The Path of Women

The women in my family before me, they carved a path for me.

This path at times winds gently through dew-damp forests, along sun-dappled streams and rivers. A canopy of leaves keep the sun-blistering heat of day at bay. When night descends it darkens the once cheery path where teeth and claws strike at unsuspecting prey. Sometimes the path meanders lazily though sunny meadowlands, to where winds gently bend the grasses seemingly with open arms to invite one for a rest. Other times, the path ascends over treacherous gravelly terrain along perilously rocky cliffs. Here, a millennia of thunderous storms have taken their toll on this stretch of road. Waves crash harshly over boulders and rocks that have broken off, falling thousands of feet below to their demise.

From darkness to light to darkness again, these souls soldiered on their journey. Reaching back to pull those struggling from behind. Reaching across to sisters to hold hands, to stand shoulder to shoulder, or to offer a shoulder to lean on. Always cutting a path forward, spreading the thickness with strong outstretched arms and stronger nerve and courage. They carved this path for their daughters, their granddaughters and great-granddaughters. They have fought many battles and wars that no one speaks of, and few even know exist. Cast aside with no value, needs ignored, chastised, assaulted and worse. Yet my matronly ancestors held their heads high, tossed shoulders back, and stood tall; to be heard, to help, to protect.

Hushed conversations with my grandmother come to mind, her once dark hair dyed to golden blonde; “Shh, Great Grandmother was colored.” and “Shh, Great Grandfather, abusive. I left home at sixteen”, “Grandfather was a womanizer.” Conversations she hid from her daughter, her sisters, from everyone. Everyone but me. With these secret declarations, the torch passes it to me.

I watch my own daughters daily struggle in the face of her battles. Strangers try talk to her first in Spanish; she shakes her head. They try Italian. Again no.

“English please” she says quietly.

Her dark skin hints at her heritage, permanently tanned next to my pale skin, a match for a great, great grandparent she’ll never know or meet. This is only one of many battles I know my daughter will face. We have tough conversations about life, of men, entitled behavior and assault. Conversations my mother, her mother and her mother before would have never have had. Could never have had. The connotation of shame envelopes us both, paints us as victims and hangs heavy in the air.

Words from my mother, her mother and hers before linger unsaid;

“Never walk alone.”

“Don’t stray off the main road.”

“Be careful how you dress.”

“Be careful when you speak.”

“Be careful what you say.”

I throw my shoulders back, hold my head high.

“You did nothing wrong!” I say, “It isn’t we who should feel shame.”

Realizing the weight of my words, and how much they apply to myself, to my history, my mothers’ history, and her mothers' before her, I pause. We are the lucky ones. I can share my story without risk; without threat of being silenced, of being cast aside by society, of incurring injury, ridicule, assault or worse.

And so the torch has passed to me. And now I look ahead. It is my obligation to continue to carve the path for my daughter, her daughter, and all daughters to follow.

I extend my arms out to my sisters, wherever and whomever they are, “You’re not alone, we carry this torch together, together we carve the path.”