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Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

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What Next?

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On either side, the forest stood, pallor gray in winter wood–

timber guards of maidenhood, keystone for the common good,

in times soon best forgot.

And where the mist wove and crept, where the light drowned and wept,

where the moonbeams never slept, the women bore their lot.

In four gray walls, in high-flung towers, hermetically sealed like hothouse flowers,

protection from themselves and others, resided Eve’s ancestral daughters,

in times soon best forgot.

And in those walls the women lay, so privileged their livelong day,

no work, no fear, no joy, had they; childbearing was their lot.

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As in the tower’s hidden might, they wove and knit, as only right,

inside their wombs, so round and tight, the future of the kingdom bright,

               in times soon best forgot.

Wordlessly, they wove away, fearfully trusting, and obeyed;

a curse was on them if they stayed; submission was their lot.

But moonbeams have a certain slant that conjures up subversive chant,

and daughter, mother, matron aunt grew alchemized, recalcitrant

                in the land time best forgot.

Inside the marble masonry the daughters knit most seamlessly,

plots they hatched most shamelessly. Wallflowers, they are not.         

                              3

Each petal, thorn, each bud and fruit, each piston and each new-sprung shoot,

hemlock, wolfsbane, jessamine root with burning ache construct their soup,

a deadly broth to give the boot

to times now best forgot.

Bubble double toil and trouble, hurly-burly, then redouble,

bring it down to stub and rubble,

               this lot that men begot.

Eye of newt and adder’s sting baboon’s hair like orange string

in the charm, then watch it bring all the good trouble, they sing

               in a land that’s now beset

with ache inside the tower base that rises up, begins to rage,

to caterwaul and loose the cage and crack each parapet.

                              4

‘til brick by brick, women dismantle the mandible and tooth enamel,

the clenching jaw, the instrument panel

hissing and fizzing and snuffing the candle,

               watching it all fall away              

until…

Grim harvest resting at the base

head in basket, sore disgraced,

lies —

some claim –

a devil’s orange face.

But we’re too busy planning more.                       Instead, we say,             

                              5

               What next?

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Scriptural Limitations and the SBC Vote

Well, I thought (knew) it would happen. And now it has. Church has officially attacked IVF via the preacher men at the Southern Baptist Convention. (How long ’til government follows suit?) The measure states: “Couples who experience the searing pain of infertility can turn to God, look to Scripture for numerous examples of infertility, and know that their lament is heard by the Lord, who offers compassion and grace to those deeply afflicted by such realities.”

Look to scripture.

The Old Testament discusses infertility (in terms of barrenness) far more often than the New. And as I recall, a couple times, it involves handmaids – which maybe wasn’t quite the way the intended children were to be supplied, but the Lord works in mysterious ways, isn’t that the saying? And the sons of those handmaids were blessed many times over in the bible.

Barrenness is explored in the New Testament, too. In this one instance (unless I’ve missed more), an angel appears, and promises the man a son. Always, a son. This time, John the Baptist.

So, the Baptists these days will say that children are granted if you desire them enough, pray for them enough, rely on your dreams and your prophets and your handmaids enough, maybe then, you’ll conceive.

But here’s my question: when the desire is there, but it wanes (like in fizzles and flops) then what?

Will these preacher men at the SBC also “look to scripture” when they and the men of the fold suffer erectile disfunction? Will Viagra likewise be opposed?

But then, there’s no male version of infertility in scripture. No male version of a handmaid for women to bed either. So surely Viagra’s fair game. It’s an answer to prayers, after all.

I mean, whatever it takes if you’re a man.

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Your Most Diabolical Lies

I have taken out of thine hand the cup of trembling

            — Isaiah 51:22

Our minds are not yours

to have your way with.

No, not our bodies either.

Keep your key to our lives

and achievements to yourself.

You are no master of ours.

Still, you come to us with longing

and unsolicited advice:

Let down your hair and your goals

and your dangerous gender ideologies.

