Flesh Memory

The Weight of Their Wings

I think about how I stand on the backs of all the women who came before me: my mother, who wasn't allowed to step outside the house, who was educated but never encouraged, who ultimately gave up fighting against her dad because being good was more important than being great. 

My grandmother was forced to drop out of school in eighth grade because what would she need an education for if she was simply to be married off to the most eligible bachelor? My mother would tell me on a random sunny day that my grandmother had been furious because she was good at studying. She wouldn't speak to her mother for the next 6 months in silent rebellion. But her anger didn't matter. Her being good at her studies didn't matter either. All she needed to be good for was cooking for her husband, giving birth to his kids, and living in his shadow till the day she died. 

My great-grandmother wasn't educated beyond 4th grade; my great-great-grandmother would never enter a school. 

Sometimes, I look at my grandmother, a woman I never bonded with, whether for the lack of geographic closeness or simply for the lack of common ground, and I'm brought to tears. Some days, I can't explain the ache I feel when I look at her. Born two generations ago, would I have been her? It scares me to death. But it also reminds me of why I don't deserve anything soft. I need to work. I need to be brave. I need to be great. For all of the women before me. For all the opportunities they weren't given.