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The Trung sisters,
Vietnamese resistors, Fighting their country's occupation. Declared themselves queens, Repelled the Chinese, Celebrated for saving a nation. Joan of Arc, A girl with spark, Strength and guts and guile. Led France to a win, Got Charles crowned king, Then killed in a way most vile. Harriet Tubman, To freedom she ran, Then returned to fight against slavery. Served in the civil war, And freed hundreds more. Icon of liberty and bravery. We were young girls once,
posing for selfies crammed in the bathroom of the ag barn, tight t-shirts and low-waisted jeans that screamed Skipped Lunch but also We’re Too Bible Belt to Speak of Such Things, fodder for fickle fellas to philander while we prayed to the gods of Tiger Beat Magazine to reveal Which Jonas Brother We Were Most Likely to Marry. I spent hours scrutinizing the finished products when they were posted on Facebook-- every time noting how many likes my friend got as the main poster--
Emma Flannigan wasn't your average Irish country woman.
In fact, she wasn't even Irish. And yet there she stood, in her home in the small town of Ceallach, getting ready for a day at the market. She finished pinning back her mousy brown hair, exposing her thin, pale face. Although she was only 23 years old, her features were aged with grief. She had, as the towns people often said, "lost her bloom" over the last few months; slowly fading away ever since the death of her husband, Seamus. They had only moved back to his homeland there in the Irish countryside a year before the tragic accident. And now, Emma, a very English woman, had to find her life there, in their Irish home, without him. Looking in the mirror by the door on the way out, she noted her pallid complexion, and, pinching her cheeks in the hopes of color, only seemed to redden them, as if from being too long in the sun. She untied her plain white house apron, hanging it by the door and brushed her hands down her blue cotton dress, smoothing out the bunches from where the apron had been tied. Then off she walked down the road to the market place. Matted, twisted, dreadlocked
afros of thick wavy knots a texture of curls inherited. Visions of childhood braids adorned with pink butterfly barrettes. My hair is singularly unique. As a child, you wouldn’t see my hair advertised, or products on the shelves of grocery stores never plastered on billboards. A neighborhood secret of black-owned beauty parlors filled with the scent of straightening combs used to flatten resistant coils. Smoking was forbidden
especially at the breakfast table. She knew it was against all the house rules, knew it was time for her to tidy up the debris on the table. Her parents taught her well. She listened. She heard them. She thinks of them now as she sits and smokes after breakfast. From childhood to the label of matron
responsibility falls on our shoulders like leaves from a tree that we rake through an eternal autumn and begin again each day. We know the descent will continue and we are the ones who must maintain the motion, never miss a leaf pile each with care and lament. Diligent in our task. Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts
You learned early to stand next to the back door, prepared to make a quick exit. So many things could have triggered that final flight-- the constant haystack slumping your camel back was so heavy. Trigger warning: mild profanity and mentions of rape and violence
Prologue Most people wonder how I became Queen. How a cocoa coloured woman like me became the ruler of a patriarchal, chauvinistic, post-colonial society? The truth? I did it by killing. One: A Made Woman Gulf of Zula, Ethiopia Several wars have raged between the Ethiopians and Arabs, leading to the seizure of the land by the Arabs and enslavement of the native tribes. Present Day I go to the gods every day. I was raised that way after all. My whole life has always predetermined. Where I have been, has never been a surprise and where I'm going is even less so. Still though there are times I am content. I live a life of comfort and opulence. I can have everything, well almost, everything I want. I am a wife, a daughter in-law, friend, and one day, hopefully a mother. What more do I need? Yet. I still go to the temple every day for hours. When I was a child,
I used to sing to the sky, I never thought anyone was listening, Or that somewhere up there, Gabriel was Leaning over too far To hear, after too many beers, Until he dropt Face-first to the floor. The pages they write Will never tell of how I Wiped cuts and scrapes From your mass of shapes Because it’s not a form They understand. |