I listen to the anguish in your voice--
the passion of a papa as you try
to figure out how to protect your girls
from a world that does not believe
in them the way that you do. I am
happy for the tinder in your mouth
that sits your throat on fire;
that raises your ire at teachers
who socially promote children
because they don't think brown-skinned
girls are smart; that your double-language
tongue talking daughter can learn.
I am glad for your warrior's rage,
the barely caged disgust that these
are the realities she must face
and the knowledge that you cannot
follow her everywhere into this
world--but you are set on giving
her skills, cunning, and armor
to face it.
You tell me, "I got it from my mama,"
and this rising to bless me is just
the rest of the story. I have been
you, only wondering whether I could
ever help a boy-child understand
just how dangerous his mother had it;
what his grandmother had to do
to graft armadillo thick skin onto
my body; the plotting it took for
me to figure out boys to make
them safe for girls. Yours
is a generational experiment
in surviving and it seems the
grafting took. You look more
than a warrior defending a damsel
in distress; you look like a general
leading an army, and raising
up girls who can fight for themselves.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 1, 2013
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