IWWG WRITE FORWARD UN ANTHOLOGY

International Women’s Writing Guild

WRITE FORWARD:

A Constellation of Voices

Foreword

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul,” wrote Emily

Dickinson, a poet who understood that language has the power to lift us,

that a single word, well-placed, can open a sky.

In 1995, the world gathered in Beijing to declare what women have

always known: our voices are not echoes, but origins. Equality is

not an aspiration, but a right. Justice, like poetry, must be lived. The

International Women’s Writing Guild stood among the storytellers then,

as it does now. From the corridors of the 1995 Fourth World Conference

on Women to Beijing+30 in New York, we return to the courage of ink

and the quiet yet urgent thunder of women’s words.

This anthology gathers women’s voices speaking to the twelve critical

areas of concern first outlined in Beijing: poverty and power, education

and environment, freedom and fear. They write of the world as it is and

the world as it must become, guiding us toward a freedom that is more

than a whisper—toward a future where no woman’s story is left untold.

Here, in this constellation of words, let us listen. Let us rise. Let us begin

again.

As the Tang Dynasty poet Xue Tao reminds us:

莫轻小女子 , 曾占洛阳春。

“Do not take lightly the small woman – she once held the springtime of Luoyang

in her hands.”

Women do not simply hold up half the sky. We write it, shape it, and fill it

with stars.

- Michelle M Miller, Executive Director, IWWG

Table of Contents

Section 1. Women’s Words

We Must Gather Our Voices by Mary Adams..........................................................1

Unsought Pickings by Usha Akella ...........................................................................2

Charting the Lost Continent by Linda Albert ........................................................4

In a Garden of Girlness by Debbie Allen..................................................................5

My Mother’s Hands by Janice Alper..........................................................................7

Equinox by Ellie Bates

................................................................................................8

Nature’s Lessons in Resilience by Ellie Bates.........................................................9

Once Upon a Time by Diane Bell .............................................................................10

Weeping Beech Tree by Sheila Benedis .................................................................11

Transfiguration by Emily Bilman .............................................................................12

Clamors Against Inequality by Vanessa Caraveo ................................................13

#YouKnowMe by Susan Chute.................................................................................14

Ladders by Anne Cognato.........................................................................................16

Of Support and Security by Kate Copeland...........................................................17

Red by Linda Davies....................................................................................................18

Parable of the Foolish Virgins Revised by Joanne Durham................................19

What the Salt Meant by Joanne Durham..............................................................20

On International Woman’s Day by Victoria Dym.................................................21

The Cost by Rebecca Evans......................................................................................22

Violins & Thin Clouds by Rebecca Evans...............................................................22

Disbelief After the Vote by Caprice Garvin...........................................................23

Friendship Park by Caprice Garvin.........................................................................24

My Mother Was an Angel by Linda Ohlson Graham............................................25

Dreams in The Garden by Dorothy Randall Gray.................................................26

I Do Speak English by Dorothy Randall Gray........................................................28

The Hospital Where I Was Born by Dorothy Randall Gray.................................29

We Women of the World by Faith Swingle Green ................................................31

For the Poets Writing the World in Times of Chaos by Geri Gutwein............32

Days Like This by Susan Justiniano | RescuePoetix ..............................................33

Elsa’s Memories by Marjorie Kanter.......................................................................34

Proof of Life by Elsa Wolman Katana.......................................................................35

#Enough by Dr. Kellie Kirksey .................................................................................36

A Soldier’s Song by Juanita Kirton .........................................................................39

Anatomy Lesson by Elizabeth Lloyd-Kimbral ........................................................40

Comfort Women by Tanya Ko-Hong ......................................................................42

Woman with an Upsweep by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee .........................................45

Alone and Together by Lynne A. McNamara ........................................................46

Somewhere a Man Sets a Woman on Fire by Leslie Neustadt..........................47

Spoils by Leslie Neustadt .........................................................................................48

International Women’s Day by Mary K O’Melveny

...........................................50

The Voices of Women by P.S. Perkins.....................................................................51

Dear Girl, What is it That You Need? by Suzanne Lima Pickford.......................52

Side Effects of Surviving Breast Cancer by Judith Prest...................................53

Under the Sign of the Rusty Coat Hanger by Judith Prest ...............................54

I am Power by Adriana Rocha..................................................................................56

Lifting and Separating by Margaret R. Sáraco.....................................................57

Letter to Someone by Linda Leedy Schneider......................................................58

At the Threshold by Linda Leedy Schneider..........................................................59

Ask Me by Linda Leedy Schneider...........................................................................60

A Call to Arms by Myra Shapiro...............................................................................61

The Faces of Women by Myra Shapiro ..................................................................62

I Am A Tree. Look At Me. By Myra Shapiro ...........................................................63

Me, [un] Braided by Barbara Simmons..................................................................64

Pro-Choice Women’s March - 2005

After the Supreme Court Took Away My Rights, 2022

by Jessica Simon.........................................................................................................65

Witness by Kashiana Singh ......................................................................................68

They Have Plans for Us by Megha Sood................................................................69

Dressing Mom by Lisa St. John.................................................................................71

Dear Grandchildren of Our Grandchildren by Lisa St. John..............................72

That’s not for girls by Sara Stegen.........................................................................73

Creation Is Our Power: a Protest Poem for Women

by J. Catherine Tetrault..............................................................................................75

My Mother Told Me by Tracey Thiessen.................................................................77

A History of Silence by Cathy Thwing....................................................................78

Pronouns by Cathy Thwing ......................................................................................79

Being by Deedle Rodriguez Tomlinson...................................................................80

* Coming of Age by Nichole Turnbloom.................................................................81

Braiding Catastrophes by Pramila Venkateswaran.............................................83

Chucking It Down by Camille Westermann..........................................................84

Against Teleology by Simone Muench + Jackie K. White....................................85

Section 2. Women’s Stories

Facts – Memories- Plans – Just Data! by Rosemary Amato

.............................87

Silent Night by Allyne Betancourt...........................................................................90

The Metaphysical Magician by Judith Woolcock Colombo................................93

Julia’s Bet by Tiffany Davenport ..............................................................................95

Fifty Years of Lessons on Women and Men by Kimberly Hirsh.........................96

In Some Cheap-Ass Gas Station Line (or anywhere in public, really)

by Selene Hofstetter ..................................................................................................99

Libus by Sarah Kehoe................................................................................................101

Imagine This by Doris Mahaffey ............................................................................103

Chat Masala by Meenakshi Mohan........................................................................106

Both Sides Now by Catherine O’Neill...................................................................108

Making Tracks by Kathryn Pepper ........................................................................115

You Feel Me? by Desiree Rucker.............................................................................118

Counting and Recounting by Jawahara Saidullah...............................................124

Who Knew What to Do by Brett Summers.........................................................126

The Shot by Elita Suratman....................................................................................128

The Evolution of a Girl by Robin Mayer Stein......................................................130

That Boy’s a Catch by Tina Tocco .........................................................................133

Just Another Day on Larkspur Lane by Linda C. Wisniewski............................136

Section 3. Writing Forward

Not Enemies after Stephen Levine by Evelyn Asher..........................................140

La Presidenta: A Victorious Woman in a Country Dominated by Men

by Noris Binet ............................................................................................................141

A Brighter World Led by Women by Juliet Cutler.............................................149

No, I’m Not Like These Women Victims by Zefi Dimadama.............................156

Kindred Souls by Adhara Mereles.........................................................................159

What Tries to Kill Us by Brenda Wildrick ............................................................161

Writers’ Biographies .......................................................................................162

Women’s

Words

Section 1. Women’s Words

G

We Must Gather Our Voices

by Mary Adams

Here in the grassroots

we dig our toes into the mud as

we plant our seeds and

watch empowerment grow.

At harvest time

we gather our voices

and fling them into the sky.

We winnow our harvest into

messages of equality

advocacy and community.

Our voices transcend into

a murmuration of emancipation

made up of thousands of words

that swoop and dive in synchronicity.

Here in the grassroots

we dig our toes into the mud and

we watch the sky

because we know

our voices return to earth as rain

that will nourish and enrich

our next harvest.

Section 1. Women’s Words 1

Unsought Pickings

for the African American slave women subjected to forced breeding

by Usha Akella

The years between us are bolled Gossypium,

clawed realities spinning yarns—chilling truth not yarn,

Mandeville knew this was a beast-sprouting plant—

our kutn, your cotton—their currency of carnage,

I am told ‘her’ pain is not ‘yours’

to articulate, share or voice; still, I seek her in

the blurred spirals of the feminine self,

my hand seeking her palm as a mirror,

perhaps, she imagined snowflakes to pick, snowflakes—

the white gold falling from the sky in the North,

instead, her fingers stabbed cotton like wasps,

the destiny of her people hewed her body

to a sickle seeking earth’s arms more than sky,

did she think, “I’ll be picking cotton till the sun is a hole,”

in the lament-soaked sky of waning blues?

Perhaps.

Did she seek answers in the liminal spaces of

unsought choices blooming like soft cotton:

better the cotton-picking than

de weddin’ ’tween de cows and de bulls,

than the decree from dank walls,

than the brooding air of muffled suffering,

than the damp wet cave of smothered pain,

than fingers and pubescence prying her open like a can,

than the unwilling rabbet of her private to his,

better numbing labor than the pinioning of air

pressing as a bale of hay,

the straw filling her mouth, throat, lungs,

her eyes sweeping the air like bats?

Outside, the sullen crushed sympathy,

like lifeless cotton with hardened seeds,

ears dialed to deafness for survival,

better her hands furrowed and perforated?

better her palms fissured with ancestral pain?

2

WRITE FORWARD: A Constellation of Voices

Did the moments of anger pile on stone by stone

to sift between unsought pickings

be a breeding woman than/

be fettered to a whipping post?

This better than a back striped like a field,

red petals of welts blooming to the sun,

a waste of dandelions around her drooping in shame,

staining her memory’s notebook of incoherent rage,

a rage alive breathing like cotton?

Quote by a slave woman on crude eugenics practiced by slave

owners from Thelma Jennings, ‘Us colored women had to go

through a plenty: Sexual exploitation of African American slave

women,’ Journal of Women’s History, Johns Hopkins University

Press, Volume 1, Number 3, Winter 1990, pp. 50; 45-74.


Charting the Lost Continent

by Linda Albert

The Feminine flourished like Atlantis once

until, blamed for life and also death,

her suckling and such cruelty feared,

an ancient cataclysm swallowed her whole,

submerged her stories under the sea.

Fathoms deep, she slept for eons,

hinted at, but best forgotten.

Now, despite that, shelves of shale,

multitudes of mangrove roots, layered

limestone beaches thrust themselves upward

after long, chaotic labors. It is a difficult business

helping to birth a continent, crying out for skills of all

to make the new/old landmass whole and seamless—

heart and steel to chart it.

Charting the Lost Continent was previously published in:

Albert, Linda. Charting the Lost Continent: Poetry and Other

Discoveries. Sarasota, FL: Rainbow River Press, 2020.

4


In a Garden of Girlness

After Bloom by Ohio watercolorist Elizabeth Ford

by Debbie Allen

Wee one, look at you!

All around other girls busy about

with pageants and play, reading and running,

hide-and-go-seek through daisy and pansy,

petunia, begonia, gardenia, and mum,

primrose and tulip, forget-me-not, buttercup,

and bergamot. Black lashes curved

like the spine of our crescent moon,

you peer in profile forward

toward your future. Upturned

palm, forefinger to thumb, you seek being

beyond yourself. You’re six

going on ... expectation! Composed

in tutu of tempered perm rose,

its barely pink bodice paled the more by skin

hued umber imbued with Antwerp blue.

In a garden of girlness, you’re a Gilead iris. BLOOM

is brandished across your frills, DREAM emblazoned

on your gaze, REALIZE written in your pose.

Bloom, you shall. Petal by petal with jubilance!

PETAL ... PETAL ... PETAL ... PETAL. Yet all

your blossoms may be harder wrought

than ones of some sisters who surround you

because your soil, your sun, your rain

as of now is not the same—somehow—

as theirs. And somewhere along


the way, someone will wishful-think

(as the artful asks), “Does this flower look weak?”

Composed, in skin hued umber imbued

with Antwerp blue, you will intervene

on your own behalf. You’ll paraphrase

a painting in which you starred:

“This flower isn’t weak. This flower

is strong. This girl is ever

blooming. Iris atrofusca! I am

the bloom ... and will be ...

EVER ... EVER ... EVER ... EVER.”

6


My Mother’s Hands

by Janice Alper

A soft pencil point,

moistened on her tongue

add up a column of numbers

on a brown grocery bag.

My mother’s hands

fingers calloused

from packing groceries

lugging cartons across the floor

counting out change.

Over the washtub

Scrubbing, scrubbing

dirt from shirts and sheets

My mother’s hands

wet with soap

up and down the washboard

wringing, twisting

droplets of dreams.

My mother’s hands

knit sweaters

held books as she read to me

her grandchildren

hugged me

caressed my babies

Softened with age

My mother’s hands

reposed in death.

Previously published in “A Year in Ink,” San Diego Writers Ink Anthology

Volume 15


Equinox

by Ellie Bates

the arc of sun crosses the equator

day and night are equal length

in all parts of the world

today’s news tells it differently

dark and light are not equal

more dark for immigrants

seeking asylum

herded from border towns

to sanctuary cities

without due process

darker for war crimes in Ukraine

tortured bodies found

in mass graves

dark for those longing

to belong to be understood

for being different

racial justice still wears

the shroud of prejudice

in jeopardy

a woman’s choice

for her own health care

the one doctrine of fear

replaces religion

as the sun moves across

the line that divides

north and south poles

will people unite

turn toward the light

to right these wrongs?

8


Nature’s Lessons in Resilience

by Ellie Bates

shad bush blooms along ponds

welcomes the valiant herring

thousand mile travelers from the sea

tiny silver eels flash finish to spawn

Will I be as persistent to travel to the State House for Affordable Housing?

not far from the pond

forsythia screams yellow

fearless and uncultivated

brushes cars along the roadside

Will I be fearless to stand up to a person who screams a racial slur?

strong against ancient stone walls

daffodil bulbs planted years ago

lift their vibrant gold trumpets

to play in harmony all spring

Will I learn about native plants to support a fragile ecosystem?

dandelions with spear shaped leaves

abundantly blanket lawns

push through walkway spaces

to color the red bricks saffron

Will I continue to push for women’s reproductive rights?

in the nearby field a clump of narcissus

naturalized among briars and leaves

escapes the blade of an excavator

when owners redesign the development

Will I attend planning board meetings for fair land use and saving open spaces?


Once Upon a Time

by Diane Bell

November 6, 2024

Surely, I am not the first woman to wake up

with a catch in my breath and ache in my heart.

Mad kings lusting after power and money

as sweet treats for their consumption.

The story is familiar.

We have seen it time and time again.

Identify those you wish to demonize,

consume your audience with terrifying images.

I look to my descendants, young and beautiful,

their lives ahead of them, the world at their feet.

They are thrust into a demented fairy tale

where evil characters lurk behind every tree and around every corner.

I summon the wisdom of the ancestors who have been pawns in this

game.

Show me how to be the warrior hero who

slays the dragon,

kills the wolf,

shoves the witch into the oven.

10


Weeping Beech Tree

by Sheila Benedis

weeping beech tree

I come upon your closed side

like a wall of leaves

it seems

to exclude the world

people who are

bitter

cynical

divisive

but then I see your other side

I watch the sunlight

filter through your leafy canopy

oh you

you that is open to the world

you that tries to be inclusive

you that lets in the light

protects people

you that cries out

safety

dignity

justice

you speak

peace and unity for all

for all American people


Transfiguration

by Emily Bilman

The woman singing with her desertvoice

transformed the sky and the nomad

sitting by the barren bush into one

seamless immensity. The sun shone

upon the spring-waters, streaming

between the palms and the orange groves

by the oases; yet the transient mirage

of her face, gazing through the wheelwindow,

could hardly be effaced.

