Ode to the Woke Girl

By Breckyn Forcey

They say it like an insult:
Woke.
Like it’s a disease
I caught
from reading too much James Baldwin
and not enough stock reports.
Like being awake
is the problem
in a house
already burning.

They say it like it’s dirty,
like caring
is contagious.
Like naming injustice
makes you fragile.

But I’d rather be too sensitive
than comfortably numb.
Rather feel everything
than sleep through a war
just because the bombs
aren’t in my backyard.

Call me the woke girl,
the one who ruins dinner
by bringing up ICE raids.
The one who asks
 where your clothes were made
and what your silence is worth.

The one who says
Black Lives Matter
in rooms
where whispers
are preferred.

Yeah, that’s me.
The buzzkill.
The snowflake.
The angry feminist
who won't laugh
at your joke
because I know
who it kills.

They say “woke”
like it means weak.
But tell me what’s weak
about speaking truth
in a room built
on denial.
Tell me what’s weak
about opening your eyes
when everyone else
is still dreaming
of comfort
on stolen land.

They say:
“She makes everything political.”
As if my body
isn’t legislated.
As if my skin
isn’t policed.
As if my friend’s pronouns
aren’t a battleground
in states
they’ve never even been to.

They say:
“You're always angry.”

I am.
Because they are banning books
instead of bullets.
Because they are feeding billionaires
while kids skip lunch.
Because they care more
about statues
than people.
Because “freedom”
now means
“for some.”

I carry my anger
like armor.
I carry my empathy
like a sword.
I carry my voice
into rooms
that were never built
to hold it.

They don’t want woke girls.
They want quiet ones.
Ones who smile
while they’re shrinking.
Ones who say thank you
for crumbs
and keep their fists
folded like napkins.

But I am not
here
to be digestible.

I am here
to be the thorn
in their headline.
The crack
in their sermon.
The protest
in their parade.

So say it.

Say woke
like it stings.
Say it
like a warning.
Say it
like I haven’t already
stitched it into my spine.

Because if being woke
means I see your pain
and don’t look away,
then call me awake.
Call me wildfire.
Call me inconvenient.

But don’t call me sorry.

I was not born
to stay asleep
in a system
built on silence.

So here’s to the woke girls,
The loudmouths.
The rule-breakers.
The empathy wielders.
The ones who cry in public
and vote in private
and show up anyway.

We are not broken.
We are not weak.
We are not done.

We are the storm
they tried to sleep through.

We are the dream
they didn’t want to have.

And we
are just
getting
started.