I once knew a woman who was filled with fight,
demanding independence from her husband
after living in a world that depended on him,
she created her own bank account,
even though it meant fighting every day with this husband
to claim her self, her mind, her body even.
I once knew a woman, a single mom who worked multiple jobs,
ones in which she climbed up the ladder to get more money, more prestige, more worth,
she cooked,
she cleaned,
she tried to discipline,
she worked,
worked,
worked,
fighting to have enough for her children, herself.
A mother of two, who did it all:
demonstrated the art of independence,
of warrior-hood, of progressiveness.
This woman showed me that I, too, could do it all, be it all,
without the need of a man to lean on.
She pushed ancient boundaries aside,
holding up signs of resistance–
and I looked up to her long cascading hair,
sari flowing in the wind as if she were my personal Joan of Arc,
but she didn’t need to wear armor, her armor was her actions.
Every day since I became a grown-up,
I have searched for this woman,
who…
in her old age has changed,
regressed back into the ancient woman:
submissive, dependent, self loathing.
As I have become her, or at least the her I knew as a child,
she has become someone I don’t recognize anymore.
So I search, hoping to catch a glimpse of that woman,
the warrior who showed me that I was one too.
