Illustration by Mahgul Farooqui
Steering Wheel
A poem about female experiences of riding taxis.
Dec 3, 2017
A poem by Ayah Rashid
They drive cabs, ubers, lyfts
They have skin ranging from
6.5 almond to deep dark
Identical perked up first gazes
Last week their collective grins
Broke my back
Cough up my origins whenever
I stretch a belt across my chest
to contain the depth of my irritated sigh —
They need proof. Bang on my spine
Get me to choke on where I’m from
They never believe me. For them
America could not be imprinted on
the backs of my wet palms at birth.
the backs of my wet palms at birth.
Some ask me when I am
coming back from my errands —
They desire to pick me up later.
Some of them twist the knob
of the radio, fuzzy Ariana Grande emerging.
of the radio, fuzzy Ariana Grande emerging.
Tearing down the road like a
boat splitting an ocean belly in half
I rock side to side, gaze fixed on
the horizon so I don’t get men-sick
Am I married — sometimes
I say that I am: My husband
awaits with the porch light on, a gun
cocked ready to shoot them between
the eyes for letting theirs wander
A woman like me must be possessed
by an overprotective man: Bigshouldered,
Huskybearded, Constantlytexting, Frownlipped
They all look in the rearview mirror
before switching lanes.
Am I student — what do I study
Not medicine or law
What a shame
One of them buries his cowardice
far enough down into his balls to sigh and
exclaim his deep feelings for me
which he acquired in the 187 seconds
spent gazing at my nose instead of the
traffic ahead. He says I Will
Come to America With You.
The walls of the vehicle drop
I drown in invisible hands.
They scrape under layers
of my epidermis between
Every pore — A camera eyes
the whole exchange but no one
will ever see how disgusting I feel
They all press on the brakes at yellow lights.
Does my father live here. For them he does —
Yes, my father is in the passenger seat,
Waiting for my signal,
save me I inhale exhale
My life is theirs for 12 dirhams 25 phils.
They tease me, make suggestive comments.
WhatcanIdo whatshouldIdo whatshouldIsay
Tears, in some of these interrogations,
are far too precious to shed,
Although wetness builds
In my brain, my lungs
Please, break my eyes, blindfold theirs
I know I am beautiful, friendly
But where is their dignity
If a male accompanies me he becomes
My brotheruncleboyfriendloverhusband
To keep the ones who drive cars at bay
They might glance lustfully but that is all
I want my tongue to wrap around an ocean wave
One that splinters the windows of the cab, uber, lyft
One that scoops them up and screams in their ears
I am not your specimen That is none of your business
That is inappropriate No thank you Drop me off
Right now on the side of the road No I will not
Pay you for taking me this far —
But the salt water in my gut remains still
If only my silence alone could keep their
Armrests, running meters, seat belts, prying eyes
That want to unwrap my scarf, smell my face,
Brush my fingers far away. Eyes unhinge me
I sit in the vise of _______ seconds.
I feel
As though I have not bathed in years
I am a permanent resident of the back seat
Glad their sticky hands never left the steering wheel
Ayah Rashid is a contributing writer. Email her at feedback@thegazelle.org.
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