Be your husband’s pride and joy,

of less daring — more noble — character.

More for less.

You want us smaller

(the little woman

cowered under

Adam’s rib).

YOU COWARD.

You want our riches, but not our power.

Our diamonds, coal, cherries, oil.

You want to strip us, nail us, crush us,

pillage, plunder, f**k us.

Well f**k that.

Our world is not your oyster.

You cannot plumb our depths.

And because we will not let you,

you’re hellbent to pry the lock

and nail us to the cross you claim

we’re destined to bear ‘til kingdom come.

Your kingdom.

But how’s that old parable go?

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,

followed by horse, rider, battle, and kingdom…

There’s a proverb for you.

You want us trembling?

We’ll give you the very cup of trembling.

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Until Then

Picture this… Mothers and Daughters

Their procreative powers celebrated and valued

Along with

Their minds and voices, acknowledged and revered

— whether child-bearing, child-rearing, bread-winning, globe-setting or game-changing.

Women, not relegated to house and home, but women, free to regulate themselves.

Free to roam. 

It could happen. It still could.

Picture so many women, Mothers and Daughters, 

set to tell their stories. Mothers and Daughters

with stories like mine and hers and theirs. 

Stories ready to be sung out, loud and proud. 

Ready to upset the maelstrom of men and their spheres of control, 

their spears of control,

manipulating stories.

controlling bodies, 

codifying minds. 

Women set to tell their stories unhobbled by laws, unhanged with stigma, unsacrificed on altars, no longer denigrated and diminished.

Picture Mothers and Daughters unlabeled.

Unlabeled as virgins, ladies, cock-teases, cougars, sluts, spinsters, trophy wives, whores, hags. Frigid or loose. Nasty or pure.

Unlabeled. Unhysterical, Unfat, Unskinny, Unugly, Unhot.

Unused and Unabused. 

But no longer UnSung. Singing so many stories.

It could happen. It will. 

That’s where me and my kind come in. The writers, the poets, the instigators.

The storytellers.

We play a fundamental role in the histories of Her Stories. 

We keep the home fires burning, 

Fostering and fueling far more than fires in hearths.

Feeding fires in hearts.

Encouraging stargazing, fire eating, and drops of Jupiter in our hair. 

It’s in our dna, and has been, since the wheel first whetted the knife. Caves first oxidized hands.

And we’ll keep doing it until the reach of our arms and the span of our hips, and the stride of our steps no longer fits the limits of their boxes.

Until our potential is so great, vibrates so powerfully, wells and swells so phenomenally, that their spheres all burst and new worlds are all birthed, new galaxies unfold…

And we all find a place. 

Our place –

– for ourselves and our daughters. 

Until then.

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It’s not just about what you think it’s all about

I know about stolen rights. I lived them. I write about them. I just completed a novel composed of situations and scenarios from my life when I was deeply entombed in a cult that allowed me no voice and no rights. No anything except somebody else’s opinions and beliefs and actions forced inside me over and over and over.

Not rape, no. Not in a sexual sense. But yes, in a sex sense. Not in a violent sense, no. But yes, in a violated sense.

My bodily autonomy violated every hour of every day. My mind infringed upon. Hobbled. My brain and opinions gutter-stomped in the hopes that all I could regurgitate was an amalgamation of what they were putting inside me. Subservience. Shame. The sin-fueled inheritance of Eve.

I escaped and never looked back. No, not true. I did look back – I do look back. And I thank my lucky stars I escaped. And I write my testimony so others won’t have to live it.

Only sometimes I wonder if any of it makes any difference anyway. Because everywhere around me I see intense brainwashing. Beliefs so warped and controlled that I don’t know if anything that is said, if anything that is done, if anything that is witnessed and testified to and documented makes any sort of difference anyways.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop. That doesn’t mean I won’t do my utmost to part the veil and bring light to the darkness of what I’ve seen happen to women when they are abused and ignored and labeled and sacrificed.

