What do women want? It may the most profound—or most trite—question of the modern world. Maybe the trouble is that what we want is fluid and changes tune as we hear messages from the media and from society.
We turn on the radio.
This is a man’s world, but it wouldn’t be nothing—nothing—without a woman or a girl. What a girl wants, what a girl needs, is some R-E-S-P-E-C-T. We want to see your true colors shining through. If you free your mind, the rest will follow.
We love our jobs. We hate our jobs. We feel fulfilled, and we feel oppressed.
It’s just another manic Monday, working 9 to 5—what a way to make a living. Sometimes it feels like we’re living in a material world. They say girls just want to have fun, but we’re taking what they’re giving ‘cause we’re working for a living. We got the beat, and yeah, we get knocked down, but we get up again, time after time.
We long for a close, personal relationship. But that’s a tall order.
When a man loves a woman, he should try a little tenderness. If you want a do-right, all-day woman, you gotta be a do-right, all-night man. When we turn around, every now and then, we think, “Who let the dogs out?”
We don’t want no scrubs, no smooth criminals who did it all for the nookie, so baby, don’t forget my number. We’re giving you the best that we got, and all we’re asking is that you wake us up before you go-go or there will be no more “I love you’s.” I want it that way—and if you don’t like it, you can go your own way.
(They say every girl’s crazy about a sharp-dressed man, but I kissed a girl and I want Candy. But Billie Jean is not my lover.)
We worry about appearance, mood and attitude. We wonder if we can be all things to all people.
You may wish they all could be California girls, like girls on film, but I am not your cherry pie and I’m not like the wind. I am woman; hear me roar. I’m not your superwoman. I’m a bitch; I’m a lover; I’m a child; I’m a mother. Hell, I’m a black magic woman.
But sometimes I feel like I’m just a girl, and that’s all that you’ll let me be. I can’t dance, and I can’t talk, and the only thing about me is the way I walk. It cuts like a knife. What would you do if I sang out of tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me?
We try to keep our faith.
You broke the bonds and you loosed the chains. You know I believed it, but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. But Grace, she takes the blame. She covers the shame, removes the stain—it could be her name. No one cries like a mother cries for peace on earth. So here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.
We turn off the radio.