitations you underwent,
When you blow-dried your hair at your convent.

I was just one of the many, many millions,
Who called you Gaga or Mother Monster
Your crazy music videos enraptured and transported me,
And your screams outside the White House inspired me.

Like countless others I was broken hearted for you,
When rumors flew that Luc broke your heart.
But seeing you kiss Taylor in your mother’s wedding dress,
Made it seem that you were happy more or less.

While singing Sound of Music at the Oscars
You showed us your giant engagement ring,
Goddess of Love, you took us to Venus,
Your neon costumes made us Partynauseous.

But slowly you started showing us your hand,
You spoke of your hip trauma and rape,
Along with our mother, we monsters came of age,
And you started taking off your wigs on stage.

And on the set of your first single off Joanne,
Because of your simple t-shirt and makeup,
You were worrying about us:
“Do you think that like some of my older fans
are going to be disappointed that I’m not all dressed up?”

And many did end up disappointed Stefani,
I’m sorry that our fantasies trapped you in Gaga,
And it wasn’t just you in a Perfect Illusion
We too had been enjoying a Perfect Illusion.

“I can’t help realize that when
I sold 10 million records
I lost Matt.
I sell 30 million,
I lose Luc.
I get the movie,
I lose Taylor.
It’s like turnover”

Not just the wigs and costumes and makeup,
But the illusion of a Mother who would always protect us,
It was painful to see the toll it, no, we took on you,
You started singing about the raw and hurting you.

As you moaned and cried through Fibromyalgia,
Came the sad realization to me that no amount of glitter,
Leather jackets, lace front wigs or latex cheekbones,
Could disguise how you too had skin and bones.

Bones that could hurt and skin that could bruise,
Albeit in the badass shapes of fishnet stockings,
You practiced hard on your choreographed dancing,
While I focused to improve my pathetic writing.

Both of us trapped in a female body of five foot two,
Both of us still trying to understand womanhood,
And the pressure of being our fathers’ daughters
As a monster, I thank you for trying to be my Mother.

“I just don’t like,
I just like,
I don’t know.

I just feel like
My threshold
For like,

Bullshit with men,
Is, its just,
I don’t have one anymore.
I just don’t care,
I don’t know

if it’s
Because I’m 30,
And I’m,
I feel better than ever,
You know?

All my insecurities are gone,
I don’t feel insecure about
Who I am as a woman,
I don’t.

I’m not embarrassed
Or ashamed of what I have.
I just feel like
A more sexier, sensual,
Like all of that shit
Is better.

So what I think happens is,
Is like,
I don’t know.

Well, in relationships,
You have to,
I don’t know…”

I’m sorry you still have to deal with scheiße,
And I’m sorry you don’t have all the answers,
Not everything you say will be metaphors and poetry
I hope you can talk about all your bullshit openly.