Growing Up Female in the '50s.(Poem)

 
  A whistling girl and a crowing hen 
  Both will come to no good end 
 
My mother was Jewish; Betty's Irish 
yet they both recited that same 
damned ditty to hem us into woman's 
place because outside of that narrow 
 
walled path they walked, burden 
heavy on their rounded shoulders, 
they imagined nothing but a waste 
land, a rain of fire and stones. 
 
Don't cross your legs; your skirt's 
too short, your sweater too tight. 
Don't laugh so loud. Don't yell 
even if I do, and that's 'cause 
 
you're so wicked. Laugh at his 
jokes, don't contradict, don't 
act so ...