… then tell it to fly. *
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Harriet Ross Tubman and all the brave and bold women behind us, with us, and before us 🌹
There is power in choosing one’s reaction to events instead of being a victim.
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In an earlier post, I talked a little bit about my own coming of age. I continue to be influenced by my old neighbor and the tale of her coming of age in Oklahoma near the turn of the 20th century. Her life as a Black woman then, as I heard and witnessed, resonates deeply with me to this day.
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We met when I was a young girl in the hood. She was a retired schoolteacher who lived down the street with her husband. They had no children, but were considered as very nice and respectable elders on our block. She rarely went out as far as I could tell. Her husband interacted with the people in the neighborhood more than she.
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On occasion, my mother would send me down to her house to clean and cook a little. Sometimes I would have to help her with her bath and comb her long white hair. I believe her husband asked my mom to send me.
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Her home was different than mine.
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I lived in a family full of children and parents. Her place had a dignified quiet and calm that older people had. I don’t know if that’s what she preferred but it existed. When I was there, I did not do a lot of talking. I observed her manner, listened, and did what I was told.
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I admit there were times that I did not want to be there, but I was an obedient child. My ‘wage’ for the day was 50 cents – two quarters that I dutifully gave to my mother for the family. Yes, I hated giving the money over, but we needed it.
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The woman was interesting in that I had never been in a well-appointed house like hers. She was very light-skinned, almost white in appearance and a bit stern. I wondered how she ended up in our community.
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The gallery of 8″ x 10″ framed portraits that she displayed on her wall were of her as a young girl to the present. She was a good-looking woman who exuded defiant dignity and some bitterness that I picked up on as a young child. As time went on I was able to glean a fact here, and a story there, about her life that was very familiar.
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Her family educated her in preparation for a marriage which would elevate her in life. Well, reality of life as a daughter of a privileged black family in Tulsa tragically changed as she approached the cusp of womanhood.
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Disappointment then triumph, then more of the same, weighed in the balance of her life, as they do for us all. She ended up marrying her husband, a very nice brown-skinned man.
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I never saw any tenderness pass between them.
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As a young girl, I wouldn’t know what kind of marriage they had, but neither seemed very happy. She was a bit of a miser and would pile on chores as I worked.
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Once, after I finished the day performing my duties for the old woman, her husband stopped me before I headed out the door. He usually disappeared when I was working. He asked me how much she paid me. I showed him and he gave me another dollar. He seemed perturbed that she paid me what she did.
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Just at that moment, I realized that she was probably not paying me what they had agreed that I would be paid.
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It hurt my heart that I had been treated that way. I did not know that I was being disrespected, but I did have the sense, finally, to tell my mom. She stopped sending me down to that house. I appreciated my dear mom for that.
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Later in my life, I realized that the old school teacher was a broken woman. Her husband was broken, too. He knew what she was and allowed her to take her own heartbreak and brokenness out on me.
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We were all broken souls, including my mom and I. We did not know our worth. Along with other women, however, we started to realize who we were and to find our own voices.
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It took me quite a long time to develop a voice, and now that I have it. I am not going to be silent. – Madeleine Albright
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There is power in choosing one’s reaction to events instead of being a victim.
Shirley J
💜
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*Don’t break the eagle’s wing then tell it to fly.
– Najwa Zebian
