By Andrea Townsend

In this world a woman is not a woman
She is hands
She is a short breath of stale air
She is lungs raked by flyaway fibers
And a raw nose and eyes dripping from glue fumes

A woman is not a woman in a world like this
She is numbers on clothing, 50% cotton, 50% polyester. . . .
A word in someone else's language

A woman cannot be a woman
It's against regulations
Only when the late night supervisors overstep their boundaries
Then she is a woman for a moment, in his eyes
Beneath his rough hands,
Never under her own

These hands bleed,
So that people can love their children in the "American" way
Curl them up with a plush toy in a warm home
While her children curl up with the night

A woman is not a woman
She is hours of labor
Hours of sitting,
Her back bent like a willow in a windstorm

In every second, minute, hour, day - she becomes the whir of machinery
Years go by and she is a sound,
A breath,
A thrumming pattern
A needle charging across fabric, a suspended heartbeat

Then, all at once and slowly,
a whisper rises through the stale air, the dim light,
Cuts through the ceaseless mechanical droning
And a hand slows its perpetual motion,
Stretches slowly across the space between the machine and the woman

Down the rows of workbenches,
one by one, these hands close over one another
Become clenched fists
Remind themselves that they are not just hands,
They are women

Andrea Townsend was an 11th grade student at Franklin High School in Portland, Oregon when she wrote this poem.

Two Young Women

By Deidre Barry

I'm 18, and years older than that.
      I'm 18, and I can't believe I'm that old.

I get up before sunrise, because I have to be at work.
      I get up at 6, because I need time to do my hair and makeup before school.

I walk two miles to work, the blisters on my feet open from wear.
      I drive to school, and walk carefully, because I need to keep my shoes clean.

I spend my day inside a factory, with hundreds of other girls, unable to take breaks, and unable to leave.
      I spend my day in classes, wanting only to get out.

I would give anything to go to school, to learn, to be able to get somewhere in life.
      I would give anything to be done with school. Who cares anyway?

I would quit, but I can't. I have parents, brothers and sisters to support, and jobs are hard to find.
      I'd drop out, but then my parents would be pissed.

At 4:00, we get a five minute break for water, and then it's back for more work.
      At 3:30, we get out, and I head for basketball practice.

I sew the Swoosh on, time after time, hour after hour, until my fingers bleed, and my knuckles ache.
      I lace up my Nikes, my new ones.

I earn barely enough to live, and not even near enough to help my family. I get paid per pair, and I can only make so many.
      These cost me $130, and everyone has a pair.

My lungs burn with every breath, and I cough up dust every night when I get home.
      My lungs sear as I run up and down the court, but I know it only makes me stronger.

I sew pair after pair, trying to earn enough to buy food and clothes.
      These shoes hurt my feet. I think I'll buy a new pair.

I go home, and cry. I want out, but it's such a vicious cycle. I work to get out, but I always need to work a little more before I have enough.
      I go home, and lie on my water bed. I can't wait till college. I can get out.

Deidre Barry was an 11th grade student at Franklin High School in Portland, Oregon when she wrote this poem.

Spring 2002