Her mirage-face still vibrates

in my imagination while the sun still

blazes upon the scintillated dunes,

reminding me of the nomad’s silhouette

and the desert’s redeemed bushes.

12


Clamors Against Inequality

by Vanessa Caraveo

The ongoing and ever-rising problem

in the world is the reason why women

continue to yell against gender inequality.

They raise their voices from the depths of silence

to live equally in society

and to break the limits of their resilience.

They demand their recognition and change.

They shout for their liberty with an uncontrolled rage.

Against the shadow of domestic abuse,

they raise their voices like a spark of resistance.

For their rights to education,

they yell, scream, and melt in their land

where knowledge is denied by social discrimination.

Their voices want to break the chains of ignorance

to have the opportunity to learn, grow, and shine

with many abilities to succeed.

Against the shackles of the societal contradiction,

they raise their voices.

A unified shout for fairness

and for justice in the tribunal of the human world.

They yell for their right to be compensated,

valued, and respected

for their contributions, efforts, and labor.

In the face of sexual harassment,

they yell an outcry against the violation of their will.

They keep shouting for strong justice toward healing.

There must be a place where their voices are not just raised

and heard but also heeded and praised.

These yells are not just sounds to the generation.

They must be considered for their promise,

strength, desperation, and unwavering will.

Women raise their voices in the hope of a world

where they can finally stand with pride

and sing the hymn of equality.


#YouKnowMe

by Susan Chute

I’m the one that would never tell you

the grand red curtain at the front of the stage

is the rose petal of a vagina.

You thought the red rose drape would mask

the chambers of your secret.

What cue is called?


the sheers letting in the sunlight

fall upon a sickbed.

I’m the one in white.


the fertilized egg cracks for Humpty Humpty.


traipsing through a field in Michigan

is a way to lose every cell of motherhood.

The crosshatched window panes

catch the spell of stillness

where sky defines its absence.

I’m Athena’s owl on the shoulder of your roofline.

I’m hunting for your blind side.

You thought the valence could hide the light.

I’m the one that never told you

I know how blood drips and clots at the ending.

The eaves are lined with red.

I never told you the ancient woman in the other bed

moaned an unforgiving ache all night long

in the Catholic hospital that took me in.

I never told you no one wanted me

so how could I want?

The dimmer decreases by 10.

14


Leave your hard-earned experience,

what you did and who you met,

and how you happened there.

I’m the wisdom beyond your grasp

But not your sight.

Group your past at out.

A room of your own weighs your worth.

#You know me is a hashtag women used on Twitter to describe the

circumstances of their abortions, following the bans and restrictions on

abortion adopted by the states of Alabama, Ohio, Missouri, Mississippi,

Utah, Kentucky, Arkansas, Georgia, Florida and Texas.


Ladders

by Anne Cognato

I dream of climbing a ladder

so tall, it rested against the clouds,

my hands grip the cold, metal rungs,

its horizontal lines marking nothing,

or maybe something,

a step forward, higher, closer to heaven.

As I reach the top,

I fall, tumbling through the air,

hitting the ground with a thud.

I get up, shake myself off,

no injuries, no bruises, and

I pick the dead grass out of my hair.

The next night, I do it again.

Persistence, perseverance,

stubbornness drive me up and up

the straight and narrow, racing,

with no divergent path,

no place to park my weary body,

the rules of the game are exhausting

My mother says women

Should be stay at-home mothers and wives,

not imaging life in a bright blue sky

not daydreaming out glass windows,

not climbing career ladders.

16


Of support and security –

by Kate Copeland

She sits on the bench closest to sand,

distant eyes, shrouded soul. Careful,

meek — once a therapist, always

she says.

Irises blue, her dress goodwill, well

arranged over wooden boards where

swollen legs cross elegantly, burst

shoes weathered.

A sip of whiskey a skater brings over

because of his birthday, as fellow

benchers join about the forecast.

It is good to travel,

to avoid rain, she states, now beach,

next month city. Lady Di and Mother

Theresa were good women. Her tears,

waves, without control;

clouds never go away. Have I hurt her

with my questioning? She answers: I

saw someone at home, behind those eyes;

the moment I let her go, she showed me.

My wife, life. I see. I’m not really afraid

of you, she says. Just talking. Even if

half of it is true.


Red

by Linda Davies

Mama,

I like things red.

Not some namby pamby wine color

too scared to be red, but

Scream in your face

Fire engine loud red

The color that shouts

Damn, you’d best see me and take notice

‘fore I run you over red

That’s me, mama.

The red woman

The scarlet woman they whisper about in church

I don’t turn my eyes downward for no one

These feet know where they’re goin’

Without me checkin’ up on ‘em every three seconds

I wear red, mama and

Hold my head up high

Proud of my scars and my smile that says

I been there and come out

whole on the other side.

I wear red, mama, for the heat in my heart and my thighs

For the dark fire that burns in these black eyes

I wear red, mama

because I won’t walk when I can run

and I won’t whisper when I can sing

I wear red, mama, for all the joy you ever taught me.

I wear red, mama

For you.

18


Parable of the Foolish Virgins Revised

by Joanne Durham

“Then the kingdom of heaven shall be likened to ten virgins who took their lamps

and went out to meet the bridegroom. Now five of them were wise, and five were

foolish.” Matthew 25, New King James Bible

Ten old women steered their wooden boat out to meet the sunset. There

were those among them whose bodies knew ecstasy, those who knew

violation, those who felt the fine thread of love stitching together their

cells. Women who had lived on the few slips of earth where they were

allowed to read had taken vast journeys of the mind. Others learned

from stones and rivers and the deep pain of hunger and their children’s

hunger, and some learned from both. They were, then, neither ignorant

nor innocent. All of them sometimes felt wisdom stir in their bones, but

since none had found the path to ending cruelty in the world, none

claimed to be wise. They were wise enough, though, to take turns at the

helm. They had seen such transformations many times, but still they

marveled at how the sun nudged the mountains into fire, painted the

river tones as varied as their own skins. Some had brought provisions

– bread, oranges, lanterns, sweaters stretched from wear. Others had

departed hastily with only their clothing, and some had nothing left to

bring. When they reached the portal to their destination, they breathed

relief that no one commanded them, only you can enter, you cannot, you

must bring this or that. Those with knowledge from books had prepared

them for such orders, and the ones who had studied the patterns of

roots of trees and the touch of sun on every leaf were confident no such

command would come. They were ready though and agreed they would

entwine their fingers to basket themselves, shelter one another in their

arms, enter by the strength of their dimming light.

First published in Litmosphere, ©Joanne Durham


What the Salt Meant

by Joanne Durham

“That night when the angels came to Lot, [his wife was] going to all her neighbors

and saying to them, give me salt, because we have guests…Therefore ‘she became

a pillar of salt.’” --Bereishit Rabbah.51:5

Her sin, after all, was not

that her rheumy eyes travelled back,

swollen with hope that her daughters’

singed shadows might rise from the blaze

of collapsing skyline. It was that Lot’s wife

warned her neighbors. She would become

the woman who watched the whip burn

across another’s back, then spread

the word one dark night to slip

inside the barn, hide breathless

beneath the hay while the slave catchers

followed a false scent. The woman

who witnessed yellow stars

sewn on neighbors’ jackets,

and went to borrow a cup of sugar,

perhaps a bit of salt, whispering

what she had heard in town about

the coming cattle cars. The woman

who typed government reports

no one imagined

she understood, then waited

near the factory gate at closing time,

la migra viene, don’t go

to work tomorrow. It wasn’t

what she chose to face

that raised the angels’ outrage,

fearing the flames would heat

her mind and melt

her heart. What the salt meant

to silence was her voice.

©Joanne Durham – first published in Poetry South,

nominated for a Pushcart Prize

20


On International Woman’s Day

by Victoria Dym

when I go to shake his hand

he stands up, starched white shirt—

I say that it isn’t necessary for him to stand

he retorts that a gentleman always stands

for a woman, then awkwardly, he says, a lady

his hand is warm like a tiger’s paw—

I imagine his paws elsewhere on my body

as I look into his tiger eyes;

but then, I imagine a tiger fight

both of us on haunches, man tiger, woman tiger;

but then, his tiger paws around my gazelle neck—

snap— man tiger, gazelle lady


The Cost

by Rebecca Evans

Is it trafficking

if he is your stepfather

and your

mother knows, yet

no money changes

hands?

Violins & Thin Clouds

by Rebecca Evans

Burnt sugar and sunset, we sip the dawn

we bury a tombstone near a star

while there’s still room

A woman hides in her home, turns

war into game, turns terror bearable

for her toddler who believes

the sky-bursting rockets equate

celebration, the stars are glitter

instead of exit-wounds

A mother digs a grave midday

her hair, ashened as smoke

her eyes smolder deepgray.

She prays a violin plays

and clouds thin, unveiling sun

She prays his aim is true

22


Disbelief After the Vote

by Caprice Garvin

No one has come to me, yet.

No one has knocked on my door

asking to spend an hour chatting,

and so I remain in a state

of suspended belief—as a child

might, upon waking, realize

she never studied for that quiz.

What occurs within…

I’ve been present for each debate.

My campaign sign vanished

from my lawn. I braced myself

with silence. Rumination. Even so.

Perhaps, if someone would come,

bringing cookies; expecting tea;

making themselves at home

on my sofa while retaining

a certain politeness, knees tight,

saucer, scone, porcelain cup

balanced on those closed knees,

perhaps then I might lean in,

begin to understand the plan

to take possession of my body

as one might take

possession of PTA duties

when one realizes

one is more qualified to play

a certain role in cupcake night.

I am waiting

for the gentle hand on my knee,

before the parting of my thighs.

First published by Writers at the Well


Friendship Park

by Caprice Garvin

On this plaza

bordering

San Diego and Tijuana,

A mother and daughter

Touch fingertips

Through thick steel mesh.

A rustling, like ribbons

Windblown from a child’s hair,

Storms up the bars,

Confounding the wall’s height.

Trash undone

By festival-goers hands,

Rises as kites.

The child doesn’t turn

To see carton

Feather into a bird

But sees flight

In her mother’s eyes

And believes it real.

She asks for wings, planes,

A swing to swing

That high.

The steel catches

The light of the sun,

Becomes a river on a kite’s tail,

Saturates the air

With the sound of fingertips

Brushing, like palm leaves,

The underside of grace.

First published by Indolent Books

24


My mother was an Angel

by Linda Ohlson Graham

My mother was an angel

With wings of grace and beauty …

Tolerance and strength

Gentleness and kindness

Wisdom and humor

‘Care packages for years’

were some of her attributes.

She allowed me to be my own person …

and didn’t judge me …

‘I’ve taught you the difference between right and wrong …

you have to make your own decisions.’

gave me freedom I took advantage of.

When I reflect

on dynamics

of someone

who

supported me

loved me

gave me GREATEST joy …

laughed with so hard I had to pull the car off the road …

Even encouraged me to travel with a gentle man

who was Wild and Crazy

who I then sailed

thousands of miles with …

I breathe

with DEEPEST

gratitude.


Dreams In The Garden

by Dorothy Randall Gray

Grandfather

your great heart and hands

plowed fields you did not own

fifty years of breaking soil

sweat fertilizing land

making things grow

you couldn’t sell

or call yours

I am breaking through earth here in LA

tomatoes and sweet flowers

butterflies love to smell.

I am making things grow in my garden

making words blossom in my heart

fertilizing dreams of those

who come to learn

what I have to teach.

Grandfather

you did not believe

in education for girls

only marriage and children

like grandma

like her Cherokee mother

gave thirteen to this world

I am the daughter of destiny denied

child of a mother

who had to sneak through fields

to go to school

I am my mother’s garden

beautiful and bountiful

26


Grandfather

beyond those Georgia fields

and red clay earth

I dream of blue

and Paris skies

of speaking tongues

I long to taste

of sweetness in another city

of being myself

away from my self

Rêves de Paris

je pense que d’être dans ce lieu

mon cœur est dans un village

des ecrivant et amour

dans le jardin de ma rêves

Dreams of Paris

I think of being in that place

my heart is in a village

of writing and love

in the garden of my dreams

un jour… un jour…un jour pas loin

one day…one day…one day not far away

Grand-père

je ne sais pas vos rêves

Grandfather

I do not know your dreams

But you can share mine in the garden


I Do Speak English


I do speak English

But sometimes

You feel so foreign to me

I squint my ears

to try and hear

Everything you’re not saying

How do I dictionary myself

make sense of your syllables

translate who I am

Extricate the definition

of me without you

I do speak English

in my own fluent

But often not knowing

Which words stop midflight

and which ones

land on your understanding

You are illiterate

in your love for me

My tongue trips over itself for you

You are the past pluperfect

The tension in future tense

The unfinished sentence

The dangling participle

I do speak your English

Now you learn to speak me

28


The Hospital Where I Was Born


The hospital not hospital

a house of wood by the woods

where my grandfather froze to death

after passing out

from too much alcohol

and too much

life unlived and

never owning the land

he farmed for 30 years


a place with planks

and slanted roof

and a doctor not doctor midwife

the first

of several women who hurt my heart

and slapped my soul

when I entered into

a universe I thought we’d share

and made me want to crawl back into

the place I came from

and not be sandwiched

between two sisters with no mayo

and me the middle child meat


a shack beside a red clay road echoing

all the ancestor blood spilled

all the tears shed

all the scars sung

all the land lost

all the names forgotten

all the language forbidden

all the families torn

all the music banned

all the all the

all the forevers

that never came


2. hospital where I was born (no break)

all the all the

all the sounds not heard

all the all the


not knots

untieable in my stomach

thinking about the loss lost

my people

pushed past

the door of no return

my people

laying back to back

belly to belly in the belly of the ship

like sardines in brine

my people

jumping overboard

into waters more welcoming

than a land that stole their souls

thinking about the nots

not knowing where

my grandmother’s

grandmother’s

grandmother came from

The hospital not hospital where I was born

I give it name

a name Ghana gave

their chained and changed

fihankra

they called my ancestors fihankra

‘those who left without saying goodbye’

1. I am still looking for my name

2. Ghana is still looking for me

30


We Women of the World

by Faith Swingle Green

We won’t look back

We won’t go back

We will no longer stand in the shadows.

We will not go back to silent submission.

We will hold our heads high and speak our truth.

It is our time to declare our worth to the world.

We will not walk behind

We will not succumb to belittling, disrespect, or abuse.

We have found our voices

and they matter.

We are resolute in these declarations

We are here.


For the Poets Writing the World in Times of Chaos

by Geri Gutwein

Let us talk about poetry

and words like shrapnel

that fill pages of poets’ lives,

who write lines in places

where bombs explode

and dust filling poets’ lungs

suppresses their ability

to breathe, still, they choke out words,

cough compassion and truth,

in storms of chaos,

and shattered glass.

Poets composing in rubble

amidst twisted metal,

their pens moving ceaselessly

across paper torn from

war-spattered walls.

32


Days Like This

by Susan Justiniano | RescuePoetix

Days like today, crisp air

expands the universe within me,

takes out remnants of what was,

whisps of yesterday’s paper beliefs,

different by virtue of existence

I find myself wishing.

Days like today, leaves make way for new,

announcing that change is coming,

whether I’m ready or not,

dry crunch, shuffling,

a magician’s trick, faster than my eyes can see

I find myself wondering.

Days like today, as I pull lapels closer,

hugging myself, excited for myself,

afraid for myself

it happens so fast, these changes of season

so caught up in existing, living slips by

I find myself grieving.


Elsa’s Memories

by Marjorie Kanter

1970s

new york city.

a puerto rican child grows up.

forked tongue.

elsa goes to school.

elsa is seven years old.

she’s a sweet little shy child.

elsa is from puerto rico but now she lives

in THE city.

at home they speak in (e)spanish.

at school elsa is just learning english.

she goes to catholic school.

run by nuns. they care about her soul.

they care about cleanliness.

there is a (e)special nun who does the

daily cleansing.

everytime elsa says a word of (e)spanish

she is taken over to the sink in the corner

of the room and her mouth is washed out with

a bar of soap.

it makes a lot of suds.

one day elsa just stops talking altogether.