Because women will be sacrificed. They will die. Because doctors – doctors who know and understand the risks are being hobbled too. Their voices are being stolen too. They are unable to sound an alarm loud enough to save the victims. So women will die. And babies will die. They will be brought into this world only to suffer and die. Or to suffer through a broken system that will not save them. Because people who know and understand cannot shout it loud enough to be heard. People will be – are being – entombed. Figuratively and literally.

It’s not just about what you think it’s all about. And while it’s already ugly, it’s gonna get so much uglier. I wish you would believe me.

Because I know.

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I Am Not JUST A Woman

My Advance Comp students have been writing counter-narrative poems this week — poems about how they are so much more than what people judge them and stereotype them as. I wrote one right along with them — one that if you know me, you know I feel quite passionate about…

“I Am not JUST a Woman”

I do have all the girl parts and love to play the girl parts – fix my hair, wear my makeup, get dressed up to go out on the weekends,

But I am not JUST a woman.

I do know my way around a kitchen, and I love to don my apron and bake up batch after batch of cookies,

But I am not JUST a woman.

I do love my children, and being pregnant were some of the most fulfilling and awe-inspiring times of my life,

and I do love to kick off my shoes go barefoot through the clover and feel the chill of the hardwood floors on the soles of my feet,

but I am not JUST a woman.

I do get emotional sometimes. I cry at Publix commercials and when the guy gets the girl at the end of the film, and at some point (or twelve) in the classroom when I’m proud;

I get hormonal and hangry and chocolate and ice cream are my favorite go-to craving cures,

But I am not JUST a woman.

I might struggle to bench (just-barely) the bar; I might lose at arm-wrestling matches 10 out of 10 times, but don’t mistake me for weak and don’t mistake me for soft and don’t call me pushover and lady-part names.

I am not JUST a woman (and those parts are fiercer and stronger and more pain-tolerant and flexible than any part the opposing team has EVER possessed.)

I may be quiet, not speak very loud. I may be shy and not look you too long in the eyes. I may take care with just how I interact,

But I say what I mean and I mean what I say; I have opinions and a voice and I give both the light of day. I fight for my rights and for others each day, especially the ones whose lives get foul play.

I am not JUST a woman.

I’m a baker and scholar, a nurturer and warrior, outspoken and introverted, emotional and rational, I’m female and fierce.

I drive a minivan. And my kids crazy. The ones at home and the ones in my classroom.

I am quirky and classic, passionate and calm, powerful and tender, tough and tired.

I’m tired of seeing people labeled and dismissed for their skin and their clothes and their gender and their build and their address and their hair, their sexuality, their politics, their country of origin, their faith.

II am a human and a humanitarian.

I am so much more than the sum of my parts, and I am so much more than JUST a woman.

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I Escaped a Cult Once, Can our Country do the Same?

The happenings in the world have sent me toppling backwards — years backwards — into the fear and frustrations and seemingly inescapable situation of my past. Of the cult I grew up in and the people who were taken prisoner by its promises and leadership.

I know what a cult can do. I know the appeal of a leader who focuses on your innermost desires and vows to put an end to your most paralyzing fears. I know what that kind of leader can do.

I know how his testimonies speak to good people with legitimate concerns. I know how his scripture touting soothes, how his pulpit pounding activates, how his charisma intoxicates.

How his promises to carry you, save you, deliver you from evil are so very welcome in our dark world. How the traits he embodies (or at least professes) — strength, charisma, Godliness — are just what you’ve been looking for to bring you — to bring everyone — into the promised land.

But he’s no Moses.

Nor is he the chosen one to lead anyone out of darkness — despite the genuine hopes behind those who support him.

But be wary of the “Hope” this man holds aloft with his dazzling promises.

I’ve lived among false promises such as he proports. I’ve watched my family — and countless others — fall under the weight of sincere hope, falsely met.

