Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale - Chapter 5 lyrics

Doubled, I walk the street though we are
No longer in the Commanders' compound
There are large houses here also in
Front of one of them a Guardian is mowing the
Lawn the lawns are tidy
The facades are gracious
In good repair they're like the beautiful
Pictures they used to print in
The magazines about homes and
Gardens and interior decoration
There is the same absence of people
The same air of being asleep
The street is almost like a museum
Or a street in a model
Town constructed to show
The way people used to live as
In those pictures, those museums, those
Model towns, there are no children
This is the heart of Gilead
Where the war cannot intrude except
On television where the edges are


We aren't sure, they vary
According to the attacks and counterattacks
But this is the center
Where nothing moves the Republic of
Gilead, said Aunt Lydia
Knows no bounds gilead is within you
Doctors lived here once, lawyers
University professors
There are no lawyers anymore
And the university is closed
Luke and I used to walk together, sometimes
Along these streets we used to
Talk about buying a house like one
Of these, an old big house, fixing it up we
Would have a garden
Swings for the Children we would have
Children although we knew it
Wasn't too likely we could ever afford it
It was something to talk about
A game for Sundays such freedom
Now seems almost weightless
We turn the corner onto a main street
Where there's
More traffic cars go by, black most of them
Some gray and brown
There are other women with
Baskets, some in red, some in the
Dull green of the Marthas, some
In the striped dresses, red and blue and
Green and cheap and skimpy, that mark the
Women of the poorer men econowives
They're called these women are not
Divided into functions they have
To do everything if they can sometimes
There is a woman all
In black, a widow there used
To be more of them
But they seem to be diminishing
You don't see the
Commanders' Wives on the sidewalks
Only in cars
The sidewalks here are cement like a child
I avoid stepping on the
Cracks 'm remembering my feet on these
Sidewalks, in the time before
And what I used to wear on them sometimes
It was shoes for running, with
Cushioned soles and breathing holes
And stars of fluorescent fabric that
Reflected light in the darkness
Though I never
Ran at night and in the daytime
Only beside well-frequented roads
Women were not protected then
I remember the rules
Rules that were never spelled out but that
Every woman knew: Don't open your
Door to a stranger
Even if he says he is the police
Make him slide his ID under the
Door don't stop on the road
To help a motorist
Pretending to be in trouble keep the locks on
And keep going if anyone whistles
Don't turn to
Look don't go into a laundromat, by yourself
At night i think about laundromats what I
Wore to them: shorts, jeans
Jogging pants what
I put into them: my own clothes
My own soap, my own money
Money I had earned myself i
Think about having such control
Now we walk along the same
Street, in red pairs, and
No man shouts obscenities at
Us, speaks to us, touches us no one whistles
There is more than one kind of freedom
Said Aunt Lydia
Freedom to and freedom from in
The days of anarchy
It was freedom to now you are being
Given freedom from don't underrate it
In front of us, to the right, is the store
Where we order dresses some
People call them habit's
A good word for them habit's
Are hard to break
The store has a huge wooden sign outside it
In the shape of a golden lily Lilies of the
Field, it's called you can see the place
Under the lily, where the lettering
Was painted out
When they decided that even the names
Of shops were too much
Temptation for us now places are
Known by their signs alone
Lilies used to be a movie theater
Before students went there a
Lot every spring they
Had a Humphrey Bogart festival
With Lauren Bacall
Or Katharine Hepburn, women on their own
Making up their minds they wore
Blouses with buttons down
The front that suggested the possibilities
Of the word undone these
Women could be undone or not
They seemed to be
Able to choose we seemed to
Be able to choose, then we were a society
Dying, said Aunt Lydia, of too much choice
I don't know when they stopped
Having the festival i
Must have been grown up so I didn't notice
We don't go into Lilies
But across the road and along
A side street our
First stop is at a store with another
Wooden sign: three eggs, a bee, a cow
Milk and Honey there's a line
