Courtesy of Bart de Paepe’s Sloow Tapes
This is a historical recording by Judith Malina, who died two weeks ago. I’ve transcribed the text the way it struck my ear, but its true power can’t be fully appreciated until you’ve heard her read the poem for yourself. — JH
every one of the cleaning women
dreamt of something else
when she was seventeen.
they smile. they joke.
they sigh in their smocks
and their comfy shoes.
they try not to recall the plans
for a miracle or a marriage,
all the schemes that each of them made
with their young man in the marriage bed
of a house in the fields or a store in a city.
now they are widowed or worn,
the man drunk or dead or departed
or unable to make ends meet.
every one of the cleaning women
hoped that the prince would come and
rescue her
from the pail and the wringer.
the fairytale promised that the girl
who sat by the Singer’s was to be clothed in splendor,
inherit the kingdom.
slowly that dream wore down.
when i was eighteen
and worked in the laundry
counting the dirty wash,
i dreamed that the prince would come —
and he came —
and that my talent and ardor
would rescue me from lifting five napkins,
eight pieces underwear
rescue and lead to a privileged life.
and i was the fortunate one
leading a privileged life
rescued from smock and broom.
and now my friends ask me
why i’m so sad
when i see the cleaning women laughing
as though they were nothing. ‘oh you and your
jewish guilt.’ or ‘somebody has to do it.’
but every one of the cleaning women
dreamed that it wouldn’t be she.