--------------------

P.S. (What happened to Elsa? She became a bilingual teacher.

She didn’t do what was done to her. She understood. This

doesn’t always happen. Sometimes it goes in reverse.)

Originally published in ‘I displace the air as I walk, 2004 and part of the

wall installation ‘The Bagged Stories’ and used as a prompt in workshops

to talk and write about relationships such as parent-teacher-child and

mixing languages and cultures ...

34


proof of life

by Elsa Wolman Katana

my grandchildren’s time will be a

flood of light being

a salt sea of memory healing

the mother wound

future delight materialized

by love by devotion a heritage

seeded backward toward lineage

and a grandmother who wasn’t

in the river under the river

in the 6th extinction blood and bone

giving way beneath a raft of peace

her DNA survives childless


#Enough

(in honor of Simone Biles and Naomi Osaka)

by Dr. Kellie Kirksey

They sacrificed

enough

for a million lifetimes.

They hold within their cells

the memories

of those

who worked themselves to death,

not because they desired to,

but because they had to.

Generations

Upon

Generations

of Black and Brown women

pushed, nurtured, and shined

through the pain of it all.

Yet

With the strength and fortitude

of all the ancestors beside them

They rose up and said

ENOUGH!

I have had ENOUGH

I have done ENOUGH

I am ENOUGH

Gone

are the days of

entertaining and nurturing

the masses at the expense

of flesh and bones.

Gone

are the days of

Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop

in order to please

the bosses and bearers of shiny things.

Enough

36


Gone are the days of

toiling under the hot sun, lest we die.

Gone are the days of, Do more, don’t stop.

Enough


your power dictating my destiny.


swallowing back our No

Enough


being the sacrificial lamb to satisfy others.


won’t say no, can’t say no.

Enough


being owned by a system that believes we are theirs.


being lashed for sitting down.

Enough


dismissing our emotional needs.


giving away every ounce of ourselves until we are no more.

Enough


loving others more than ourselves.


pushing through the pain.

Enough


giving until we are broken.


ignoring the wisdom of our inner voice.


smiling through the trauma.

Enough


dismissing our mental health.


never doing or feeling enough.



giving until it hurts.

Enough


disintegrating under the weight of too many expectations.


being superwomen who never stops.

So

Enough of what is draining our mind, our bodies and our spirits.

Enough of what is draining our soul of joy.

The ancestors

have spoken

through the voices

and talents of their descendants.

The world

has witnessed

what it means

to say yes

to loving oneself

Enough

to stop.

Prioritizing

Self care

is the

new revolution.

Wellness is

an act of rebellion

equivalent to escaping

the plantation of our bondage.

We too

get to raise

our voices

And

courageously

proclaim

Enough.

38


A Soldier’s Song

by Juanita Kirton

Hot sands digested

grains grind against

shackled weight

my survival kit

teeth

seventy-five pounds

Military partners share my shadow

lasers light the night I survey the heavens

identical stars watched Jesus and Mohammed

wails and whimpers from open wounds

Lost limbs boys in red, white and blue

lost limbs boys in barbed wires

gutted roads devour armored vehicles

bloated with diesel and blood

Comrades lost then found

six months nine more another deployment

families pray babies get born

desert swallows’ dreams deferred

Brothers and sisters sing a soldiers’ song

freedoms empty breast sung by mothers

children lost to wars of old men

God forgives no innocent weapons

Wind and heat stroke exposed skin

i rise i fall i salute and obey

a chest of metals

boots and rifles stand tall

Teachers doctors lovers a friend

memories mixed with coarse residue

no books to teach the bloody lessons

in this barren waste I still pray for a different dawn


Anatomy Lesson

by Elizabeth Lloyd-Kimbral

Slurred:

Next time

Flash your badge

Not your breasts.

It was night.

It was deeply dark,

Moonless and starless.

It was late, windy, and cold,

Very cold.

Bundled in pea coat

Several scarves

Gloves

Heavy boots

Watch cap

Shouldering a loaded backpack

The only possible (not necessarily reliable)

Indication of gender

Would have been height (not tall)

And voice (second soprano)

Or maybe what little visage

Could be discerned

Under a single faint

Streetlight.

Just two strangers

Passing in opposite directions

On an icy sidewalk

Dimly lit

And deserted

Between library and dorms,

What had he done

That prompted

A rebuke –

If a rebuke it was

Maybe a caution

Or concern even

Since he did seem unsteady

On slippery ground

40


With a whiff of being in his cups –

That in its turn

Prompted the verbal sneer

Lashing

Double-barreled

Parting shot

At the clearly unseeable?

Whether words or action

Began it all –

And all it was

Was a single moment

During a first year winter –

Is lost

Only the remark

Remains in memory

Confusing

Hurtful

Sad

Needling

Alliterative

Absurd

Educational

And thus in its intent

In perpetuity

Successful.

originally published in t’Art Online (August 2022) -

https://www.t-artpress.co.uk/tartonline


Comfort Women

by Tanya Ko-Hong

14 August 1991, Seoul, South Korea:

A woman named Hak Soon Kim [Kim Hak-Sun, 1924–1997] came forward to

denounce the Japanese for the sexual enslavement of more than 200,000 women

during World War II. They were known as “Wianbu” in Korean and “Comfort

Women” in English.

1941, That Autumn

Autumn night, Japanese

soldiers wielding swords

dragged me away

while I was gathering pine needles

that fell from my basket

filling the air with the scent

of their white blood

When you scream in your dream

there’s no sound

On the maru, Grandma’s making Songpyeon,

asking Mom, Is the water boiling?

Will she bring pine needles before

my eyeballs fall out?

I feel pain

there—

They put a long stick between my legs—

Open up, open, Baka Chosengjing!

they rage, spraying

their sperm

the smell of

burning dog

burning life

panting

grunting on top of me

Under my blood I am dying

42


1946, Chinju, Korea

One year after

liberation

I came home

Short hair

not wearing hanbok

not speaking clearly

Mother hid me

in the back room

At night she took me to the well

and washed me

Scars seared with hot steel

like burnt bark

like roots of old trees

all over my body

Under the crescent glow

she smiled when she washed me

My baby! Your skin is like white jade, dazzling

She bit her lower lip

washing my belly softly

but they had ripped open my womb

with the baby inside

Mother made white rice and seaweed soup

put my favorite white fish on top

But Mother, I can’t eat flesh

That night in the granary

she hanged herself

left a little bag in my room

my dowry, with a rice ball

Father threw it at me

waved his hand toward the door

I left at dusk

30 years

40 years

forever


Mute

mute

mute

bury it with me

They called me wianbu—

I had a name

44


Woman with an Upsweep

—c. 1960s

by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee

Suit. Nylons.

Heels.

Business

demeanor. Hard

knocks.

Work. Ethics.

Two bosses.

Half-pay.

No help. Greed.

No sexual favors.

Hair

upswept.

Young.

Still young.

Respect.

An alliance—women

men would not

undo.


Alone and Together

by Lynne A. McNamara

Sometimes

Alone with no one

but this one being, a self

I weep, deep nothingness

owning my pettiness, attention

to zero, insignificance.

Together with another

particular other, you too

I lustfully bathe in, take in

my grandeur, relationships

to infinity, uniqueness.

Sometimes

Alone, beaming ecstatic

in my private party, sole

celebration I indulge, deeply

own my growing greatness

in improvised importance.

Together, intimately lonely

with whomever, you

and everyone, no ones

wrapped in self-rapture

I possess my nothingness.

So

I am.

46


Somewhere a Man Sets a Woman on Fire

After Emily Skaja

by Leslie Neustadt

I pierce my heart with a jagged branch

from the river, in remembrance.

Written out of their stories,

their tales entombed, a hundred million

missing in Asia, pruned by infanticide.

Cast as commodities, their dowries

devalued them. Women sold as wives.

Children chiseled from mothers’ chests.

A woman bludgeoned on the street

becomes a poem. Stoned because

she was raped, because she lifted

her veil, because she burned

her wedding dress, because she owns

a vagina. Women treated as spoils,

soiled by soldiers; rape, every army’s arsenal.

Women’s bodies not our own.

Cruelty, its own religion, practiced by the selfrighteous

and indifferent.

Men commandeer our wombs,

nail us to wood to feel like gods.


Spoils

by Leslie Neustadt

I.

In Memory of Judih Weinstein Haggai, 1953 - October 7, 2023

Among fields and flowers

a privileged life

death without mercy

A pacifist

on Kibbutz Nir-Oz

in the Gaza envelope

Judih greeted each dawn

with haiku with joy

with jackals

May 2021 Judih reflected

with talk of ceasefire

we brace ourselves for attack

one more sleepless night

May 2023 Judih captured

quiet for eight hours

dare I hope

no more war?

October 7, 2023

Judih penned her last

pulse accelerates

mind makes new connections

as Fall shows her face

Judih and her husband

Gadi

murdered

morning stroll unraveled

Their bodies

held hostage

her haiku remain

48


II.

In memory of Hiba Abu Nada, June 24, 1991 - October 20, 2023

After her poem, I Grant You Refuge

No refuge from rockets’ red glare

in the belly of the whale.

No refuge from dumb bombs’

relentless reach.

Your verse now beams of light,

stronger than smog and scree.

A magician, you transformed

tears into doves. Your words shelter

survivors who shiver in the cold,

bellies pregnant with hunger.

Your blessings blossom

in the rubble.

In Heaven, the new Gaza

is free of siege.


International Women’s Day

by Mary K O’Melveny

Today, please celebrate all

the women we have lost.

In every war and cease fire.

On slavers’ ships. On thirsty

desert treks to walled borders.

In back-alley rooms, without

anesthesia. Locked in basements,

without papers or escape routes.

Asleep in bed. Hitching a ride.

Nursing bruises or starving babies.

Our losses rise like mountain peaks.

Ukrainian, Sudanese, Syrian, Gazan

women huddle in corners, camps,

tents, rubble. They clutch children,

family pets, a few hastily gathered

objects from lives they will likely

never know again. Even in so-called

safer worlds, women die of causes

that repurposed money, refocused

attention might have remedied.

Some fade away from neglect,

inattention, dreams downsized

by school guidance counselors,

religious zealots, patriarchy.

Others drop dead without a whimper

on a sun-dappled afternoon. One

friend’s memories vanished by midnight

stroke; another’s by subtle, daily

erasures. We open our mouths in

praise of all: Let songbirds loose.

50


The Voices of Women

by P.S. Perkins

We hear the Voices

Voices

Voices of Women, sounding, softly, strangely familiar as the

shackled silence becomes the deafening roar of peace growing louder

and louder

refusing to be stifled any more.

We recognize the Voices

Voices

our own reclaimed voices,

piece by piece,

tear by tear, heart

by heart,

Voices of Women as

one life at a time surrounded by a sea of love!

ONE VOICE

Nurturing love, healing love, a willing love,

big enough, deep enough, strong enough

for all womankind of like-mind,

realizing there is only one Voice

one Voice

of plenty for everyone...

The Voices of Women building PEACE!


Dear Girl, What is it That You Need?

by Suzanne Lima Pickford

I became the child you

saved, but barely.

The lucky one

whose experience was to be

grateful–

but it seems that you never

asked my perspective

when you told

my story.

Through all the

tellings and retellings

my heart was

cataloging a memory of

flight—

until, one day,

it dawned on me that I, too,

could speak.

For now:

I will stare up

at the yellow-brick hospital

window and ask my looming

ghost,

“Dear girl,

what is it that you need?”

52


Side Effects of Surviving Breast Cancer

by Judith Prest

Cancer was not a war for me,

it was a skirmish -

left me radiated, scarred,

still vibrating with life.

I emerged with both breasts,

and no chemo.

Now colors are more brilliant,

birdsong sweeter.

Side effects of surviving:

It was a holy passage,

on the other side,

I know the scalpel.

removed fears.

Six weeks of radiation

burnt up malicious cells,

incinerated all tolerance for bullshit.

I am grateful

for these side effects.

Five years out,

I am alive and whole,

spirit honed by knife and fire

~Judith Prest, May 13 revision

Side Effects of Surviving Breast Cancer was published in the February issue

of Chronogram. Chronogram is a free publication that highlights the arts/

culture/events in the Hudson Valley


Under the Sign of the Rusty Coat Hanger

by Judith Prest

Imagine your uterus. Your ovaries.

The fierce and mysterious tide of hormones

rising, receding, creating internal weather.

The dance our blood does with the moon.

Visualize how our wombs

shape our lives.

Visualize yourself, coming into womanhood,

How your changing body

changed your experience.

How you changed

in the eyes of the world

when your breasts grew.

Who remembers that flash of knowing

that something new was rising up

in your life, something

that changed how boys and men

spoke and behaved with you?

Who remembers the value

placed on virginity?

And all the vile names

for “promiscuous girls”?

Who remembers the questions,

spoken and silent,

after a rape?

- What were you doing there alone

at that hour?

- Why were you not injured

fighting him off?

- How could you

bring this shame upon yourself?

Who remembers the girl

in your tenth-grade algebra class

who disappeared for the rest of the year,

sent off to live with Aunt Sally?

54


Repeat three times:

Fetus. Fetus Fetus.

Who remembers a dead girl

sprawled on a motel floor,

blood between her legs.

Who remembers lying on a rickety

table in a dingy apartment,

the sharp scents of rubbing alcohol

and your own blood?

Who remembers the cutting, the poking, the scraping

with nothing for the pain?

We are living again under the sign

of the rusty coat hanger.

Fifteen years from now,

we can expect an army of angry children, survivors

of foster care, group homes, juvie jail, the street.

Once they emerge breathing,

and howling into this world

hungry for love and breast milk,

we must brace ourselves

for the fury of the unwanted.


I am Power

by Adriana Rocha

I am voice,

and song,

I am revolution,

and strength,

I am charm

and tears,

I am history

and memory,

I am reference

and essence,

I am art

and bridge,

I am nature,

and strength,

I am woman

and I am power.

56


Lifting and Separating

by Margaret R. Sáraco

Cups for every size, shape, woman and girl. Hook and eyes,

underwire, padded, low-cut, strapless, A-cup, B, C, D

Double D, E, F, G, H for asymmetric, athletic, bell,

east-west, relaxed, round, side-set, slender, teardrop.

At 10, fitted with a piece of cloth, the saleswoman pulled

and pushed my teeny tiny breasts into pre-teen humiliation

hanging loose in a dressing room. Six years later,

I throw them in a drawer not to be seen for some time.

Burn the Bra, Baby. Burn it!

echoed over airways and in the streets

to the terror of traditional women and old men.

Never burned mine, wore them on theater auditions, job interviews.

Other times I wore men’s undershirts until someone asked

why I wore wife-beaters, shook my head “no” and, “what?!”

“Guinea tees,” they said. I should have known all the slurs

growing up Italian American in New York,

but I didn’t, had to ask my best friend who knew more than me.

We stared at a package of whites on my kitchen table,

wondering how a piece of cloth could elicit intense hatred

and violence against women. I never wore them again.

Instead, camis were my go-to until I breastfed my newborn,

wore the one with hook-and-eyes that dropped fabric

exposing one or both nipples pleasantly surprising a hungry infant

sometimes crying when she latched on.

There are cancer bras (which I didn’t have to wear) instead

packed soreness and fright into wire day and night after surgery,

supporting a weightier lesser me, shifting from symmetrical

and upright to asymmetrical and uptight.

Can anyone see the slice removed?

One night I had that Burn the Bra sensation again,

ditched the underwires and my surgeon’s warnings,

stuffed them into the garbage

and unhinged, danced around the bedroom.


Letter to Someone

by Linda Leedy Schneider

We thought we would always be able

to buy new houses on high ground, could survive

wearing masks on polluted days.

We didn’t care that the coral was bleached and dying,

or know that the oceans

would become slimy cauldrons of death.

We didn’t know that hunger would lead to tribalism

and then war, but not war for property.

