“She Taught Me With Her Hands”

She didn’t call it feminism.

She called it

survival.

Said it while folding clothes,

while stirring the pot

of rice and worry.

“Keep your name,”

she said.

“Your name is your own.”

That was her gospel.

She had no books on the shelf

about liberation,

but she taught me

how to hold a spine

like a sword.

Her hands,

calloused from

wringing out silence,

taught me

how to knead anger into dough—

how to make softness

strong.

Her knuckles told stories

the newspapers missed.

Of cleaning homes

she would never afford.

Of raising children

who called her by her first name,

never mother.

Of holding it together

when the world refused

to hold her.

I watched her

carry grief like groceries—

balanced and breakable.

She stitched power

into everything she touched.

Turned nothing

into dinner.

Turned silence

into safety.

Turned “don’t speak”

into “watch me.”

I learned feminism

in the kitchen light.

In how she said “no”

with a raised eyebrow.

In how she said “yes”

to herself

when no one was looking.

In the unspoken code

between women

who knew how to cry without sound

but march anyway.

Now I teach my niece

to speak before she’s asked.

To take up the whole room.

To say “mine”

without guilt.

To wear rage

like lipstick

and love like armor.

To know her body

is not an apology.

Her voice

is not a favor.

Her softness

is not for sale.

We are the continuation—

not the copy.

We are louder,

yes.

But we are still

her.

Still the hands

doing the work.

Still the ones

stitching joy into the seams

of resistance.

Still the ones

burning the dinner

because the protest ran long.

Still the ones

teaching.

Still the ones

learning.

Still

her.