"Nanay’s Advice on Becoming a Woman" by Yvanna Vien Tica

Image Credit: Rosie Arasa, obtained and licensed by Unsplash

Nanay’s Advice on Becoming a Woman

Anak, don’t flash your hair
at men who hunger for everything smooth. Learn 
this: you can tell by how gently they fist the sunlight,
how quickly they douse the moon of its concerned
exoskeleton. Anak, it’s dangerous to wade 
in the river alone, without God keeping you within 
sight of dry land or sharply-wailing palm trees. 
Learn this: keep your hair hidden tight behind your
back so it doesn’t betray you. There are few things worse
than being imprisoned by a fistful of hair innocently free
under moonlight. Run at first startle, don’t look back 
to see which hand cleaved the silence first. Night as sharp as ogre 
teeth, crackling twigs as mocking as flashing voices. Anak,
don’t run to the police. Learn the signs of 
the times—red sky at dawn foretells clenched mouths.
Don’t be one of them. Run home. Look, I am still
sweeping my hair into the cupboard a childhood
after. Anak, learn this: once you’re caught, the river
can only stifle your cries. Don’t lose heart—perhaps you will 
be one of those who relearn to build shelters in the palm trees without
fear. But don’t let your father know. Don’t let your husband 
hear the lips still branded on your skin, your hair. 
Your father never knew.

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Yvanna Vien Tica is a hearing-impaired Filipina writer who grew up in Manila and near Chicago. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition, The Kenyon Review, the 2021 Princeton Leonard L. Milberg ’53 High School Poetry Contest, and has appeared or is forthcoming in EX/POST Magazine, DIALOGIST, and Hobart, among others. In her spare time, she can be found enjoying nature and thanking God for another day.