Wars for food broke out everywhere.

We didn’t know displaced climate migrants

would take our land and food.

Then others would take it from them.

Fires burned.

The oceans invaded

We fled inland.

And then all

of the bees

and birds were dead.

This is a letter from one of twelve

survivors in Winnipeg. The sky is black.

We haven’t seen the sun or stars in months.

We are eating grass, roots,

leaves, even dirt; anything

that has survived.

I don’t know who

I am writing to...

Now we are ten.

Who am I writing to?

I am so afraid to no one...

and now we are seven.

58


At the Threshold


I look out into my garden,

leave the dishes in the sink,

abandon sheets soaking in bleach,

forget counseling, forget my husband.

Remember I am a widow now.

I enter the garden.

Daffodils, yellow as sunrise-

Iris, bruise purple-

I inhale lilacs, feel a soft breeze on my cheek,

pick up a few stones for my journey.

I take one iris and three daffodils with me

into the yellow light of a new life.

Previously published by Verse-Virtual

***


Ask Me


Ask me if I speak for the peony.

and will tell you, yes.

I speak for green veined leaves,

the fuchsia flower that burns

like the heart of a ballet dancer.

I speak for fecund heaviness, and peony’s love

and fear of lightning. I speak for all

whose heads are full of moon jelly.

Current moves swiftly not like the snail.

To blossom is a burden.

Yes, I speak for the peony

loved in her youth for her beauty,

cut back as she crinkles and sags.

But, next year a fuchsia fist

will plunge through the soil.

Peony will begin again

if she is allowed water and sun.

I speak for our waning water,

the moon, our sister,

the sun, mother of us all.

Yes, I speak for the peony.

Previously published by Verse-Virtual

60


A Call to Arms

by Myra Shapiro

Armed with poems,

I played inside words

their violence. Decapitating

dearth to make earth.

Today words come toward me

through a cloud

across an ocean from

bordered lands that refuse

to bury hatchets, where

arms fire, and neighbors fear.

Arms become arms

to bomb and shoot.

Underground, a dear friend

writes from a shelter---

she says help

everyone you know

to hear both sides—

1000 Palestinian and Israeli

women have formed Prayer of Mothers

to hold each other on Zoom.


The Faces of Women

by Myra Shapiro

“. . . men die miserably every day

for lack

of what is found there.” William Carlos Williams

It was the news, the day

leaders of the world gathered

to mourn the writers/ the artists

murdered in Paris.

There are newspapers that refuse

to print the face of a women.

Reading The Times we saw

the mourners in a row: the Israeli

Netanyahu on one end, the Palestinian

Abbas on the other, and in the middle

from Germany Angela Merkel

who was simply erased

in the Orthodox Jewish press.

I am trying to fathom it. The news

which does not exist.

62


I Am A Tree. Look At Me.

by Myra Shapiro

A tree never screams this

which is not to say

the drama of its life,

blazing yellow from fall

to fall, shaking

openly for months

on end, perhaps wild

in verdant forests,

occurs without a language.

Our minds may fail to comprehend

the vocabulary of hairy buds

bursting from having lived invisibly,

catkin blossoms giving themselves

to loll, then leaf

not singly but compounded

five or seven broad and fragrant times,

showing teeth

along green pendant edges,

laughing mockernuts,

bitternuts-- those tricksters--

and glorious pecans

in thin, winged husks. Generosity

we surely see; then we cut it

down to size, hearing-- sugar me

for your pies, my sisters’ bodies

for the handles of your axes.


Me, [un] Braided

by Barbara Simmons

Mornings meant braids, my hair divided into

three long ponytails, right side, left side, middle,

being undered and overed by mom’s fingers,

caught by rubber bands, concealed by plaid ribbons

matching whatever I’d be wearing.

Neat. Tidied up, braided, ribboned, bowed,

no hair flying in my face:

contained.

I remember saying goodbye to braids,

graduating to ponytails, one long streaming motion

much like wings on Achilles’ heels,

liberating me from barrettes that kept me kempt,

permitting unruly to be all right.

Later, I would brush my hair, long and wild,

imagining a halo round my head swirling,

circling, wildly catching everything from snow to pollen,

all the seasons in every follicle,

until I heard my mother say unkempt,

my hair all tangled, snarled,

her words upbraided me,

sent me to shears, the sheer freeing

cutting all that hair off, heard me say yes

and yes and yes again to being shorn and edged.

Gone was long hair. I would slowly learn

to plait the many strands

I needed to become my braided self,

without my mother’s help,

without her ribbons, without her rules,

but always with unraveling possibilities.

(This poem was printed online in Journey of the Heart, Women’s

Spiritual Poetry, March 2023; I retain rights to reprint this poem )

64


Pro-Choice Women’s March - 2005

After the Supreme Court Took Away My Rights, 2022

by Jessica Simon

Walking amidst nearly a million people in 2005

we held our heads high.

We were country women, city women,

young women, older women,

working women, feminist men,

black women, Latinx women,

Asian women, Native women

transwomen. Women carrying

children and babies.

We were so many and so peaceful

We sang and walked for our rights.

On either side, horseback mounted police

looked down over us.

Behind them, men and women waved crosses

nailed with signs

“Jesus saves” and “Abortion is Genocide”

A man with a megaphone shouted

religious phantoms into frozen air.

A woman cried ‘murderer,’ with an accusing stare.

Shame on you, Congress, a speaker said, at the time

They could say it again today in a different year, same crime

For lack of access to birth control

For no access to the pills we need to survive

For trying to stop women crossing state lines

For a 10-year-old rape victim fleeing to the free side

for denial that people have sex for fun, for denial

that women have always ended pregnancies

one way or another.

For denying people who have abortions

love the children they already have.

For playing judge and jury,

for telling women what is right and wrong

inside their own organs.


The morality you issued to yourself about God’s work

is littered with the dead bodies of women

you say are a political agenda

or with women you call murderers because

they are poor or black or brown.

Special shame, Justice Kavanaugh.

You know, #notallmen cover

her mouth to prevent her from screaming.

Some just go home.

MisJustice Alito,

Selective Justice Thomas,

Gutless Gorsuch

No visible leadership, Chief Roberts,

Missing the point, Justice Barrett

while you’re living supposedly pure lives

and going to church,

you did not even stain a shirt

writing away my rights.

Some young woman just ran to the bathroom

to heave her guts,

will now consider ending her life.

Sleep tight.

When shame is not lessened by the sun,

It scabs over until you itch it enough to draw blood.

At least before, it was blood on the surface of the skin, not within,

dripping from a vagina or a cervix.

It’s no longer your choice, bodies with wombs,

you shall now be jailed or killed for someone else’s truth.

Rich white women still have a choice.

White women weren’t sterilized or told there

should be no more of THOSE kinds of babies

If it ever is your daughter, will you turn your head

away in shame, say she’ll burn with the Salem witches?

Will you cast the first stone on her bloated and nauseous body?

Will you disown your aunt when you find out

her 22-year-old self made a mistake?

God forbid now your daughter, wife, sisters, cousins

is molested or raped in the wrong State.

66


Show me your devout Gods, we have Gods too.

We have faith and we see through you.

We will continue to litter your lawn

with glitter-covered bodies, pink boas, t-shirts

and signs, giant rainbows of messages of love and protest.

We belong to each other in deviance and compassion.

We have traveled this far and we will not give up

our rights laying down getting fucked by your propaganda

So dish it out and we will light it up.


Witness

by Kashiana Singh

Her aloneness fills the sky—

the blood moon, heavy and watchful.

The river wraps around itself,

like his silk scarf trailing

the summer night, untangling jasmine

from his braids.

Every bleeding month is a rangoli season,

my underpants the color of maa’s phulkari

thoughts drifting like snowflakes,

coming undone like the fragile lace of her wedding veil,

whispering of days yet to come.

Sickle moon,

ripping open the sky of my grief,

every opinion offered inside the walls of the home is the portal to

a hurricane season,

the soundless labor

of her death rattle.

68


They Have Plans for Us

by Megha Sood

Based on the complete abortion ban mentioned in the Project 2025 Manifesto.

Severely limiting abortion access nationwide by reversing the FDA’s approval of

mifepristone, a drug used in medication abortion, and reviving a 19th-century

law, the Comstock Act, to ban any abortion medications, equipment, or materials

from being sent through the U.S. Postal Service. Source: ACLU.Org

Oh! yes they have plans for us

Oh! yes the one they have hammered

down to the last line

The Manifesto

word after word

line after line;

pages after pages,

mapping the curves of our bodies

silhouettes of our desires:

dipped in their thick black inks of subjugation.

Yes, they have plans for us

boxing all the mottled things

bejeweled with life plans, trinkets, and bling

underlining their adoration for us

their unfettered love, passion

their soft caring being.


stripping bare our tongues

with hands tied at our backs

wombs scraped clean,

as pristine and demure as they want us to be

with their stories of success etched

in our spines for kingdoms to come.


to carry the love of incest and rape in our womb

licking our wounds clean but never saying a word

bringing shunned love to our full breast

letting it down a bit,

warmly and gently nursing it every day

recounting the days like a horror story on reels.



till our thick blood trickles down

murky lanes of a dark empty parking lot

for their sheer pleasure

a sluice of broken dreams and desires

carrying our strangled future.


for guarding every inch, every iota of our existence

having a lien to our soul;

a perfect story of a mother with rounded bellies,

making it complete, making it whole.


to get on our knees,

to say our prayer for exalted gods in heaven

to utter words of salvation and redemption

till the kingdom comes.


to carry blood stories in our sacred womb

and not to utter a single word,

to hold the bitter truth on the edge of our teeth

while licking razor blades without spilling a word.


freeing us from all this self-destruction

our simple minds can’t conceive

taking us to yet another hell

that they have brilliantly mapped out for us.

Published in the Arts and Literary Journal, Narrative Northeast, Vol 12

70


Dressing Mom

by Lisa St. John

Soft as new skin, pliable as silk,

the casing of her bony arms

slide into the bra straps.

After the hospital, at this age,

I cannot help but wonder why she bothers.

Only whores go without bras.

Earlier, helping her wash,

I sponge underneath and around

the long empty breasts that fed five children.

I hold her as she washes the feathery gray pudendum,

the mysterious labia; origin places.

I hate for you to see me like this.

I ask

which shirt she wants to wear,

and she smiles up at me

grateful and gentle.

Nothing like her mothering years.

Then, the hard core of self-preservation

created us both. Born out of its hard shell

with eyes open and screaming, we traded combat secrets

and realized we were both

alone in this war.

How long can you stay this time? We could go to that bookstore you like.

What

would have happened

if I had loved her like this before?

Loved her smooth tan skin

before the rice paper wrinkles?

Hatred is just the awkward side of love.

Previously published in Ponderings 2015


Dear Grandchildren of Our Grandchildren

by Lisa St. John

We were capable of joy

if we could still walk in the green

if the lake was clean

enough for swimming.

We planted pollinators,

and gave tax-deductible donations

to the World Wildlife Fund,

used only herbal pesticides.

We bought electric cars,

and purchased eco-friendly

laundry soap

without the plastic jugs.

But concrete words shifted like sand,

and climate “emergency”

became “change”

“extinction” became “disruption.”

Our vagueness hid our apathy

so we could sleep at night saying,

“someone

will do something.”

We were humans, after all.

Top of the food chain.

If Mother Earth wanted to heal,

she could shake us off.

We hoped she would.

Otherwise,

we’d have to do

something

Previously published in Grande Dame 2024

72


That’s not for girls

by Sara Stegen

A line of black hats and skirts

cause traffic jams on Sundays

walking to church

some might be my mother’s

unknown cousins

that’s our legacy

My grandmother’s father did not believe

in education ‘that’s not for girls’

the only learning she needed

was to cook and clean

he wanted her controlled

Then she met my socialist Opa

and her love turned deep red

like the garnets she wore around her neck

not black like the men who did not love

their sisters - daughters once

they gotten minds of their own

her brothers turned their heads when

they met her in the street

their mantra ‘that’s not for girls’

They want you thinking that you don’t

need to be smart study hard

you’ll have babies

don’t get wild ideas

they box you in with their beliefs

clip you one around the ears

I don’t want men do my thinking

for me like they tried with you

I don’t want to become theirs

I want to control my destiny

my mind sharp like the silver clippers

my dad used to shave the tails of our cows

so they did not trail in muck and shit

I want my mind to work

like my Oma’s never could


I want it to be an antidote

against those wanting control

who say ‘that’s not for girls’

I don’t believe in conspiracies

conspiracies did not control my oma

men and church did

when they said ‘that’s not for girls’

When my Oma turned old

deaf and depressed

she told us over and over

‘this is my punishment’

for what remained unknown

like my mother’s cousins

74


Creation Is Our Power: a Protest Poem for Women

by J. Catherine Tetrault

Stirring from within

churning, twisting,

restless to be born from

the sacred space of our creative source

Open wide and push hard

let it flow from you

My voice, your voice, our voices

burning hotter than the desert sun

blowing stronger than a hurricane

bursting like riverbanks swollen from monsoon rains

Lean into the edginess of your silence

harness its potent force

Bare feet pressed upon the Great Mother

hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, arms interlocked

we are many hues of Gaia’s palette

glistening with oils of almond, coconut, jojoba, shea and sunflower

Our bodies

round, full, slender, soft, muscular, smooth, creased and kissed by time

The scent of us -

bergamot, Clary sage, lavender, jasmine, rose, sandalwood

We are beautiful, so beautiful,

more beautiful together

We are powerful, so powerful,

more powerful together

When eyes meet eyes, windows of our souls

we see each other - Look at us!

Mother, daughter, sister - we are all of it

standing on the shoulders of our ancestors

We are the ancestors

creators of this human timeline


Why do we carry the world

when we should be leading, solving,

restoring harmony

with our wisdom, heart, and strength

All we have created

given away

All we have created

taken away

All we have never created

too afraid

to use our voice

our power

Where is your voice, my sister?

When we create

with our words, music, colors, movement, maths, sciences, foods

we raise each other up

Tell me your story

any way you choose

and I will tell you mine

we will be each other’s legacy

They cannot put out your light,

silence or damage you

not as long as I see you - we see each other

as long as the power of our voices rings through

Take my hand, hold tight

birthing from the divine creation in our core

cry out -

We are here! We are here!

76


My Mother Told Me

by Tracey Thiessen

Mum, you told me,

I don’t need a boy or man

to feel good about myself,

yet, I steadily chased love more times

than flushed red roses bloomed.

Mum, you told me,

only have one alcoholic drink on a date

then men can’t take advantage,

after several failed attempts of moderation

I skulked out of various beds to escape the shame.

Mum, you told me,

inevitably it’s a man’s world

be careful who I choose to work for,

deciding to trust my own feminine intuition

my professional brag sheet now includes sexual harassment.

Mum, you told me,

no matter how smart, probable

or loud my opinion, men won’t listen,

ignoring your chalkboard grating advice, my bold voice found

rhetorical silence during debates, parties, inside my own home.

Mum, you told me,

it’s too bad I only birth boys

girls will be kinder and more caring towards me,

for decades I hated you for these cruel words

until my boys became married.

Mum, you told me,

don’t marry that princely-type man

he is controlling and disrespectful,

to prove you wrong

I shacked up with his controlling behavior for 40 years.

Yes, you told me.


A History of Silence

A poem found in Hilary Clinton’s address to the Fourth World

Conference on Women in Beijing

by Cathy Thwing

in the home, on the job,

in their communities,

the way women come together

every day in every country

we come together and talk

the right to speak freely

and the right to be heard—

valued less, fed less,

fed last, overworked,

underpaid, not schooled,

subjected to violence

in and out of their homes—

break our silence

the world to hear

raising children on minimum wage

can’t afford health care or child care

women whose lives are threatened

by violence, including violence

in their own homes

No one should be forced

to remain silent

denied the chance to go to school,

or see a doctor, or own property,

or have a say about the direction

of their lives, simply because

they are women

whose experiences go unnoticed

whose words go unheard

listen to the voices of women

in their homes, neighborhoods,

and workplaces, for women everywhere

who simply don’t have time to do

everything they are called upon to do each day

I speak for them

heed the call

78


Pronouns

by Cathy Thwing

That pink, sequined purse,

those too-tight magenta jeans,

a crop-top with fringes that sway,

my student Manuel waltzing into class,

C’est moi, mes chéris!

