| My grandmother with my daughter. (1974)|
She raised me. Also, took care of my daughter for two years.
When I was twenty something
I stopped wearing a bra.
It was symbolically burned
as sign of liberation.
I attended groups to raise
my consciousness enough
to never be like her,
a woman with no liberal aspirations.
When she was in her twenties
she worked in order to feed
four children, the burden
her husband ignored while he
drank his earnings with whores.
After the fire, that killed
one of her kids, she suffered more.
Until she raged against the condemnration
of a woman who fought against her own subjugation.
She left her little country, her husband too,
to work, to save, to establish new rules
in a different world where she was almost a slave.
But she forced her family's transformation.
When I knew her, she was a housewife
who took care of grandkids like me.
Her husband, now sober, worked responsibly.
He loved her.
I loved her too, but in my twenties,
in my ignorance, my arrogance
I judged she knew nothing about
the struggle to be free.
(I read this poem on a local radio station yesterday at the request of some friends. I couldn't come up with a new one today, so I thought I'd reprint it here.
Wishing everyone a peaceful, happy week.)
(For Poets United.)