(I wrote this poem on the occasion of my synagogue sisterhood's Vashti's Banquet. It references a number of biblical and midrashic sources, as well as commentaries, including modern, on Vashti and her story.)
I am known
you know
from the pen of men.
Ink's indelibility
forever staining my
name,
co-opted for the
sake
of an agenda that
was not my own.
I am known
you know
according to the
Scroll
named after that
other
more known
who replaced my
throne
next to the king
whose desires I
would not entertain.
I am known
you know
for my inaction,
condemned for my not
doing.
Denied a voice, a
verse,
a claim to my own
fate,
to carve out
my own words.
My own story –
intoned by the voice
of others -
no full due is
credited me.
I am simplified,
lessened,
diminished,
made insignificant.
It is the will of
the eunuch,
the ultimate
powerless,
so threatened by me,
who writes and seals
my censored story's
supposed end.
Not even my husband,
most powerful in the
land,
schemed to punish
me,
to banish me
from his kingdom.
Only remembering me
enough
to know his need for
another,
better,
in his bed.
I am known
you know
this day
too.
Celebrated
in circles of
sisters
who praise my
refusal,
who elevate me,
coronate me
a new queen:
of
self-determination,
an exemplar of
justice pursuit,
and yet a victim
of my own untimely
circumstances.
Still story known by
names
I never claimed for
myself.
Still victim,
Still used,
with others twisting,
diminishing my story
and me
to simple
straightforward
goodness
for their own
purposes,
not mine.
My story, my name
not mentioned even
10 times,
in Esther’s scroll,
has echoed and
beckoned for generations.
My story, my name
has been recorded
recounted,
re-written,
for ages.
Midrashic ink
flowing with the colors
of boiling blood and
cool deep sea.
Did you know,
I am known
by the Babylonian
rabbis
as a goat-tailed,
scaly-skinned whore?
The symbol of their
exile’s source,
So detesting of my
rule,
my power, my story-
they imagined me a
monster.[i]
Though not all
despised me so.
Did you know,
I am known
by the rabbis of Israel
as a source for
their pity?
They told of how
their Mighty God
Watched over me,
took me in,
saved me time and
time again
from life’s
cruelties and crushing force.
So listen as I tell
you
that there is more
to my story
beyond the twists and turns
of
one chapter of a scroll.
Not inactive or
reactive,
but determined and
willful.
Not pure evil or
good
but dimensioned and
full.
Not so easily fit or
forced into
a simple, bowed up
box.
So might you
entertain my desire,
this new night of
feting,
to tell you my story
more full
than you could
possibly know
so that you might
know me better?
You see I was the
daughter
of a great Chaldean
king,
whose own fate was
sealed at a feast
when I was but a girl.
A chandelier cut
from its chains
landing upon my
father's brains
in front of my very
eyes.
Chaos erupting in
the drunken room
I found my way to
the newly crowned king,
who pitied me, took
me in,
married me to his
own son,
the prince who would
one day be king,
Ahashveirosh.[ii]
Entertain the fact
that
I myself did
entertain
my fellow unknowns
at a fete of women,
a grand banquet,
in the palace of
non-other than the king himself.
And know that this
celebration
was no proper ladies
affair.
Said to rival the
licentiousness of my own husband's desires
my fete was set in
the innermost rooms of the castle,
just under the nose
of the king and his men,
So brazen and emboldened
was I.[iii]
But before you
bedeck me
in ribbons and
jewels,
call me "equality's champion,"
know too that in my
chamber
I took great
pleasure in demanding
my own maidservants,
Jews as they were,
serve me on their
seventh day.
And I preferred them
without their clothes,
only their trays and
washbasins in hand.
Do not seem so
surprised,
measure for measure[iv],
I never asked
to be your role
model or revulsion,
Neither Beauty nor
Mystique,
neither least or
most desired queen.
Know this:
They will tell of my
execution,
they will write of
the eunuch’s perverted
desire
to have my head
presented
and served
on a platter
at the seat of the king.
Some will speak of the
king
strangling me himself
In his drunken rage,
Fires so burning inside.[v]
But they do not
know,
No one does,
Where I abide.
The throne upon
which I now sit
I whittled and
carved myself
from craggy
crystals, thorny roses,
And knotted roots
from brush that grew
out of the Chaldean
sands of my Babylonia.
For I sit enthroned
in the echoing halls
of the banished,
of the monster-ed,
of the simplified,
of the misunderstood.
Our stories left
unfinished,
un-ended.
our fates un-written,
our red-ribbon hauntings,
our legends, our standings
not fully known
to any soul.
So dine and revel
this night
in my own banquet’s tribute,
but do me the honor
of judging me
for yourself.
Not by the story
you knew or
you wanted,
but by the fuller
tale
that you now know.
Beautifully written.
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