I Am From

Solid men who told their daughters if they were feeling smart and strong they were on the right track.

I Am From

Broken women who broke each other with mistrust and sly smiles.

I Am From

Loving men who cooked, cleaned, wiped their babies’ butts, cuddled and soothed.

I Am From

Smart, funny women who could stretch a dollar, make ends meet, sew clothes out of feedsacks. Spent hot summers putting up enough food to last the winter. Went without and made do.

I Am From

Men who loved their mother and protected her from their father. Naively thought all women were like her and put them on pedestals they didn’t deserve.

I Am From

A mother who wasn’t mothered. Who was betrayed and left with a black hole inside her. A hole my dad, nor me, nor my brother could fill with light.

I Am From

Alcohol. Secrets. Spin doctors. Guessing. Shifting ground. Arbitrarily changed rules. Don’t ask.

I Am From

Great Aunts who were movie stars in waiting. Who scared me with their croaky voices and dark eyes magnified by thick lenses. Who loved wrestling and cowboys. Who listened in on party lines and called other people nosy.

I Am From

Women whose hands wrung the necks of chickens. Soothed a fevered brow. Made pie crust that melted in your mouth. Whose fingers flew around a tatting shuttle making lace as delicate as dandelion fuzz.

I Am From

Morel hunters. Fishermen. Craftsmen. Readers. Sports players and sports fans. Pipe smokers.

I Am From

Women who were told to snap out of it by their mothers. Who were told to take a pill by their male doctors. Who were told to buck, up, move on, get over it. Who were told by magazine articles to do it all and be happy about. Don’t let them see you sweat because that would be unfeminine.

I Am From

Men who were judged by their strength, not their tenderness. Men who were judged by how much money they made, not how much time was spent with their families.

I Am From

All of this and more. A brew that cooked up a complicated me.

 

Rebekah Spivey for the Poplar Grove Muse