MMMMMM, A Myraid of Musings from a Mecurical, Messy , Magic Matriarch Life

This is a safe space, she said. You can let it out here. We are not marginalized here. This is community I looked into all the shades of Mother earth's fertile soil eyes staring back at me. I felt a since of belonging, no brown eyes have ever been in my safe space Even amongst my family, I was the sole owner of whiskey swirled chocolate Each woman spoke, space was held, words and validation shared Once my turn to share came round I hesitated for a moment, how safe I closed my eyes, and exhaled "I hate the word squaw from a man's lips. I hate seeing it in print beneath a women's body. It is violating"  The hesitation in my mind , was gone from my lips.   There was silence "I have never heard that word, as derogatory slang before." she passed on to the next woman.  I exited the room, lucky there was no awkward scraping of chairs or fumbled gathering of effects I simply clicked a red X My teeth hitting my lip, seemed the cue my lungs needed to clinch. My ey...

  I inherited 4000 years of matriarchs running through my veins    12 generations of women: carrying loads not their own, cloaking tradition in the acceptance of religion, quiet labors, secret rituals, dimmed lights, nervous laughs, waved hands, solo travels, held breath and stolen glances, stigma, a life never exhaled.  Given labels and names palatable to the weak, harmless to lustful and greedy: Mid wife, mother, community organizer, green thumb, good preacher’s wife, caretaker, foster mom, hippie, granola, mountain woman, throw back, freak, rebel,whore, odd duck, church chairwoman, Relief Society President, prepper type, visiting teacher, educator, soldier, life coach, doula, one of those women Anything but what we are: Witch, Warrior, medicine woman, Owl Woman, Shadow Walker, Clan Mother, Matriarch, Healer I inherited ancestral wisdom and shame, generational trauma that our women uniquely bear. Unspoken rules. Grit, strength, pain, confusion, lonely paths, rocky ...

  How many generations does a red light shine before permanence ?  Does the scarlet letter become a birthmark for her daughter?    How long before I cast a crimson glow?   Squaw, whore, trailer trash, red-light queen, going to be just like her mothers. Epitaphs of a life not even lived.Their words fall like embers and ash on snow. I understand the sizzle and heat , but puzzle at the source of fire, tis naught I tending these flames.   Their pointed stares, the shift of their hips, hands juggling in their pockets, stroking their manhood, rubbing their egos, licking their lips   My questions have answers.  One or eight,  it wouldn't matter I am the daughter of a branded town slut, granddaughter of a whores, descended from a mistress and slave. The stain runs as red as my blood, our stigma, our birthright. No matter how many prayers and murmured verses find us on our knees, once again in supplication to a man, it doesn't wash off....