I was speaking recently with a friend of mine who shares my past and also overcame it — and is as equally worried (and furious) about what she sees unfolding as I.

In her own words, “The exploitation of a good heart is the vilest of crimes.”

And I agree.

I’ve seen far too many good hearts (then and now) used as ammunition; I’ve seen too much real hope twisted to poison. I’ve seen too many rational heads uprooted, unhinged, and made ready to destroy others — and themselves. United with him, it becomes “Us vs Them,” and the fallout is deadly. Families torn apart. Friendships. Self worth. So many lives destroyed.

And the motivations I see now are the same as the motivations of the good hearts who found themselves entangled in my childhood cult: To align more closely with God’s commandments and Christ’s teachings and traditional family values. At least that’s what so many of those who follow Trump are seeking. Despite the fact that his promises resemble nothing of Christ’s promises. Nothing of true Christianity.

White nationalism is not Christian. Prejudice and pride is not Christian. Political power over moral duty is not Christian.

Christ asked that we protect the weak, include the marginalized, serve the downtrodden. We are supposed to be good stewards of this earth, not blatantly ignore — or participate — in its destruction.

Trump’s platform is the reverse of Christ’s message. But the lambs have laid down with the wolf by the millions.

Half our country has fallen victim to a leader whose ability to bend and break wills is mind-blowing in its potency. And the fallout has already begun.

And, sadly, I’ve seen it all before.

But this time, it’s not the hearts and lives and futures of a (relatively speaking) small congregation in Texas at stake. It is the vast population of these United States. And it is not only our freedom that is threatened, it is the very soul of decency.

Yes, the happenings of this past week — and throughout the past four years — have sent me toppling backwards into a time and place in my life where my freedom was nonexistent, my future bleak and seemingly out of my control, my frustrations at those who couldn’t see the truth, overwhelming.

But this isn’t my past. It is my present. And I am terrified about what my future might hold.

I was able to escape a cult like this one once before. It took courage, unmitigated strength, and a willful refusal (every single day) to listen to the sugar-coated lies of those who would eagerly lead me astray. I had to guard myself at every angle, lest they slip the Kool Aid into my mouth, lest they place the blinders over my eyes.

I pray our country can now do the same.

But, y’all… I’m really, really scared.

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A Nasty Woman’s Testimony

While working on my novel, I’ve been doing research on the patriarchy — that time-honored tradition of passing power through the penis. You aren’t a member if you don’t have a member.

I uncovered some questionable (but fascinating and honestly believable) etymology on the word testify. In ancient times, vows (and deals) were made by laying hands on (or beside or below) the testicles –take note of that root (and yes, pun intended…) — and then swearing. Women had no testicles, so no testimony for them. They couldn’t take a sworn oath. As a result, they weren’t in the membership. Literally.

(On a sort-of-side-note… all my life, my father has told me not to swear. Curse words out of a woman’s mouth turn it ugly!!! Well, rest assured, if there’s a double-standard, I’m going to fight to liberate it.)

And speaking of fighting, I’ll fight when somebody tells me I should keep quiet — especially when it comes to my opinions.

I’m not sorry for having opinions. I never tell anyone not to say what matters most to them. And neither should you. I have seen — in an up-close-and-personal way — how absence of dialogue, absence of voiced opinions, breeds dangerous dogma.

When only one perspective is heard, that’s when things can go horribly awry. That’s when cults emerge. That’s when fascism reigns supreme. When there’s only one voice shouting from the rooftops over the top of all the others — that’s the only time I believe it’s okay to say, “Will you shut up, man?”

This country was built on freedom — of all sorts. And should’ve been built on freedoms for all kinds of people. But we’re just now getting to that. We’ve made tremendous progress. We’re closer than ever.

And that’s why some sorts of people keep telling other sorts of people (people like me) to be quiet.