Must have been thirty years ago

when Manuel changed her name

to Alma, her pronoun to ella.

Now I can be seen for who I truly

am, she proclaimed: a forerunner.

My neighbor Natasha dashed

down the street, to the corner,

clutching only her purse,

climbed into my station wagon.

We drove to the shelter.

It wouldn’t have happened

if I were a guy. She took the Kleenex,

dabbed at the cut below her eye.

I’ll change my name, she swore,

change my home—but not my pronouns.

As for me, I want to be a woman,

but I don’t want to be seen

as a woman. I can’t decide

on my pronouns. I don’t want

to be seen as one who spends

twice as much time on household

chores, earns three-quarters less,

holds fewer than twenty percent

of the leadership roles, depending

on how you partition power.

I’m still the little girl

who tucks in her braids

and pulls up the hood

of her red sweatshirt

so strangers will think she’s a boy.

Now all these years later, Alma has her identity,

but not her freedom. Natasha has her freedom,

but not her name. I have my ambiguity,

but not my power. We can choose our pronouns,

but we can’t choose our world.


Being

by Deedle Rodriguez Tomlinson

I remember being fourteen

I remember I loved diving

I remember diving into a kiddie pool, the lifeguard

glaring, warning me not to do it again, but I did.

I remember waking up

I remember walking out

I remember marching along EDSA highway

two weeks after my 23rd birthday

during the People Power Revolution shouting

Tama Na! Sobra Na! Palitan Na! -- till Marcos fled.

I remember my father

I remember my mother

I remember at ten standing in my mother’s mother’s

backyard, the kusinera chopping off a chicken’s head,

the chicken flapping wildly, the chicken running headless,

the chicken running ‘round and ‘round and ‘round—

till it dropped down dead.

80


* Coming of Age

by Nichole Turnbloom

Be nice (carry two masks—ensure skin and neck tone match)

Be quiet (scream into your pillow, wipe the spit with the

back of your hand)

Be beautiful (smooth skin with fillers, avoid gluten, dairy

and sugar--eat air)

Swallow (with a chaser of your choice)

Again say (“yes” and “so sorry” shovel resentment like manure)

Anoint yourself (disguise the soft animal within)

Reproach

delicate

Artemis- granted bow and arrow to roam in perpetuity.

Yield

fierce

Athene- Medusa’s head displays on your shield

and in her death her spirit

released a white Pegasus.

Are we to wait till then to fly?

I seek…( I seek)

in forked snake tongues

in the turmeric robe of nuns

a language before language.

I sip from the great dipper

drop (by drop) to quench

the thirst of these bodies sacrificed.

I have died still unborn, vanished in

brush strokes, burned myself an island,

sinned and loved, lied and persevered

to truth that stung like a trespassed hive.

either for me

honey nor the

honey bee


this is fate’s toil, this is my bed

woven of olive and myrtle, wool

and gold. This is where “I” ends and

begins, once again.

*Italics are Sappho Fragments #84 and #146 as translated by Anne Carson

82


Braiding Catastrophes

by Pramila Venkateswaran

Jaws of flaming trees bite down homes

fire rains on people in tents, on women feeding

their babies

someone rescues kittens, rushes out of black smoke

a girl shares her ration with her cat

no one will save us, a woman cries into the camera

the one holding it trembles

for there are no answers

you order Uber-eats and watch the split screen

daily, swallow horror with your vitamins

sleep until the alarm rings

clarion call of engines

rockets

spyware spot the weak

winds wreck what’s in the way

man-made

nature-made

man-made

terror doled out daily

chunks of flesh

charred concrete, birds and plants

the land wilts

fires only eat and eat, don’t know California

from Gaza,

rich or poor, ally

or enemy, no binary

can we go home, please?


Chucking It Down

by Camille Westermann

A new word, foreign on both of our tongues, as I try to imitate my love.

‘oues’ and ‘ahs’ thick like morning precipitation as I twist around, trying

to make myself sound appetizing to a new crowd of spectators.

Sleek, I am stripped down, hair water-falling around me each morning;

Brollie-less because I didn’t quite get it yet.

King’s anatomy theatre, On the Dissection of the Species, I am Unloaded,

brain picked apart with interest in my tongue:

So muddled and knotted around words that aren’t mine. Chopped off

and pickled and put in a museum-

I wish I could find a specimen like me.

84


Against Teleology

by Simone Muench + Jackie K. White

They made Eve an event, a teleology

we’ve teethed too many mouths upon, jawing

uneven through supposed apple skin. We’ve

seeded and ceded enough. Enough gnawing

on our bones by canonized men. Let fang

become fallout, reverse this ache, this sorry.

Let bees shimmer inside our eyes instead

of men’s glory. Let’s mouth a modern story

revise every exodus, each line of dread

they put upon us in sackcloth or satin.

We took the garden with us, now the gavel

is our godhead. We’ll not be suckled or bled

to ghosts again. We’re the heart’s rattle,

razored at our core. Full of sharp. Full of sheen.


Women’s

Stories

86


Facts – Memories- Plans – Just Data!

by Rosemary Amato

I remember the first time a boss said to me ‘Rosemary, you have to

broaden your gray area. Everything is not black or white. The sooner you

figure that out, the sooner you will be a success.’ Broaden my gray area?

What did he mean? I’ll come back to that shortly, as that sentence really

summarizes the need for every individual to be data intelligent and I

want to share with you how I discovered data intelligence.

Ever since I was a child, I focused on getting the facts. I learned that

when you present the facts, people will listen to you. I have always been

an avid reader, starting with the summer reading program at Harvey

Rice School in Cleveland, Ohio, USA. I also learned that facts make you

start thinking that everything is black and white, wrong or right, left or

right, and so forth. And that attitude stayed with me while I was growing

up in my blue collar family.

My parents were second generation immigrants; Dad’s parents came

from Sicily and Mother’s parents came from Hungary. They were focused

on having their three daughters go to college. The facts presented to my

sisters and myself were that we would go to a college prep high school

and there would be no discussion over this fact. The school they chose

for us, after researching a lot of data, was a school that prided itself on

making students ready for college. And yes, all three of us were accepted

at the same high school and then we were accepted into the colleges

WE individually chose. I became an accountant and my sisters became

medical doctors.

I look back at my memories from my early career days and I wonder why

I made the choices I did. I realize now that I often did not have enough

data when I decided to move from employer to employer, from city to

city, from country to country. From the age of 21 to 47, I had 7 employers

and 10 different roles, and moved between states 7 times. My motivation

for taking a new role or moving to a new company was purely money.

I was not gathering all the data I needed for a decision, but I was just

gathering facts, and only one of those facts was a real data field – how

much money would the new role/position pay! I have realized now that

I made some good decisions with the moves, but I also made some bad

decisions.

I learned that most people – including myself at that time in my live

- don’t think about gathering data in order to make a good decision.

They just want to decide. I know I gathered a variety of facts. I created

Section 2. Women’s Stories 87

action plans from those facts, but was it really data? And was it the data

I needed to make an informed decision? And most importantly, was it

good data? We know the world is rapidly changing and evolving into

a world where fake news appears regularly. How do you know if your

data is good? How do you recognize what data you need? How do you

plan for your future with data? I’m still struggling with data and there is

no simple answer.

During my career after the age of 47 until I was forced to retire at

the age of 66 (and that is another story!) I worked for one company in

one location, and served clients working on various projects in cities

throughout the world. Data was always the focus for these projects.

Auditing data, Data in E-Business, Risks of using data, Big Data, Data to

validate computer systems, Data visualizations – almost every project

was focused on data and how it was created, retained, changed, or used.

But one thing that was often missing from the project was the answer

to the question WHY. Why were those clients concerned about data?

What questions were they trying to answer? Why was the data needed?

Would they change something? Would something improve? The WHY is

the most important aspect of understanding data, but everyone forgets to

ask that question.

I remember a seminar I attended in London when Big Data was the new

buzz word. One of the speakers was an ex-employee from Barclays

Bank. That is where I learned about the importance of WHY. He showed

example after example of initiatives that failed and initiatives that

succeeded. The key to a successful initiative was that someone asked the

question WHY and had hypotheses prepared to answer that question.

WHY do we need to collect this data? WHY is this data important to us?

And then what are we going to do after we analyze the data?

Today we are still being bombarded with data. How many surveys do

you receive a week? Survey after survey – someone is collecting data for

some reason. Newspapers, whether online or those still in print, have

sections with charts, even on non-financial topics, where they are trying

to use data to prove a point they want to make. I have learned that you

can prove anything by preparing a good data visualization, but does it

always tell the truth? Only you can judge that by learning to understand

how to read a visualization. WHY is the visualization being presented

to you? Do they want you to vote for someone? Do they want you to buy

a product? Do they want you to invest in some money offering or stock?

You must become data intelligent and understand how data is being

collected and why it is being channelled to the audience it is focused on.

Nothing may be further than the truth than a visualization that appears

88


to use the facts if you don’t know how to interpret it, and you don’t have

an understanding of what data they used to prepare it.

This is the challenge we all have now. Remember what my boss said

to me – broadening my gray area? I learned that all decisions I made

and will still have to make are not black and white. There are very few

things that fall into a black or white category. Broadening my gray area

has allowed me to look at facts, compare data, and realize that most

situations fall into the gray area. Those things that are not life or death.

Those things that I can accept a compromise for. The author of The

Davinci Code, Dan Brown said: “I love the grey area between right and

wrong. It is here where the actions of conflict or cooperation take place. It

is here that our world of emotion can be uncovered. The grey areas of life

allow us to choose sides and form our alliances. It is here where we can

become enemies of our opposers. So much of human interaction is lived

in the grey areas.”

And living in the grey areas means you have to ask the question WHY.

That is the message I have for you today. Become data intelligent by

understanding your need for data in your life – and not just in your

business life. Get the facts, do the research, and broaden your gray area.

And while broadening your gray area, always ask the question WHY.

Why am I concerned about this? Why should I dig deeper into the data?

As I started to recognize that very few things are black and white and I

learned to broaden my grey area, I saw that more opportunities opened

up for me, especially when I asked the question WHY. I also used data

to close doors when necessary and I did stick to the black or white when

I absolutely felt there was no gray area. I’m sure you too will recognize

the importance of being data intelligent and learn how to broaden your

gray area by focusing on the facts, doing the research, getting good data

and then creating your plans and making decisions as a data intelligent

individual. Incorporate data into your life! And remember always ask

Why!


Silent Night

by Allyne Betancourt

The words spinning off Sally’s tongue press against me like

fingertips persistently jabbing my shoulder. Her words sound distant,

more remote than the two states she speaks from. The thrust of these

fingers creep into my soul as they tug and pull at pieces of my past I’ve

put to rest. Shush Sally, I don’t want to awaken them. She pounds out her

anguish over Molly’s memories of our childhood. “He was our dad. Dads

are supposed to protect their little girls, not hurt them. Molly thinks it

was me Dad hurt. Can you believe her? She’s sick you know. She’s so

crazy now that’s she middle-aged she really thinks it was me, not her.

Damn. Can you believe that?”

Is Molly crazy? Is Sally? Perhaps it is me who’s crazy? Certainty

of my memories waver as I recall the bedroom we shared at Grandma

and Grandpa’s home during visits with Dad. There was that night – that

one night I remember it beginning…

…The bedroom is very dark, darker than any other room in the house.

Daddy works nights and sleeps during the day. Being Deaf, the daylight keeps

him awake, so Grandma put foil on the windows to keep the light tightly out,

then covered them with solid roller blinds. I hate those blinds. The gentle but firm

tug required to get them to roll up in the morning is too tricky for an awkward

kid like me. I always pull and release too hard, causing them to snap to the top,

flapping around like the paper on a player piano when the music stops.

I can hear Daddy getting out of his bed in the spare bedroom just across

the tiny hallway. The thud as his feet hit the floor seems so loud, I wonder why

Grandma and Grandpa don’t hear him. Then the prolonged squeaking as he

slowly, painfully, opens his bedroom door. I know the slow movements mean

he intends to be very, very quiet, but because he can’t hear the door, he doesn’t

know that the slower he opens it, the louder and longer the squeak. Now I know

Grandma and Grandpa can hear the noise. I know they aren’t deaf like Daddy. I

know they can hear him getting up. But they don’t come.

Daddy bumps the door jamb as he enters our room. “What? What

Daddy?” But I can’t sign to him. It’s too dark. My eyes are already strained

trying to make out his shape entering our bedroom. As I stare in the direction

of the doorway, I can only see millions of tiny dots, varying shades of black and

gray. I can’t see Daddy, but I can hear him. Sally, the eldest by five minutes of my

identical twin sisters, lies next to me on the top trundle bed. Molly, her mirror

90


image, sleeps soundly on the bottom trundle bed. Part of Molly’s bed is tucked

under the top bed, creating more space to walk around the room. Daddy stands

there now beside Molly. He doesn’t know that his breathing is loud, like an old

dog snoring while it sleeps. It’s so loud here Grandma and Grandpa. Can’t you

hear him now? Can’t you hear that old dog’s tortured breathing…

…Our phone conversation shakes that old dog, threatening to

wake it. My throat tightens as I try to speak calmly and softly to Sally.

Often talking to her is like talking to my teenager; I wonder if she hears

any of my words. “I don’t know Sally. Dad hurt all of us. What we lived

through was unreal. It’s hard to know where the lines of reality cross

into the abyss of self-preservation. Molly just needs to know you love her,

that’s all.”

Sally spits at me across the phone line, “I do love her, damn it.

But I want her to get her head on straight.” I can see steam rising and

swirling around her head as fiery words strike our Dad, burning him

alive. Did he ever think about what he did to us? I imagine stretching the

phone lines and reaching out to put my hand on Sally’s shoulder…

…Daddy’s hand reaches across Molly and shakes Sally’s shoulder,

stirring her awake. “What?” she says groggily, although she knows he cannot

hear her words. I want to sign to Daddy, “What? What?” but those millions of

dots of black and gray block my small hands from his vision as he pulls Sally out

of our tiny bed and leads her away from me. I’m alone now and I don’t know why

I’m so scared. I don’t know why Sally is gone to Daddy’s bedroom. Why does he

want her in his bedroom in the middle of the night? I think if I can lie very still,

holding my breath, I might hear something, anything that will tell me why Sally

is gone. Should I go see? Maybe if Daddy took me instead, then I’d know what

was in his bedroom.

By the time Sally returns I am dizzy from holding my breath for long

stretches at a time. She silently slips into the bedroom, then heavily plops onto

the bed as though she suddenly weighs hundreds of pounds. I bounce as she hits

the bed, and I anxiously remain upright to hear her story. “Sally, why did Daddy

take you out of bed?” Lying flat on her back, she opens the top of her pajamas to

expose her breasts. “Allyne, touch my breasts.” The small, newly budding breasts

are just a paler shade of gray dots swirling among the darker outlining dots.

“Why?” I ask. A hollow sob courses up through her chest, chokes off her breath,

and heaves out of her mouth. Now I’m really scared. She doesn’t stop sobbing.

Time passes, she sobs harder. Now I know that Grandma and Grandpa are really

a different kind of deaf. I reach out through the dots to put my small hand on her

shoulder…


…but I can’t reach through the phone lines. Sally is wailing now,

cursing our Dad. I marvel at how she has transposed her memories onto

her identical twin, and I think being a twin gave her a place to put the

things that hurt.

Shedding more tears and questioning more memories, we wearily

reach the end of our conversation. Our burdens find small comfort in the

closet of our shared childhood. “It wasn’t okay, Allyne.”

“No, Sally, it wasn’t okay. But we can choose to embrace a life free

of hatred.”

