We Are Many

Of the many women whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the layers of a dress.
They have parted for another dwelling.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a women of courage
the timid girl I keep concealed in my being
takes over my actions and occupies my limbs.

On other occasions, I am dozing
in the midst of men
and when I call upon my enlightened self,
a foolish child completely remote to me
bind my inferior intelligence
in a thousand tiny chains.

When a pedestrian was assaulted,
instead of the paladin I summon,
a felon bursts on the scene,
and she is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to single out myself?
How can I put myself together?

All the books I read
Lionize dazzling hero figures,
always brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them.

But when I rouse awake my gallant person,
out appears the same old menial self,
and so I never know just who I am,
nor how I am, nor who we will be being.

I would like to be able to touch a bell
and awaken my real self, the truly me
because if I really need my proper self,
I msut not allow myself to fade into the background.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I return, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other women as it does to me,
to see if as many women are as I am.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

--
Supposedly...this is the poem, We Are Many...in the point of view of a women.
I failed, terribly. But I'm too tired and lazy to re-do everything.
This will do, for now.