Waiting
A Poem by Faith Wilding
(early 1970s)
Waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . .
Waiting for someone to come in
Waiting for someone to hold me
Waiting for someone to feed me
Waiting for someone to change my diaper Waiting . . .
Waiting to scrawl, to walk, waiting to talk
Waiting to be cuddled
Waiting for someone to take me outside
Waiting for someone to play with me
Waiting for someone to take me outside
Waiting for someone to read to me, dress me, tie my shoes
Waiting for Mommy to brush my hair
Waiting for her to curl my hair
Waiting to wear my frilly dress
Waiting to be a pretty girl
Waiting to grow up Waiting . . .
Waiting for my breasts to develop
Waiting to wear a bra
Waiting to menstruate
Waiting to read forbidden books
Waiting to stop being clumsy
Waiting to have a good figure
Waiting for my first date
Waiting to have a boyfriend
Waiting to go to a party, to be asked to dance, to dance close
Waiting to be beautiful
Waiting for the secret
Waiting for life to begin Waiting . . .
Waiting to be somebody
Waiting to wear makeup
Waiting for my pimples to go away
Waiting to wear lipstick, to wear high heels and stockings
Waiting to get dressed up, to shave my legs
Waiting to be pretty Waiting . . .
Waiting for him to notice me, to call me
Waiting for him to ask me out
Waiting for him to pay attention to me
Waiting for him to fall in love with me
Waiting for him to kiss me, touch me, touch my breasts
Waiting for him to pass my house
Waiting for him to tell me I’m beautiful
Waiting for him to ask me to go steady
Waiting to neck, to make out, waiting to go all the way
Waiting to smoke, to drink, to stay out late
Waiting to be a woman Waiting . . .
Waiting for my great love
Waiting for the perfect man
Waiting for Mr. Right Waiting . . .
Waiting to get married
Waiting for my wedding day
Waiting for my wedding night
Waiting for sex
Waiting for him to make the first move
Waiting for him to excite me
Waiting for him to give me pleasure
Waiting for him to give me an orgasm Waiting . . .
Waiting for him to come home, to fill my time Waiting . . .
Waiting for my baby to come
Waiting for my belly to swell
Waiting for my breasts to fill with milk
Waiting to feel my baby move
Waiting for my legs to stop swelling
Waiting for the first contractions
Waiting for the contractions to end
Waiting for the head to emerge
Waiting for the first scream, the afterbirth
Waiting to hold my baby
Waiting for my baby to suck my milk
Waiting for my baby to stop crying
Waiting for my baby to sleep through the night
Waiting for my breasts to dry up
Waiting to get my figure back, for the stretch marks to go away
Waiting for some time to myself
Waiting to be beautiful again
Waiting for my child to go to school
Waiting for life to begin again Waiting . . .
Waiting for my children to come home from school
Waiting for them to grow up, to leave home
Waiting to be myself
Waiting for excitement
Waiting for him to tell me something interesting, to ask me how I feel
Waiting for him to stop being crabby, reach for my hand, kiss me good morning
Waiting for fulfillment
Waiting for the children to marry
Waiting for something to happen Waiting . . .
Waiting to lose weight
Waiting for the first gray hair
Waiting for menopause
Waiting to grow wise Waiting . . .
Waiting for my body to break down, to get ugly
Waiting for my flesh to sag
Waiting for my breasts to shrivel up
Waiting for a visit from my children, for letters
Waiting for my friends to die
Waiting for my husband to die Waiting . . .
Waiting to get sick
Waiting for things to get better
Waiting for winter to end
Waiting for the mirror to tell me that I’m old
Waiting for a good bowel movement
Waiting for the pain to go away
Waiting for the struggle to end
Waiting for release
Waiting for morning
Waiting for the end of the day
Waiting for sleep Waiting . . .
“Waiting” was performed at Womanhouse in Los Angeles sponsored by the Feminist Art Program, California Institute of the Arts.
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each time i have seen the womanhouse video of this performance i have wept; each time my heart has broken
for waiting is my habit
for as long as i can remember
it has been my habit to wait
and to work to understand, sympathize,
care, make room for, rationalize,
explain away
it has been a silent waiting
my waiting has been different than in this poem
there never were children; they did not come and
i don't think any one else is responsible for me
i never have; though some have come alongside
but i have waited none the less
my form of waiting has been an unhealthy habit
but i have believed (and still do) to wait is compassionate, giving,
caring, making room for imperfections
and so i have waited for as long as i can remember
for it is my habit
it has been my habit to wait to see
that person with whom the other claims to be,
manifest within our relationship
it has been a waiting to see that kernel
of all the goodness i can see buried there,
surface
it has been a waiting for the things that cover
over, that muddy, that distract, that alienate, that distance,
melt away
my form of waiting was meant
to deflect my hurt without blaming;
deflect disappointment without burdening
another with my hopes or needs;
to deflect anger at what appeared as disregard
because anger didn't resolve it simply alienated;
any hint of anger, disappointment or hurt
appeared experienced as threat;
my form of waiting was to hope in goodness uncovered, made real
my form of waiting appears to
not uncover goodness,
does not make room for it to become real
but instead enables
i do not understand this
hope and waiting have always been linked for me
i think my habit of waiting stemmed from hoping
but how does one stop waiting
without giving up hope
i experienced that once
the loss of hope
it was devastating
yet i repeatedly return to my habit of waiting
if i stop waiting
were will hope go
isn't hope a form of waiting
how do the different forms of waiting separate themselves
so that i can hold on to a healthy waiting
one that is not enabling
i want to hold on to
the one that is hopeful
the one that is believing
the one that is trusting
and let go of the waiting which enables
honestly, i have no idea how to do this
maybe i am not suppose to wait
isn't waiting a form of not living in the present
but living instead in tomorrow
where no one else resides?
maybe i am not suppose to wait
but what is hope then?
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