Our quiet resolve casts a dim light on the darkness of that night. “Good

night,” I mutter with hope as I hang up the phone.

92


The Metaphysical Magician

by Judith Woolcock Colombo

To a child the normal is the everyday, the environment in which

they live. Growing up, I didn’t find it strange that our family doctor,

Dr. Cook, was a psychiatrist. Nor did I find it strange that I spent every

Friday afternoon from age eleven to fifteen in Dr. Cook’s office dealing

with my anger issues. These weekly visits to Dr. Cook’s office were just

offshoots of the many family visits Dr. Cook paid to my grandmother’s

house.

Dr. Cook was a friend to the family, talking to everyone, prescribing pills

that had the marvelous effect of turning your urine blue, and numbing

your lips. It was he and his henchmen who told my mother that my anger

issues were not due to the physical abuse by my father but by a lack of

emotional and intellectual discipline.

I didn’t blame him for the endless and exhausting lessons in every

known subject that followed, or Friday afternoons lost to therapy. He still

remained a superior being, a metaphysical magician, who with just a few

quiet words could make you feel better. He was a godsend.

He was the man whose many pills transformed my mother from a

nervous, energetic, creative person, filled with passion and pain into a

lethargic pain free zombie. Still, I tried to believe that he knew best.

I went with my mother the day she was to receive a special therapy. We

were told it was a treatment that would change her and make her better.

Dr. Cook waited for us. He smiled and escorted us into the University

Hospital’s waiting room where he handed my mother over to two white

clad nurses.

My brilliant mother, whose stories lulled me to sleep at night,

who created fantasy castles for me out of cardboard boxes and cellophane

paper, and who played Beethoven, Strauss, and Joplin on an antique

piano for my pleasure, clung to me like a child, mute and afraid. I

placed my arms around her protectively and pulled her to me. But I was

assured, as her fingers were pried from my arm, that this therapy would

put a new zing into her life.

Dr. Cook and I sat together in the waiting room, discussing

Christ, Buddha, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and occasionally my

fourteenth birthday, a week away. However, he left after a while because


I was not being grownup that day. I wanted to ask questions about my

mother. Why was she in a room away from me? What was happening to

her? When could I see her? Was he sure this treatment would work? He

left, and I stayed, crying for my mother.

Three hours later, I was directed down a long narrow hospital

corridor and told to open a nondescript door at the end. The woman, who

rose from the bed to greet me was not the red- haired brilliant storyteller

and musician I had arrived with, but a confused white-haired copy.

Electricity, flowing through my mother’s head, had not only

knocked the rinse right out of her hair but had scrambled the brain of the

woman who introduced me at age four to Milton’s Paradise Lost. She had

enthralled and excited me, flying around the room draped in a golden

curtain as the Son of Man or hovering over me wearing a black cape on

her shoulders as Satan surveying his domain.

Dr. Cook was disappointed by this treatment. It did not work, so

he doubled the dose of pills. My mother now had a rainbow collection of

pills to take every morning. Her urine was now orange and blue. Her lips

were white and flaky, and her speech slurred.

She wasn’t silent anymore but screamed her hate and anger. She

screamed her hate for me, crying out loud with pent up anger at my

being a breech birth. She screamed her hate for herself. She suffered from

hallucinations and was convinced that biblical demons were pursuing

her. She no longer spoke of the Egyptian pyramids or the of Coptic

Christian Art of Ethiopia and her desire to visit those countries, instead,

she cried of roaming spirits, death, and suicide.

Dr. Cook, that marvelous magician, no longer understood. Instead, he

prescribed stronger sedatives. He no longer spoke to me as an intelligent

person but as an overanxious child. Of course, my mother wouldn’t take

her own life. She just wasn’t the type.

The next time he came, he brought a colleague with him to convince

my aunts that allowing my mother a vacation at the seashore with her

children and a nurse was totally out of the question. She needed to be

locked in the house and sedated until this manic phase passed.

The day my mother escaped, she used up all her rainbow collection of

pills. Dr. Cook was mystified. This was not to be. He was perplexed. He

blamed the era. He blamed the weather. He never blamed himself and his

fellow magicians.

94


Julia’s Bet

by Tiffany Davenport

Biloxi, Mississippi 1958

I went straight to Daddy, and I told him what Mama did. She didn’t have

to hit me that dang hard. It wasn’t my fault Jasper couldn’t keep up.

Everyone in town knows how fast I run. He shouldn’t a teased me before

church, he shouldn’t a challenged me in a race, and he shouldn’t a bet his

bike. It’s my bike now. Fair and square. Before I could get my whole story

out to Daddy, Mama came stomping up behind me, yellin’ all crazy-like.

She was still mad. What’s wrong with me racing a boy anyway? He’s

always boasting about how fast he is, how much better he is, richer he

is. I just had enough. Girls can run fast too. Especially me. Moma’s just

always mad, except to the people in town she’s kissing up to. But I knew

Daddy would understand. He had to! Jasper and I made a bet, with spit

and everything. That counts double, triple, even! Mama shouldn’t a given

the bike back to him. She had no right. We was all hollerin’ outside.

Neighbors were starin’.

And I woke up looking forward to today. I really was, even church!

That preacher from out east was visiting, and he’s real nice. Tells good

stories that even I understand. Afterward, me and Darlene was gonna

walk down to the creek and catch tadpoles. We saved two big pickle

jars, and we was gonna keep the tadpoles in our rooms and watch them

grow into frogs. It was our special experiment. But NO, I got hit in front

of the whole congregation, dragged into the car – all teared up and

embarrassed. And there Jasper was, just laughing with that no- good

wretched smirk on his wretched freckled face. I hate him, and I always

will. Dad didn’t understand. He took her side. Their side. What’s wrong

with this stupid town? Why do the boys always get their way and us girls

are just s’pose to sit on the side and keep our dresses pretty. Why can’t

Mama understand this? Didn’t she like running around when she was a

kid? What’s she so afraid of?

A bet is a bet. Now I’m grounded all day, doing chores because Jasper

can’t run fast, can’t lose to a girl. One thing good about today though... I

won that race. I could hear Darlene, Louise and Marianne cheering me

on. I was faster. I was better. Jasper can’t take that away from me. I’ll race

him again. I’ll race all those boys again. And I’ll keep on beating them.

You just watch me.


Fifty Years of Lessons on Women and Men

Kimberly Hirsh

Connecticut, USA, 1971-1982

I grew up believing I could do anything. From childhood, family

members referred to me as “the smart one”. We never discussed

differences between men and women. I read voraciously, so my aunt and

uncle who both worked at a New York City publishing house brought

me books. I spent a lot of time reading seated by my bedroom window,

watching for activity on the street. One neighbor jogged by daily during

her pregnancy, often wearing an ERA YES T-shirt. After she gave birth,

the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) died when less than three quarters

of the states agreed that women deserved equality.

Virginia, USA, 1993

Mark was unusually tall with a head of hay-colored hair, his skin pockmarked

like the moon’s surface. He played college basketball for a top

ranked school, but failed at finance jobs until he was demoted to be

head of HR. The human resources department where I worked served

as a dumping ground for under-performing executives. I repeatedly

found myself at Mark’s polished wooden conference table explaining

the principles of our company compensation program. I was unable

to determine if Mark was that dumb or if he was searching for some

formula to increase his own paycheck. He prematurely dismissed my last

presentation to him saying, “You don’t need to worry your little head, I

have to go now and take some ascorbic acid.” I inferred his frustration

arose from what he perceived as my shortcomings.

Czech Republic, 1995

When I arrived for my new job, the American men — a motley crew of

various sizes and ages, some married — had already paired up with

Czech girlfriends. There was an ample pool of them in the office, as the

communist era had afforded high levels of employment to women. The

girlfriends were uniformly slender, lovely, and twenty-five. In my small

circle of female friends at work, one dated a man who reportedly had

one wife in Germany and one in Estonia. Another friend briefly dated

an American man, Conner, who had a Czech girlfriend. Shortly after,

Conner traveled with his girlfriend on a visit to the U.S., calling her

a “souvenir”. Later, I returned to the U.S., single. When genders were

reversed, the system did not provide women with souvenirs.

Rwanda, 2011

96


In 2011, Rwanda was a beacon for gender equality, having elected

women to over 50% of parliamentary seats after legislating quotas in its

2003 constitution. Francine worked for the government in Kigali. She

dressed in patterned wrap skirts and long tunics, her hair plaited and

nails manicured at the saloon* on Saturdays. She stood tall and wore

heels. She spoke French well and English moderately and was working

on a master’s degree. One day, she arrived at the office in full regalia.

Her headdress was wrapped high, her gold earrings flashed. “You look

beautiful!” I announced. She explained that her formal dress was for a

court date. Her husband was an unreliable drifter, and she hadn’t seen

him in years. She sent three of her five children to boarding school in

Uganda so she could work. Each time they returned there, her husband

had to sign a document permitting them to cross the border. Without his

signature, Francine needed to go to court and fight for it.

“I thought Rwanda was different,” I said. “Women are at the top of

ministries. You have the highest percentage of women in parliament in

the world.”

“That power is for the elite in the country,” Francine said. “Because we

are women, we can’t get anything done at our level.”

Massachusetts, USA, 2021

My husband started defining rules and roles for me early. “Couples

always need to have each other’s backs. People carry feelings about our

successes,” he said. He gave me a useless lesson in self-defense. He was

ten inches taller and more than double my weight. He bought me pepper

spray and put a screwdriver in my glove box. “Women are vulnerable,”

he advised, saying he could beat any woman, including professional

athletes, in a physical fight. The time I would feel vulnerable arrived

only after we separated, when his volatility and rampant entitlement

exploded.

Our first fight began near midnight. He asked for a ride to the train

station early the next morning. “It’s my first chance to sleep since I’ve

been teaching nights.” I moaned, suggesting a bus, taxi, or ride share.

He slept in the guest room and left the next morning, returning three

days later. He didn’t hate women, he said. Rather, I thought, he hated

women who failed to behave exactly as he wanted. Articles that emerged

during the COVID pandemic explained that women carry most of the

“emotional labor” in a household. This term provided language for what

I lived.

Over breakfast one day, his phone rang, showing a call from “Mi Esposa


Olimpia”, his former girlfriend. The word “my” carries weight; I was also

“my wife”. After he left for good, I learned that my husband had built a

collection of live women, as well as videos and images of women – exes

and strangers – more than ten thousand of them, stored on his cloud

account.

Equatorial Guinea, 2024

In the 1987 book Tropical Gangsters, Robert Klitgaard describes his time

in Equatorial Guinea. While working there, he had multiple gorgeous

Equatoguinean women as suitors. On one flight out, he chatted with a

German tourist. She observed contradictions in how the foreign men

lived: the money, status, activities that Equatoguinean women couldn’t

otherwise access, and in the power it gave the foreign men.

I traveled to Equatorial Guinea with a woman from there, but raised in

Spain, and living in Amsterdam. “I refuse to be treated like a secondclass

citizen in my own country,” she explained. “If the Dutch wish to

treat me as second class, I’ll take it from them, but not my own people.”

*Saloon is the term commonly used in African countries.

98


In Some Cheap-Ass Gas Station Line

(or anywhere in public, really)

by Selene Hofstetter

Darling, listen to me.

A man’s compliment comes with expectations.

It leers at a fresh, plump of some 12 years old ass

and down the shirt of a 20-year-old waiting to pay for gas.

When they speak of romance - it’s more out of allure and excitement

rather than Title IX allegations and legal prosecution.

When a man with a 15-to-20-year difference asks you out on a date - age

is not the

issue, but you being possibly gay is??

They search for ways in: anonymous Snapchat accounts commenting

how your avatar

is

just their type

and Instagram messages

of

“lonely and single, will pay for dinner”

appear in your social media account.

All I want is to drop this ten-pound conversation of desperate flirting

and inability to keep it in their pants

on their foot and pay for my gas.

Their eyes are nothing more than holes that appraise and rotate

from face, to boobs, to ass, to crotch, to thighs.

Midriff slopes down to the hips that carry future generations - but to

a man

it is seen as an open invitation to begin a conversation.

The deep-cut shirt accentuates your boobs - leading the eyes downward

praising you for the shape of your body

rather than the two hours you spent on your

makeup. Darling, this is how the world works.


You sit on a cheap-ass toilet - expecting some simple decency of privacy

and all you get from society

is the devil looking up to your boobs and standing eye level to

your crotch.

They say not all men. Then who?

This is not an issue of simply covering up.

When a man walks around the grocery store with his butt crack

manifesting

from his purposefully low-hanging pants.

And a man jogs around Balboa Park, flashing his boobs.

Society’s feedback is silence.

Societal commentary aligns with policing a woman’s body more

because of its sexual innuendos of just existing.

So darling,

when a random old man passes you in Stater Brothers, saying you

look beautiful.

Do not take the compliment at face value because being beautiful in this

world means a lot more

than simply having a beautiful soul.

100


Libus

by Sarah Kehoe

Libus has invited me over for the day. I am excited and eager. Dad works

for Libus’s father, driving a wagon for extra income, which is a shoe-in

for me. My mother, protective and particular about who I befriend, has

granted permission.

Libus leads me around the farmhouse and introduces me to her mother.

The kitchen holds the familiar farm smell of tractor diesel and milkingcows.

In the afternoon her father takes us for a spin in the car, driving us a mile

down the road to a holiday caravan site.

“Bag o’ crisps for the young ’n’s,” her dad instructs the barman. Fizzy

drinks follow, and I sit à table like a pampered princess We giggle quietly

to the taste of salt and vinegar.

Attention from the bartender eventually dwindles. Libus’ Dad has long

gone quiet, and stares into his glass, appearing mesmerized by the

bubbles. We’re no longer giggling.

“Let’s go home, Dad,” Libus asks again. “In a little, love. Let me finish

this one.”

When the glass looks close to empty, we shuffle to re-show our readiness

to leave. But a slight head-nod to the barman causes another pint to

arrive.

Eager to be anywhere else, Libus and I head to the toilets. The room is

cold and echoes. Boredom shows us the window that can be reached

via a scramble from the sink to a ledge. The window is narrow and stiff

to open. Libus’ foot slips on the wet porcelain, but she’s determined,

then emboldened. Out, in fresh air, we startle the odd sheep and a few

curlews, the prominent curve of their beaks accentuated by sunlight as

they scatter and fly over. We head across the fields back to the house,

rushes brushing our little legs, dodging the cowslips and tall dock leaves.

Weeks later, playing on the schoolyard after lunch, Libus is watching

a man intensely as he tends rows in a garden by the playground wall.

Her eyes follow him as he leaves and enters the back of the The Dog and

Partridge. As soon as the door closes, she tells me crossly, “He threw my

Dad out of the pub last night!”

Keeping one eye on the door, the other on the veggie patch, she climbs

the wall and approaches the first row.


“He called my Dad names!” She stomps on the closest plant. Pupils have

noticed and lean increasingly into the cold grit of the granite, watching.

She stomps on more. Filled with the energy of anger, she pulls up taller

plants. We feel her righteous indignation, and cheer her on.

The school bells rings. Kids scamper. Libus leaps back over, wipes the

soil from her shoes in blades of playground grass, and in we run.

The following day, at the close of classes, the headmistress makes an

announcement. “I have been informed of dreadful damage done to the

garden next door! Not one of you is going home until I know who did it!”

Eyes fall to feet. Small bodies freeze. Allegiance remains surprisingly

strong.

“It was one of you, that I know!” She continues, layering on blame and

shame that sicken my stomach. The clock ticks. The seconds hand circles.

Mothers peer in through side windows, their talk outside getting louder.

Guilt crawls up my esophagus: I had cheered her on. Acid pools at my

uvula. I swallow it bravely, proud of classmates for not telling on my

friend.

“It was me,” Libus states.

“Stand here! The rest of you are dismissed!”

In the push-and-shove scramble to the door, I look back. She is alone by

the blackboard chalk.

