There was a whole flow of events set in motion the day I was born. Just like it was for my mother and her mother before her, I was to be raised to be a lady, a wife, a mother, a little of a leader and an all round confident woman. In my early years mother did her part. She nursed me and kept me with her in the kitchen, she occasionally took me to work with her so i could learn the value of an education, she recited stories while i played at her feet and taught me how to care for my younger siblings. With time she taught me that the inside of my body was alive and that i would one day bleed from it. She explained the miracle that is bearing a child and then delivered the stern warning to not dare try.
I know, this the chorus to most girl child upbringing. Mine was punctuated by the teachings of my pastor father and my inherited religion every so often, by the time i was eight i had a special sermon to keep the boys away. After that was expected the actual exercise of keeping the boys away at 13, the night vigils to keep me from straying the holy path during my teenage years, marriage in adulthood then children and hopefully a career at some point. There was a whole plan that the society, my mother and I worked to bring to fruition. But it was interruptus.
One day while i was still eight, still a child, my father paused the plan. He held me down on the bed my younger brothers would sleep in, right next to where we were hunting for one of his theology books and while I was still in shock he stroked into my heavenly place once. Or was it twice? Or thrice? I don't remember.I remember every day after that and how I would go through the motions of tearless cleaning and silence, then repeat. and when mother finally came home i looked for a word to describe what had been taken, because something had been taken, and i could find none because well raised girls were not taught that word.
I know, this the chorus to most girl child upbringing. Mine was punctuated by the teachings of my pastor father and my inherited religion every so often, by the time i was eight i had a special sermon to keep the boys away. After that was expected the actual exercise of keeping the boys away at 13, the night vigils to keep me from straying the holy path during my teenage years, marriage in adulthood then children and hopefully a career at some point. There was a whole plan that the society, my mother and I worked to bring to fruition. But it was interruptus.
One day while i was still eight, still a child, my father paused the plan. He held me down on the bed my younger brothers would sleep in, right next to where we were hunting for one of his theology books and while I was still in shock he stroked into my heavenly place once. Or was it twice? Or thrice? I don't remember.I remember every day after that and how I would go through the motions of tearless cleaning and silence, then repeat. and when mother finally came home i looked for a word to describe what had been taken, because something had been taken, and i could find none because well raised girls were not taught that word.
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