the women on my father's side of the family are quiet they are traditionalists, rooted in the ways of the women who came before them i have watched them shrink before the voices of men wilting like flowers do when the nights are longer than expected it is not their fault they have not been taught any differently the women on my father's side of the family are small delicate bones and feet made for tip toeing around hushed rooms voices made for apologizing for things that they can not control their lineage traces its way back through generations they have shaky hands, yet have mastered the art of threading needles i watch them, and something tugs at my heart, but i do not know why i fear it is pity
the women on my mother's side of the family are loud they have laughs that carry like the notes of a symphony bold and unapologetic, sure footed in its own presence they are the center of attention at times the center of gravity as well the women on my mother's side of the family are tall they take up space and are not ashamed of it sometimes it is called brashness i always saw it as courage they taught me how to sleep in on sundays and how to walk like i am not afraid and how to hold my keys in between my fingers like daggers i watch them, and something tugs at my heart, but i do not know why i fear it is because i do not know if i will ever be able to be like them
you see, i am equal parts one as i am the other as much as i would like to be brazen and unafraid i cannot forget the reflexes inherited these things cannot be unlearned they have been ingrained into hollow bones however, if this is true, it must also be true that somewhere beneath this lies the kind of fearlessness that dances on tables and is not afraid of who watches i have seen this courage in my mother, and her mother, and the women before them one day i will steady these shaky hands and find that courage until then i tip toe around hushed rooms and apologize for things that i cannot control i am equal parts one as i am the other