And we wait our turn, two by two i
See they have oranges today
Ever since Central
America was lost to the Libertheos
Oranges have been hard to get: sometimes they
Are there
Sometimes not the war interferes with the
Oranges from California, and even
Florida isn't dependable
When there are roadblocks or
When the train tracks
Have been blown up i look at the
Oranges, longing for one but
I haven't brought any coupons for oranges
I'll go back and tell
Rita about them, I think she'll be please, d
It will be something, a small achievement
To have made oranges happen
Those who've reached the counter hand
Their tokens across it
To the two men in Guardian uniforms
Who stand on the other
Side nobody talks much, though
There is a rustling, and the
Women's heads move furtively from side
To side: here, shopping, is where you might
See someone you know, someone you've
Known in the time before
Or at the Red Center just to
Catch sight of a face
Like that is an encouragement if
I could see Moira, just see
Her, know she still exists it's
Hard to imagine now, having a friend
But Ofglen, beside me, isn't looking
Maybe she doesn't
Know anyone anymore maybe they
Have all vanished
The women she knew or maybe
She doesn't want to
Be seen she stands in silence head down
As we wait in our double line, the door
Opens and two more women come in
Both in the red
Dresses and white wings of the
Handmaids one of them
Is vastly pregnant her belly
Under her loose garment
Swells triumphantly there is a shifting in
The room, a murmur, an escape of breath
Despite ourselves we turn
Our heads, blatantly
To see better our fingers itch to touch
Her she's a magic presence to us
An object of envy and
Desire, we covet her she's a
Flag on a hilltop
Showing us what can still be done:
We too can be saved the women in the room
Are whispering, almost talking
So great is their excitement
"Who is it?" I hear behind me
"Ofwayne no ofwarren"
"Show-off, " a voice hisses
And this is true a
Woman that pregnant doesn't have to go out
Doesn't have to go shopping
The daily walk is no longer prescribed
To keep her abdominal
Muscles in working order she needs
Only the floor exercises
The breathing drill she could stay at
Her house and it's dangerous for
Her to be out, there must be a Guardian
Standing outside the door
Waiting for her now that she's the
Carrier of life, she is closer to death
And needs special security jealousy
Could get her, it's happened before
All children are wanted now
But not by everyone
But the walk may be a whim
Of hers, and they humor whims
When something has gone this far
And there's been no miscarriage
Or perhaps she's one of those, Pile it on
I can take
It, a martyr i catch a glimpse of her face
As she raises it to look around
The voice behind me was right
She's come here to display
Herself she's glowing, rosy
She's enjoying every minute of this
"Quiet, " says one of the
Guardians behind the counter
And we hush like schoolgirls
Ofglen and I have reached the counter
We hand over our tokens
And one Guardian enters the numbers
On them into the Compubite
While the other gives us
Our purchases, the milk, the eggs
We put them into our baskets
And go out again, past the pregnant
Woman and her partner, who
Beside her looks spindly, shrunken as we all
Do the pregnant woman's belly is
Like a huge fruit humungous
Word of my childhood her hands rest
On it as if to defend it, or as if they're
Gathering something from it
Warmth and strength
As I pass she looks full at me, into my eyes
And I know who she is she was at the
Red Center with me
One of Aunt Lydia's pets i
Never liked her her name, in the time before
Was Janine janine looks at me, then
And around the corners of her
Mouth there is the trace
Of a smirk she glances down to where my
Own belly lies flat under my red robe
And the wings cover her face i can see only
A little of her forehead
And the pinkish tip of her nose

Next we go into All Flesh
Which is marked by a large wooden pork chop
Hanging from two chains there isn't so
Much of a line here: meat is expensive
And even the
Commanders don't have it every day
Ofglen gets steak, though
And that's the second time this week
I'll tell that to the
Marthas: it's the kind of thing
They enjoy hearing about they
Are very interested in how other households
Are run such bit's of
Petty gossip give them an opportunity
For pride or discontent i take the chicken
Wrapped in butcher's paper and trussed
With string not many
Things are plastic, anymore i remember those
Endless white plastic shopping bags
From the supermarket I hated to waste
