She gave birth to her firstborn ‘cause she walked the aisle, and the hand on her clock stopped as her work of nurture began for her first born child. She just walks into that room, a smile on her face and groceries tucked into her arms, she heads for the kitchen ‘cause THAT, THAT is where she belongs. The breadwinner hands her money to buy bread, ‘cause he needs her to be well fed, and all she has to do is smile and do her work ‘cause that is her duty, and as Meghan Trainor says, all he has to do is tell her she’s beautiful so she can get that special lovin’.
She expects no pay for the work she does ‘cause isn’t that just barbaric? Would you look down on her if she took that money from her husband? For doing housework? Oh well, isn’t that tragic. To cook, clean and feed, isn’t that her job? I mean, ‘cause aren’t trophy wives hot?
The look on your face doesn’t seem so pleasant, I’m sorry did I anger you? Does it make you resent? If so then listen up. Remember that feeling and take a leap into your verstehen. Imagine yourself in her shoes. ‘cause she can’t seem to get out of hers, ‘cause they’re stuck in the kitchen just as her clock that hasn’t moved.
She can’t move and her lips unable to form words ‘cause oppression is right in front of her screaming at her face, maybe once he heard, will he show her grace? She cries for freedom so he gives her freedom to go out for work, but at what cost? At what loss? Equal rights is what he claims as she goes for work. Yes she works, works , works, touching the glass ceiling she still works. Same occupation, but less recognition. At the end of the day she picks up her child from daycare and drives home only to meet another nightmare. Her clock is stuck, she’s still at work. There seems to be no luck, she turns to her parents, they think it’s a joke.
Yes she’s back to square one, no complaints. She cleans and cleans until there are no stains. She cooks for her husband and child, smiling once again the burdens pile. She’s told that her life is a gift, but Anne Oakley screams ‘Triple Shift!’.
The sound of the car pulling up and her hand immediately goes for the food, preparing the table neatly for her husband coming back from work. Tired, he sits down and smiles at his wife, telling her the food was good. And she does back to work once again to put a blanket on her sleeping child. Not done with work the clock still stuck. She goes back to wash the dishes in the sink that’s piled. She looks are the distorted image of the clock, in which the hand is forever numb, her house holds no comfort as she works till dawn not knowing when to stop.
Once again she gets up within a few hours of sleep to her child’s cry, wondering when The Clock’s hand will move, no one hears her cry. Her husband wakes to see their child in her arms, sees nothing wrong. Smiling, he shuts off the alarm. The perfect image he sees, she thinks it’s distorted but her lips are shut as oppression speaks. Same thing yet again, he eats breakfast cooked by his wife, and she says ‘have a good day’ but she doesn’t need one back ‘cause she knows she want to fight.
The clock still stuck her work began, she looks at the hand that hasn’t moved much like her work that never ends. A woman she is, declared the society. To confirm, sparks her anxiety. Her work is insignificant, ‘cause she’s just a wife and once again society screams, ‘it’s just your life’.
Her desire to fight earns her no dollars, ‘cause in the end oppression fights and her words she swallows. Her story goes unheard, like many others that are sealed, wishing the clock of labour to change and the hand to move, so once again she can feel. Her desire to end the never ending cycle, for the hand to move once again to escape the reality of a woman’s title.
A woman she is, and so as a woman she works. The hours on the clock mean nothing due to the constant labour she performs.
The same reality is faced by other women, labour doesn’t stop as their clocks have also seemed to halt.