She does not come to school for days. I don’t request to phone her: the

phone lives in the realm of adults who frequently speak of its great

expense. Nothing is said when she returns.

Later in secondary school, our social circles differ. I pass her in the yard,

sitting with her gang, in an alcove around the back. She looks at me and

I notice bruising encircling the orbit of one eye. I’ve seen black eyes on

telly. It’s more blue in real life. “Your Dad did it?” I overhear. My gait

stops. She holds my gaze, then turns.

When I next see her three years later, she’s married. In the wedding photo

in hand, she’s in front of her Dad’s wagon, white dress flowing. Her Dad

is beaming but not dressed for the occasion. She’s watching me, waiting

for me to ask. “I didn’t tell ‘im we was getting married, y’ know. Didn’t

tell me Dad nor me Mum. They couldn’t sit in the same room if they

tried.” Libus turns back to the picture;

“Apple of me Dad’s eye, I am. Apple of his eye.”

102


Imagine This

by Doris Mahaffey

You will not believe what happened today. Wait — let me shut the door.

Stop primping and listen.

You know that guy in my International Poli Sci class — Gerard — the

guy I did that role playing with — I was Indira Gandhi; he was Anwar

Sadat.

Right. The guy who asked me to go out with him next Saturday.

So, today Gerard said he had these notes on Indira Gandhi he wanted to

share with me, so we walked back to his dorm room, and no sooner had

he shut the door than he grabbed me. I swear to God, I thought he was

going to rip my clothes off. I was stunned. I never saw that coming. But

boy did I act — I swung my backpack at him and got out of there as fast

as I could.

I can’t believe he did that. I mean the nerve. I never gave him any sign

that I wanted anything like that from him. And, oh yeah, when I was

leaving, he called me a slut. I mean, what was he thinking?

I’ve been walking around campus, going over and over it in my head. I’m

sure I didn’t lead him on. I don’t know what to think.

You always say any guy’s a potential rapist, but I don’t think that’s true.

I’ve been to several guys’ rooms — we both have. None of them ever did

anything like that. I mean dorm rooms are more like living rooms than

bedrooms. We sit, we talk, we listen to music. Maybe drink a beer. But

that’s it. Until Gerard.

None of the other guys ever grabbed me like that. So, I know all guys are

not like Gerard. But how can you tell?

It’s not like the Gerards of the world have horns. No tattoos on their

forehead, either.

I’ve heard some people say, you know, you can’t tell, so you should just

assume all guys are like that — or could be.

But I don’t agree. I don’t want to treat all guys like they’re something

they’re not. I don’t buy that idea that on any given day any guy could

be…


I think about those cultures we talked about in Intro Anthropology —

you know — where they segregate the sexes and supposedly that solves

the problem of rape. But at what price?

We know separate but equal is a lie, no matter who you’re separating.

One side always has the power. Oh, my Egyptian friend tells me men

may control government and business, but women have the power in the

home. Who’s he kidding?

I mean, for that to work, the woman would have to be married. What if

she doesn’t want to get married? Where’s her power then? What if she

marries but she’s better at business than her husband? What if he’s a

better cook?

Seriously, trying to solve the problem of rape by segregating men from

women only creates a slew of new problems. That can’t be the solution.

So, what are we left with? Was Gerard just a one-off? How many other

Gerards are lurking among the non-Gerards? How many Gerard wannabes?

He called me a slut. I totally can’t believe I did anything to lead him on.

Nothing.

What? No. Don’t even ask. Of course, I’m not going out with him.

But I don’t know what I’m going to say when I see him in class on

Thursday.

Maybe I won’t go to class.

Is it too late to withdraw?

Yeah, I thought so.

I could arrive late and leave early. Sit on the other side of the room. Avoid

him that way.

No. That way Gerard wins. I can’t let that happen.

I know. I’ll go to class tomorrow. I’ll saunter up to Gerard and say

something like:

Oh Gerard, you didn’t remember to bring those notes you were

104


going to lend me, did you?’

No? Shoot. I was so looking forward to reading them.

By the way, that was some role-playing yesterday. You should

have warned me about what you had in mind.

Don’t you ever do that to any girl again. The way it played out

anyone would believe you were a rapist.

Imagine that.


Chat Masala

by Meenakshi Mohan

My grandmother affectionately calls me her Chat Masala …

Why, I ask? She tenderly expounds, You are as eclectic as all my chat masala

recipes!

Chat masala – her favorite of all spices – a mixture of various flavors.

A pinch in here and a nip in there goes in all the delicacies her kitchen

produces.

Italian, French, Mexican, Greek, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, or name any –

I relish the chromatic results this unique spice brings in her cooking.

How am I your chat masala? Through her luminous smile, she illuminates

the story of my being.

Born in Singapore, childhood in Indonesia, India, England. Now, home in

America –a land of mixed ethnicity, race, culture, language, and religion.

In this deep-sea, of the variegated expanse I am not anyone’s “bird of a

feather.”

My DNA weaved with mixed color and texture – not a melting pot, but

my own unique identity.

I speak in many tongues. As a child, the first full sentence I babbled –

Aku mav nasi goreng. At four, I mesmerized my audience,

reciting Sanskrit Shlokas in a tongue of pure silver.

I often correct my father’s Americanized Hindi. I trick my mother with

her Cockney heritage.

Spanish and French come with liminal drifts.

In the world of music, I float from Bollywood to Hollywood,

from rock, nu-metal, 90’s rap, soft pop to Indian Blues and Remixes

Anthony Bourdain’s adventure with universal cuisine fascinated me.

My palatability extends beyond

fish and chips, hamburgers, pizza, parmigiana, NY strips, enchiladas,

tacos,

moussaka to murgha Mussallem, and sag paneer.

Mexican, Italian, French, Japanese, and many more I love.

I am Chat Masala, I love my grandmother’s analogy –

So precise and pure. I am a pinch of this and nip of that. An eclectic mix!

106


I Am a Child of the Universe.

Note: Chat Masala is a spice and a mix of different ingredients used in

Indian cooking, but now getting universal galore.

Aku mav nasi goreng – Indonesian. I want fried rice.

(Published in Setu Bilingual Monthly Journal, published in Pittsburgh, PA.,

the USA in its September 2020 issue, also in International Writers Journal,

April 2021.)


Both Sides Now

by Catherine O’Neill

When Joni Mitchell wrote and sang “Both Sides Now” in the sixties, the

Canadian-born singer/songwriter’s lyrics

I’ve looked at life from both sides now

From win and lose, and still somehow

It’s life’s illusions I recall

I really don’t know life at all

were about the loss she endured after giving up her daughter for

adoption when she was pregnant and penniless at age 21. Giving up

her baby was a rational choice that haunted her for many years amid

erroneous media reports claiming she chose career over motherhood.

The pain of loss became her creative journey of healing words for a global

generation of women who gave up children, had abortions, or stayed in

their marriages while never bonding with those children.

I Am Alarmed by Recent State Anti-Abortion Efforts

I was first rattled to the core on May 15, 2019, when Alabama governor

Kay Ivey signed a highly restrictive abortion bill that challenged Roe

v. Wade, the 1973 U.S. Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion.

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/05/15/us/alabama-abortion-facts-lawbill.html

I dug out my old Joni Clouds album and listened harder to the lyrics of

“Both Sides Now.” I had first heard the song in 1983, when I was a feisty

college kid excited to vote in Ireland’s first abortion referendum. The

country was divided into pro-life supporters campaigning to vote “yes”

to protect the life of the unborn versus the abortion activists rallying a

“no” vote in order to protect a woman’s right to choose what to do with

her body. All I knew was that the woman who raised me and my four

siblings was a small, proud woman who jostled with a netted head of

curlers she dismantled for church on Sunday. As a devout Catholic, my

mother had given up her secretarial job to multiply and take care of her

family. Her generation had accepted Pope John XXIII’s announcement to

create the Second Vatican Council, also known as Vatican II, in January of

1959.

https://www.britannica.com/event/Second-Vatican-Council

Born out of the cultural changes after World War II, Vatican II set out

to address relations between the Catholic Church and the modern

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world. One of its greatest disconnects was to make birth control illegal.

I would spend most of my life trying not to become like the women of

my mother’s generation who relied on the joys of menstrual cycles and

suffered the woes of the encyclical Humanae Vitae.

http://w2.vatican.va/content/paul-vi/en/encyclicals/documents/hf_pvi_enc_25071968_humanae-vitae.html

Caught Between Two Sides of the Abortion Issue (Within My Own

Family)

I left my house on voting day and my mother yelled after me, “Vote Yes!”

It boggled me why she voted yes after her rants about getting poorer

with every child in the low economic tide of the sixties and seventies.

At age 13, I became her partner in hardship, working as a waitress and

chambermaid in local hotels and sharing my small wages with her. I

didn’t want to upset her, so I said, “Sure, I’ll vote yes,” and meandered

into town to visit my grandmother. There were highly visible blue prolife

signs on street poles, front yards, and in the clutch of priests and

nuns canvassing on street corners. My grandmother led a hardscrabble

life through what she called “The Troubles,” a turbulent 1920’s of tension

between England and Ireland. I didn’t want to upset her either when

she asked me if I voted. I told her that I had voted yes, even though I

would vote no in order for Ireland to legalize abortion. Her response was:

“What’s wrong with you? I voted no! All the young Irish women going

to England for back street abortions and all you can do is vote yes.” I

was caught in the crosshairs of two white lies and the two generations

of women in my family. I waited intently for the polls to close for the

vote count. The “Yes” vote won, and the Eighth Amendment of the Irish

Constitution Act was passed on Sept 7th 1983 with a 67% majority. It is

referred to as Article 40.3.3 of the Constitution: The State acknowledges

the right to life of the unborn, equating it with the mother’s right to life.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eighth_Amendment_of_the_

Constitution_of_Ireland

My mother continued to be a mystery like the Blessed Trinity when I

lived at home through college. She once shared that she visited the parish

priest when she was in the throes of a postpartum depression after

having me. His advice was to go home and please her husband and she

quoted him saying “It’s better to have a child on your lap than a sin on

your soul.”

The Hypocrisy of the Rich Who Traveled For Abortions

At college, I began to identify with what my grandmother meant when


I ferried friends across stormy waters from Rosslare to Fishguard and

shared a bumpy bus ride to London abortion clinics. They had found

themselves alone with an unwanted pregnancy. I remember the giddy

chat on the way and the silence on the return journey. I remember

holding their hands on the bus ride home and visiting them for weeks

when they missed classes. But what I remember most is our drinking

binges and the vacant look, the hollow eyes, and dry tears lamenting they

would never be able to pay me back, after confessing they would never

be the same after the shame and guilt. Outwardly, I told them they’d be

fine, they’d get over this because my grandmother knew a lot of people

who survived and moved on. Inwardly, I secretly hoped I would never

have to make this decision, never have to bear their loss and emptiness.

I left Ireland in 1986 with $50 in my back pocket and a dire motivation

to leave my mother and Catholic Ireland where I found them. My father

reassured me on the train ride to the airport: “You can always come

home.” I never responded because I knew I would return to Ireland. I left

for the states in a huff on a J1 visa which I later extended with an F1 visa.

I worked and gallivanted up and down the east and west coasts before I

began dating a guy named Joe.*

Exercising My Own Right to Choose Family — in America

It was after three months of hot sex that the pregnancy test came back

positive. I was awaiting a visa to visit Australia and there was no plan

to stay in the states. I was faced with making a decision I hoped I would

never have to make. I flicked through the yellow pages and found an

ad for “Pro Choice.” Confusing it for Pro-Life, I made an appointment

thinking I was going to discuss what my options were to have a baby

in America— my body and my choice. I didn’t know it was an abortion

clinic until the big blond-haired lady pressed her thumbs into the corners

of her mahogany desk and stretched her buxom body in the direction of

my 110-pound scrawny one.

“Listen, Duckie, you can’t afford to have a baby here without health

insurance, an abortion is your only option, do you know how much it

costs to have a baby in America? Any idea how much it costs to raise a

child?”

“Who says I am having my baby here.” I answered and left quietly out

the back door thinking I wasn’t anyone’s Duckie.

Later that day Joe called, and we met for a drive in his beat-up Ford

Tempo with toxic fumes leaking through a rusted hole in the floor. He

110


stopped at Summit Hill Park. It was no coincidence to hear Joni Mitchell

on the radio belting out the melancholy lyrics:

I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now

From up and down and still somehow

It’s clouds illusions I recall

I really don’t know clouds at all

I looked into the billowy clouds and back to earth at the nearby kids

playing in the brisk winter

weather, the shrill screeches and giggles of snotty nosed toddlers with

ruddy faces, sliding, scooting and swinging their nimble bodies on a

play structure.

“I am pregnant.” I said, repositioning the floor mat.

“Catherine, this baby will bring us together, we’ll always be a

family.”

Gobsmacked, I was not expecting this response. “But we didn’t plan

on having a baby together.” I said, fretful when he seemed so sure of

our future. I was telling him as an act of conscience that he would be

a father, thinking all ties would end after he dropped me at Logan

Airport to return to Ireland. I wasn’t ready to stay in America, never

mind having a baby. I was footloose and fancy free on a mothership of

spontaneity, craving adventure in my twenties. What did I know about

caring for a baby? I had wanted to kiss New England winters goodbye

and join my sister in the sunny outback for the new year. I hadn’t

factored in that I was falling in love and having a baby with a stranger.

I knew I couldn’t face the fraction of who I might become if I had an

abortion, though I was scared and nervous to stay in America without

family support. What if things didn’t work out? What if Joe or his

parents, who I hadn’t even met, might make it difficult for me to leave,

or force me to give up my baby?

Why I Never Considered Putting My Baby Up for Adoption

And so, I stayed to give us a chance to be a family. A year after our

daughter was born, Joe and I married in Vegas in 1991 because the last

place I wanted to marry was in a Catholic Church. We worked together

in a family business while enjoying raising our two children in a 17-year

marriage. The marriage failed to recover after his affair; we divorced in

2012 after years of tension and stress.

As a divorcee, I began to write down my overwhelming fears about

becoming my mother. On a return flight from Ireland, I made a list of all

the traits that prompted me to be like her and not to become her. Turned


out most of my decisions were fear driven not to become her. I wondered

if I had made the right decision at the Pro-Choice clinic. Whose Duckie

was I anyway? Had I missed something? I wondered what my life would

have been like had I gone back to Ireland to have our daughter. Why did I

even tell Joe he was the father? I hadn’t planned to. The moral decision to

stay with him in my twenties was not based on need or religion. I was

way too footloose to comprehend the financial responsibility of raising

a child. My decision to have the baby was made before I’d heard Joe’s

readiness at age 34 to be a father. I did not have the clairvoyance to see

who I would become in my forties with my feelings of abandonment

after his affair. I had been running on a full tank of rage for years before

the divorce. Nothing prepared me for the homesickness for Ireland that

followed until I began to write.

I’m not sure now why I never considered putting our baby up for

adoption. I often think the 20-year-olds like Joni Mitchell who made this

decision were culled by the laws without fully understanding the lifelong

impact. The women ferried upstream and shuttled out of town, often

by a parent, a shocked lover, or a friend forced to keep their little secret

safe. I think of the number of Irish women who had silent pregnancies

and put their babies up for adoption in Ireland, England, and the USA

because abortion wasn’t an option. I wonder how many choose adoption

over illegitimacy for fear of the stigma of being a single parent in the

conservatism of church laws and politicians who shoot from the hip,

suddenly, without any consideration. I wonder how many women like

my sad mother stayed in marriages with a child on their lap and led

unhappy lives not bonding with their children.

Could Ireland and America Switch Places?