You know what kind of people want people like me to be quiet? Two kinds. The kind of people who have nothing to lose if the status quo is maintained… and the kind of people who hide behind the kind of people who have nothing to lose. Those who support them and hold them aloft and give them praise and feed their egos because they’ve been conditioned and brainwashed for a very long time to believe that the status quo is the only way to go. That if we rattle the cage, we’ll cause it all to fall down.

Well, let it. I’m tired of being caged. And hushed. I’m ready to rage against the machine, against the patriarchal juggernaut.

You know who I admire most? The ones who have escaped the smothering muzzle of the patriarchy and have come to speak out against it. And the people who still struggle under the massive gears, yet rail against it nonetheless. And the people running as fast as they can away from it, screaming warnings about it to the rest of us as loudly as they can. And the people running behind it, casting stones at it as hard as they can. I’m one who has escaped it, and still struggles under it, and runs away from it, and goes after it. I am all of those. And until it falls, so many of us are.

You know who I do not admire? The folks who ride atop its motorcade, waving flags of past injustices and touting its greatness. I do not admire the ones who ride its coattails like it’s their divine right to be pulled along because they wear the color of their forefathers and support the prejudices it fosters.

The patriarchy is really good at denigrating people who don’t align with their likenesses. They love to label so many. But today, I speak for me. For women. They judge us by our physical appearance — label us dogs, liars, bimbos, pigs who are ugly, fat, and horse-faced (to name a few). Or deem us weak because we bleed and have nothing dangling between our legs. Or call our voices harsh and our motives nasty. If we wield power, they call us monster.

They separate us from them… the members from the member-less. They love to make us the reviled Other.

Well, I will embrace the Other. I will wear my Nasty Woman shirt to Kroger proudly, despite the looks I get — from men and women alike. Like I should keep my opinions to myself.

I’m tired of being tried under the patriarchy’s rules and shamed for being a woman with a voice. Tired of being told to shut up.

You know who tells me to be quiet? No one. I will wear shirts, post signs, write blogs, and sing out for all the world to hear. My voice, my body, my opinions, my choices.

They are my rights — and should’ve been from the beginning of this great nation. We’ve been slowly gaining ground. And we cannot lose it now.

So watch out, patriarchy, the monsters and nasty women are coming — not for your member, just membership.

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we won’t go back where we came from

Why are Americans yelling at other Americans to go back where they came from? What has our country become?

Apparently, a hate-spewing-and-mongering place where if you aren’t white and a man, you must not belong. Where you definitely don’t belong on a platform where you’ll be heard.

I mean, that was definitely the case for me as a girl growing up. I was white (which made my life a little easier), but not male. So I was just supposed to shut up and let the white patriarchy “take care of everything” for me.

I knew a long time ago that sort of governing body wasn’t for me. I wanted a voice. I didn’t just want it — I needed it. So I fought hard for it and I found it. And there’s no way in hell im going back where I came from. 

And now I’m willing to fight hard for these congresswomen and for all women — to be strong and belong. 

I really thought our country had moved past such a heinous viewpoint. But now, that’s pretty much all I see and all I hear. White men in power telling women to go back where they came from, whatever that means. 

And I honestly think I know what that means. They want women to go back to the days of their youth (the men’s youth, where women stayed silent and submissive). There are even some women (quite a few of them, actually) chanting right along. Serena Joy would be so proud…

Well, this woman is not going back where she came from. I’m using my voice for more than parroting the patriarchy. I learned what that could get me a long time ago, and I’ll be f***ed if I’m going back to that place again. Legitimately.

So I will persist in stating my opinions and in fighting for my voice, my body, my rights. For all our rights.

Because despite the fact that women make less on the dollar than the average man and we hold less seats in our “representative” government, we are STILL equal citizens in the eyes of the law. 

But if we don’t keep fighting, I’m not sure that will stay the case. If we don’t keep fighting and speaking up and demanding change and demanding accountability, our representative government might very well go back to the government of 1776… All white. All male. And all, by the way, immigrant. There’s a piece of white, patriarchal irony for ya.

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