“A proper lady” (Zonja, in Albanian) is many things, but more than any other, she is expected to be obedient. For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you an incendiary prose-poem against the patriarchy, written by the queer Kosovar poet Arbër Selmani and translated by Suzana Vuljevic. In this mordant poem, a chorus of unnamed women turn society’s expectations upside down, their harsh refrain of “if we were proper ladies” calling attention to the abuse and exploitation inherent in the class aspiration of being “a proper lady.” In the words of the translator: “Proper ladies in the context of the poem largely refers to the kind of women that are forced to follow the rules as it were, becoming inured to male dominion, fulfilling a submissive, obedient role, and falling prey to misogynistic men. At the same time, there is an overtly rebellious undercurrent that calls out the indecencies of societies that take advantage of, abuse and demean women.” Implicit in the poem’s collective point-of-view is an alternative aspiration, a solidarity that can resist the oppression of a misogynist society. Read on!
If we were dignified ladies, we’d have to wake up at the crack of dawn and wash the feet of the patriarchy. If we were proper ladies, we’d be off filling jugs with water, heating them up with the dark bits of our souls. If we were ladies, we’d have to be sure not to make a sound at night. We’d have to fake orgasms, swallow the pain, and then go on to tell ourselves we had it coming. If we were the kinds of ladies society wanted us to be, we’d be in the habit of rolling our eyes and accepting our husbands’ slaps like ordinary boxes of chocolate. If we were ladies, we’d have to cook around the clock to fill the hairy bellies of wretched husbands—husbands long ago turned masters.
If we were ladies, we’d be used to passing out and hawking up spit. If we were the kinds of ladies that society’s foulest members wanted us to be, we’d have to vomit in front of our mothers-in-law, on the porch that no one but us ever cleans—in front of the people who go out and fight for our rights. We’d be aimless wanderers moving through an abyss that we don’t ever start taking a liking to. If we were classy ladies, we’d have to get ready to pop out another baby, and another one, and another, and we wouldn’t have God’s grace on our side for a single day. If we were the kinds of women that the household wanted us to be, we’d have to be sure to never crack a smile and we’d cling to the belief that our rights vanish the moment we open our eyes.
If we were the kinds of ladies men are after, we’d view the act of reading with suspicion: only a handful of words haven’t been written against us. If we were ladies, the kind that the villages and towns we live in wanted us to be, we’d have to slap makeup on our faces, go home and curse our birthdays and our birth, and go on walks where we try to imagine a better time in our lives. If we were ladies, we’d spend January and December waiting for the next January and December and none would ever be happy. We’d just be women who people took for crazy. This is just the way we are—loneliness has become the death of us.
But thank goodness, we’re not ladies. At least not that kind, not the kind that politely sign treaties during the day, hands folded in their lap. Proper ladies we’re not, nor do we have a worker’s strength, the kind needed to make laments on Tuesdays, to curse God on Wednesdays, and to have an awful start to the day on Thursdays all over again. To us, “lady” is a crude and pointless term. If we were ladies, we’d be punching bags for a catty world, and we have our own cats at home. If we were ladies, we’d be just the way we are, silent bodies with mounds of words inside. And who even gives a shit to be ladies by today’s standards. Those kinds of ladies shouldn’t exist in the first place. Ladies no one’s proud of. Kind words never find us.
If we were ladies of that caliber, we’d simply be statues that turn us right back into men again. Come with us, let’s shapeshift, let’s resist the expectation to be beautiful in front of the cameras, or heart-broken over society fucking with our heads, molding it from one thing to the next. We’re the kinds of ladies who’re perfect for a corner of the house. Our husbands are our architects, and they’ll go on being them. We have to stop being their ladies. Because that’s what we are. Precisely to their liking.
Translated from the Albanian by Suzana Vuljevic
Arbër Selmani is a writer, editor and journalist. He is the author of four books, including 48 Piano. He is the winner of several literature festivals, including ResPoetica in Kosovo and Tirana Gate Festival in Albania. His work has been translated into Slovenian, Norwegian, English, Serbo-Croatian and German. He is working on his fifth book, a play of different forms on the topic of complexities of married men.
Suzana Vuljevic is a culture writer, critic and translator of Albanian and Bosnian, Croatian, Montenegrin, Serbian (BCMS). She holds a Ph.D. in History and Comparative Literature from Columbia University and currently teaches Balkan history at DePaul University. Her work has appeared in a range of both academic and popular publications including AGNI, Exchanges, Modern Poetry in Translation, Trafika Europe, Turkoslavia, Undark, Words Without Borders, Eurozine, and more.