Them and would stuff them in under the sink
Until the day would come when there would
Be too many and I would open the
Cupboard door and they would bulge out
Sliding over the floor luke used
To complain about it periodically
He would take all the bags and throw them out
She could get one of those over her head
He'd say you know how kids like to
Play she never would, i'd say she's too old
(Or too smart, or too lucky) But, I
Would feel a chill of fear
And then guilt for
Having been so careless it was true, I took
Too much for granted I trusted fate
Back then
I'll keep them in a higher cupboard
I'd say don't keep them at
All, he'd say we never use
Them for anything garbage bags
I'd say he'd say not here and now not where
People are looking i turn, see my
Silhouette in the plate glass window
We have come outside, then
We are on the street
A group of people is coming
Towards us they're tourists
From Japan it looks like
A trade delegation perhaps
On a tour of the historic
Landmarks or out for local color
They're diminutive and neatly
Turned out each has his or her camera
His or her smile they
Look around, brighteyed, cocking
Their heads to one side like robins
Their very cheerfulness aggressive
And I can't help staring it's been a long
Time since I've seen skirts that short
On women the skirts reach just below the knee
And the legs come out from beneath them
Nearly naked in their thin
Stockings, blatant
The high heeled shoes with their
Straps attached to the
Feet like delicate instruments of
Torture the women
Teeter on their spiked feet as if on stilts
But
Off balance their backs arch at the waist
Thrusting the buttocks out their
Heads are uncovered
And their hair too is exposed
In all it's darkness and
Sexuality they wear lipstick, red
Outlining the damp cavities of
Their mouths, like scrawls on
A washroom wall, of the time before
I stop walking ofglen stops beside me
And I know that she
Too cannot take her eyes off
These women we are fascinated
But also repelled
They seem undressed it has taken so
Little time to change our minds
About things like this
Then I think: I used to dress
Like that that was freedom
Westernized, they used to call it
The Japanese tourists come
Towards us, twittering
And we turn our heads away too
Late: our faces have been seen
There's an interpreter, in the standard blue
Suit and red patterned tie
With the winged-eye tie
Pin he's the one who steps forward, out
Of the group, in front of us
Blocking our way the tourists
Bunch behind him one of them raises a camera
"Excuse me, " he says to both of us
Politely enough "They're asking if they
Can take your picture"
I look down at the sidewalk
Shake my head for no what they
Must see is the white wings
Only, a scrap of face
My chin and part of my mouth
Not the eyes i know better
Than to look the interpreter
In the face most of
The interpreters are Eyes, or so it's said
I also know better than to
Say yes modesty is invisibility
Said Aunt Lydia never forget it to
Be seen to be seen is to be her
Voice trembled penetrated what you
Must be, girls
Is impenetrable she called us girls
Beside me, Ofglen is also silent she's tucked
Her red-gloved hands up into her sleeves
To hide them
The interpreter turns back to the group
Chatters at them
In staccato i know what he'll be saying
I know the line he'll be
Telling them that the women
Here have different customs, that to stare
At them through the lens of
A camera is, for them
An experience of violation
I'm looking down, at the sidewalk
Mesmerized by the women's
Feet one of them is
Wearing open-toed sandals
The toenails painted pink
I remember the smell of nail polish
The way it wrinkled
If you put the second coat on too soon
The satiny
Brushing of sheer pantyhose against the skin
The way the toes felt
Pushed towards the opening in the
Shoe by the whole
Weight of the body the woman
With painted toes shifts from
One foot to the other i can feel her shoes
On my own feet the smell of
Nail polish has made me hungry
"Excuse me, " says the interpreter again
To catch our attention i nod
To show I've heard him
"He asks, are you happy, " says
The interpreter i can imagine it
Their curiosity: Are they happy? How can they
Be happy? I can feel their bright
Black eyes on us, the way they lean a little
Forward to catch our
Answers, the women especially, but the men
Too: we are secret, forbidden
We excite them
Ofglen says nothing there is a silence but
Sometimes it's as dangerous not to speak
"Yes, we are very happy
" I murmur i have to say
Something what else can I say?