I had been living in America for over 30 years on May 25th, 2018,

after much debate, Irish voters were asked if they wanted the Eighth

Amendment to be repealed.

https://www.irishtimes.com/news/politics/abortion-referendum/

abortion-facts

Again, I thought of the Irish women who, after the walk of shame to an

abortion clinic, were never able to live full lives. Once again, I waited

intently for the votes to be counted. A peace settled when the country

voted by 66.4% to 33.6% in favor of removing the 1983 amendment. It

proved to be a 64.13% turnout, with over 2 million votes, one of the

highest ever recorded.

https://www.irishtimes.com/news/social-affairs/ireland-s-abortionreferendum-result-in-five-charts-1.3509845

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The fact that the margin for the passing of the 1983 referendum and its

2018 removal are both in the 60% range show a drastic electoral shift over

a 35-year period. I knocked back a few Guinness to celebrate the fact that

generations of women will no longer be subjected to the tyranny of laws

masked by religious conservatism.

The fight is not over. The Guttmacher Institute (a national nonprofit

organization monitoring state policy developments) says a second Trump

Presidency will decimate sexual and reproductive health. On June 24,

2022, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision

guaranteeing a national right to abortion. The Pew Research Center

shares 63% say abortion should be legal in all or most cases, while 36%

say it should be illegal in all or in most cases. As of January 8, 2025,

12 states have banned abortion (Alabama, Arkansas, Idaho, Indiana,

Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Texas,

West Virginia, Tennessee. The ACLU fears anti-abortion extremists will

enforce a 150-year-old federal statute called the Comstock Act banning

all abortions nationwide without any need for congressional action.

Many states have already implemented T.R.A.P. laws (Targeted

Regulation of Abortion Providers), which are deliberately designed

to deny doctors local hospital access. Project 2025 proposes limiting

abortion access by criminalizing abortion, revoking FDA abortion drugs

and related materials from the mail.

https://www.guttmacher.org/state-policy/explore/targeted-regulationabortion-providers

What America Stands to Lose

My angst has returned as I imagine how America became a kind of old

Ireland with a generation of female teenagers, college kids, and women

forced to cross state borders for risky abortions, suffer misdirected

adoptions, or take marital vows they believe incorrectly will support

them for life: some will, like my mother, stay in miserable marriages

because they don’t want a sin on their soul. These most recent abortion

bills are not only regressive, but they are also oppressive for generations

to come. And note: America already has the highest maternal mortality

rate of any developed nation, and states with restrictive abortion laws

have an even higher incidence of mortality for both mothers and infants.

We must also remember that it took 35 years — and a whole new

generation of voters — to legalize abortion in Ireland and over a half

century for the Irish to grow out of the pains of Vatican II.

https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2018/05/irish-expats-comehome-to-vote-for-abortion/


Today I reflect on who I was as a scared twenty something American

immigrant who sat teary-eyed on a bench under a cluster of trees in

Summit Hill Park. I remember Joe’s hug and looking into the fathoms

of his deep brown eyes. Glancing up to a panoramic view of the Boston

skyline, I wondered then if I would ever live in Ireland again. I had

feared America but loved Boston and Joe. Would I miss him if we had

said our good-byes at Logan airport. I didn’t know if these emotions

would recede once the wave of passionate sex broke. But I felt peace and

power knowing that it was my choice to keep the baby or have a legal

abortion.

How Laws Shape Us and Our Futures

Twenty years later, the anger settled over Joe’s infidelity, I realized that

no law could have protected me from having to work four jobs in my 40’s

as a single parent. In 2012, I was penniless once again when I decided

to represent myself in Cambridge Probate Court and divorced Joe. I felt

sad knowing that he no longer had a relationship with our daughter. The

child who had brought us together so many years earlier had chosen

to wipe him out of her life. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I respected her

decision. I read the sign above the judge’s bench, “In God We Trust.” In

a satori moment, I found peace knowing I had made the decision to have

our daughter in a country that supported a woman’s right to choose and

that this right had made all the difference to me.

I’ve lived on both sides of this issue now and understand that years of

strict abortion laws in Catholic Ireland only made the poor dip further

below the poverty line to serve those fearful of losing power in a country

with a tightly knit church-and-state relationship. Perhaps America’s

leadership is jockeying for a similar type of power.

Today, I live happily with our daughter in Boston. On cloudy days, I

wonder about our strange journey in this land where abortion laws seem

so fickle. Might my daughter’s generation be forced to bend and distort

their lives to accommodate an ever-changing set of rules issued from on

high? While it is too early to know the statistical impact the new legal

abortion law will have on Irish women’s health, financial, and social

status, I can say for certain that going backwards is never a wise way

forward.

*Editor’s Note: This is a pseudonym

114


Making Tracks

by Kathryn Pepper

Making Tracks

“Why did I wear these ridiculous boots?” she grumbled to no

one but herself. The swirling snow smothered her words and the usual

evening sounds in the neighborhood, like a hand clamped over a mouth.

Too bad it couldn’t smother the argument with her husband raging in her

head.

Earlier, she’d flipped on the TV to distract herself. An excited

meteorologist predicted the earliest and largest snowfall in years, maybe

decades.

“Stay off the roads, gather up plenty of blankets, water, flashlights

and candles, and prepare for the worst!” he wailed.

She’d lunged at the power button. The last thing she wanted was

to be trapped in a cold, dark house with Mike and the boys.

This time could be worse than the outage last summer when her

four sons had fought over anything and everything while her husband

had worked his laptop battery to exhaustion. She grimaced at how

automatically she had complied with their requests instead of saying,

“Do it yourself!”

“Mom, I’m dying of thirst and the fridge is dark. Can you help

me find a Coke?”

“Mom, can you help me get a pillow. and tell Josh to stop hogging

the sofa?”

“Dot, I need more light. Don’t you have anything better than

these candles?”

Dot. How she hated that nickname. She didn’t like her full name,

Dorothy, much better, except that it reminded her of Grandma. At least it

made her feel more substantial than “Dot.”

The whir of a spinning tire came from behind her. A car, the only

sign of life, skidded up the white road and struggled to turn into the

safety of its driveway.

How had she learned to give up her desires whenever they

clashed with Mike’s and the kids’? Did she absorb it from Mom and

Grandma? The culture? Mike never asked her to put herself aside

directly. That would have made it too obvious, too easy to say no. Instead,

he stole her confidence by demeaning her interests and criticizing her.

Subtly, like a gentleman. Like he was trying to be helpful. Why had it

taken her so long to see what was going on and change it? Instead, she

just kept trying harder. Trying to be good enough.


It was too familiar, like the foundation plantings that lined the

front of the houses she walked past. The weight bent their branches at odd

angles, changing their eternal sameness into unique irregular shapes. Of

course, if they didn’t recover their normal upright stance when the storm

passed, they were likely to be punished, their owners lopping off the

offending branches or perhaps even pulling up the entire shrub by the

roots. “That’s the price of nonconformity,” she said to the wind.

A bitter gust tore at her face. The snow fell with such force that

she couldn’t see how far she’d come. After 25 years of living here, she was

unsure of her direction. She turned onto the next street that she came to,

the snow already past ankle-level of her big boots. At least the wind was at

her back now.

“Get off my back!” was the last thing she’d shouted at Mike before

stuffing her feet into the nearest boots, grabbing her coat and slamming

the door – far from her typical behavior. But she hadn’t felt like herself

lately, especially after a nurse encouraged her to apply for the Director of

Volunteers position at the hospital. Her years of volunteering had earned

her a favorable reputation. After a strong interview, she was offered the job

– the first paid position since David was born and Mike encouraged her

to give up her nursing career to stay home with the boys. Tomorrow, she

needed to let them know if she would accept.

Mike had resisted the idea from the start, and just before she

stormed out, he spoke with his hands posed in the pyramidal shape of

an authority. “You can’t manage a real job and your housework, too. You

never supervised anyone before. The boys need you to pick them up from

practice. You won’t have dinner ready if you’re working until-”

She listened silently at first as usual, taking the cue to fall into selfdoubts.

But this time, heat rose up from the base of her spine to her head,

filling her ears with a white roar that blanketed his words.

“This isn’t about my deficiencies. You’re afraid!” she blurted. He

startled, reeled back, then regained his composure. His eyebrows rose.

“You’re afraid my job will inconvenience you. You live like you

did when you were a child playing, and your mother did everything for

you. You never help with the house, the kids or anything. You won’t even

change a lightbulb!”

He’d followed her to the closet, rattling on about how ungrateful

she was for his hard work in providing for her, until she had cut him off by

yelling and storming out.

Of course she was grateful. Working when all four boys were

younger would have been difficult. But that didn’t mean she should give

up everything she wanted to do with her life, did it? And soon they’ll

116


need more money for college. Many women she knew held at least parttime

jobs either by choice or necessity. Their husbands took on some

household duties, often at their insistence. How had she gotten this old

without insisting? Worse, what had she taught the boys?

Her toes ached. If only she had dug further back in the closet

for her snow boots. Instead, she grabbed her mother’s old mud boots – a

rubber outer shell with a red flannel liner. She kept them for some vague

sentimental reason and only wore them for working in the yard and

garden, like Mom had.

The huge size of these boots impressed her when she was young

and appalled her when her feet hit a growth spurt out of proportion to

her average build. Classmates found her feet endlessly amusing. Then,

she had only wanted to be inconspicuous, to be safe. How many ways has

she continued to act as invisible as possible?

The wind was relentless now, and the snow grew deeper by the

minute. Her eyes stung and ice coated her eyelashes. She pulled her collar

tighter. As a child she found snow delightful, even magical, the way it

sprinkled their yard with sparkles. The magic faded once her feet became

a source of ridicule. She learned to step partly into other kids’ footprints,

her carefully planted steps obscuring the true size of her own feet. If she

couldn’t avoid laying prints, she had dragged her feet, leaving two long

lines behind her instead of discrete prints.

She looked behind her now, and there they were, lines made by

dragging her feet. She shivered. How had the habit continued unnoticed

for over 40 years?

Rounding the corner onto her own street, she exhaled with relief

that she was nearly home. Then her breath came in shallow spurts. She’d

soon be safe from the blizzard but would face a storm of a different kind.

She drew in a deep breath of frigid air that stung her lungs.

Braving a storm meant experiencing discomfort. She was done with

the alternative of appeasement, practiced for years, that had caused her

insidious pain.

As she walked the final block to her home, she lifted her feet and

planted them firmly in the snow. She paused at her doorway, turned to

see the tracks she had laid. Yes, her footprints were big. They made a

substantial impression. She smiled.


You Feel Me?

by Desiree Rucker

Regina wedged her foot into the doorway of the Legacy bookstore as

the owner, Daphne Legace, stepped out to say they were at capacity and

could not fit another person.

“I’m a friend of the author,” Regina declared.

“Everyone here is a friend of the author,” shouted Daphne, a short black

woman with enough girth to hold the crowd at bay. Regina was among

the group of latecomers who were grousing about their bad luck in

arriving five minutes too late. Regina pulled the email from Leticia out

of her purse and waved it in front of Daphne’s face. The woman snatched

the paper and looked it over quickly.

Her disdain turned into a smile.

“Why didn’t you say you were Regina?” She let Regina in and shut the

door behind them. A tall, broad, black, man in a tweed sports jacket and

black jeans stepped in front of the door. Five rows of hard metal chairs

had been set up but an overflow crowd of mainly women, ranging in age

from 20 to their late 50s stood all the way to the door, grasping the latest

copy of Leticia’s book to their bosoms. Daphne directed Regina to the

front row where a reserved seat was still vacant. Now at the podium, the

owner introduced herself to the crowd, and read the short speech handed

to her by the anxious woman clutching a stack of folders standing next to

Leticia who Regina guessed to be Leticia’s publicist

Leticia waved at Regina from the podium. Regina smiled back and

waved. Leticia still had it. It being a joy that radiated out of her. It, being

a sexiness that had lasted over thirty years. It being beauty. Had she had

work done? As, if. Regina knew the tautness of Leticia’s face and body

stemmed from her daily work outs. At college Leticia was always at the

gym and running around the track. Regina had tried to tag along, but

she broke out in hives from the sweat that poured out of her. It had hurt

Regina that Raj had made wisecracks about her to Leticia that she was

allergic to exercise and only wanted to work up an appetite. Did he really

think he would impress Leticia by making fun of her best friend?

Leticia’s red sleeveless dress displayed her Michelle Obama arms, as she

gripped the edges of the podium. There is applause and someone shouts

“We love you, whatever you call yourself, girl.” The crowd hushes as

Leticia stands there smiling. Leticia swings her long black locks behind

her and begins to read. Regina watches Leticia hold the audience in rapt

attention. It is a seduction. Leticia turned to the next page and read:

118


“Wanda could not believe her luck. How had she, a first-year associate

been selected to work on the McDaniel deal? Nor could she believe she was

alone in the mahogany paneled conference room with Lionel Davenport,

Esq. He hobnobbed with politicians and defended celebrities. His ex-wife

was Sheila David, the actress. Though Wanda graduated third in her

law school class, and had many experiences and privileges, inside she

was still Wanda from the Bushwick Houses. She hoped that girl might

always stay with her, keeping her centered, and grateful. If only she and

Mr. Davenport, Lionel could have a real conversation she would let him

know how much she admired him. How she had followed his career. He

turned down an NFL contract to work for his Dad’s law firm. Was he

chiseled from granite? She licked her lips. Though she didn’t want to do

anything that would jeopardize her position with the firm, she knew there

was chemistry between them. She felt it when they passed each other on

the elevator, and they even exchanged friendly glances at company social

events. This afternoon he had asked her to go over some paperwork with

him. It was all business. They worked steadily not looking up until 9:00

pm. It was then that Lionel suggested that instead of ordering in they go

out and have something to eat and come back to the office. It would also

allow them to work with refreshed eyes he said and winked. They shared

friendly eye contact and awkward smiles, as they waited for the elevator.

On the elevator, she noticed him staring at her as nervously pulled a stray

hair behind her ear. Her pearl earring fell off making a soft ping sound as it

hit the polished marble floor.

“My earring” she said, feeling her empty earlobe, while looking down at

the floor squinting.

“I’ll let security know. They’ll alert maintenance to look for it.” Lionel

said.

“I have to look. The earrings were a high school graduation gift from my

aunt. ” she said as she bent down.

She knew she was being silly. It wasn’t even an expensive earring, but

it was valuable to her. She felt along a crevice between the floor and the

wall. She pinched the earring with her fingers bringing it up along with

two strands of someone’s lost hair. She blew the hair off the earring. As she

stood up the elevator stopped abruptly and rocked. She was thrown against

Lionel and found herself pressed against him. She felt his hard penis move

against her hip. Lionel grabbed her by her waist, to steady her.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his minty breath tickling the back of her ear.

She was aware of the closeness of his mouth to her ear, to her neck.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, smiling from the pleasure his touch had brought

her. He was still holding her by her waist. When she did not pull away, he


pulled her to him, pressing her high round ass onto his erection.

“Lionel, Aren’t there cameras in here?”

“No, just an intercom,” he said rubbing her breasts through her silk blouse.

She felt herself softening opening anticipating. She gyrated slowly. Was she

really giving the head of the firm a vertical lap dance?

“Hello. Are you okay?” a male voice emanated from a circle of small holes

in the elevator panel. It was followed by scratchy static.

“Wanda gasped and quickly moved away from Lionel”.

Upon closer scrutiny, Regina realized, Leticia did look ten years

older. And she should. Her divorce had been ugly. And Leticia’s

recent reveal didn’t help either. In the past three years, one Zena

Taylor had published a series of novels - quasi romance, quasi soft

porn. No one in the industry knew who she was. They just knew

that she was a phenom. Her stories of professional women seeking

love in high places (Love and Justice) and sometimes under rocks

(Our Only Crime Is Love) had resonated with black women in their

hearts, minds, and vaginas, and they opened their pocketbooks.

“Lionel walked over to the enameled panel next to the elevator door. He

cleared his throat and pressed the red button that said TALK.”

“Yes, we’re fine. What’s going on?” He looked at Wanda and smiled.

“Scheduled maintenance. We didn’t know anyone was still in the building.

We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

Lionel walked over to Wanda and put his hand under her chin; he turned

her face up to his and gave her a kiss.

“Still hungry?” she said.

“I could eat,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later when the repairman opened the elevator door, he

found Lionel immersed in his Blackberry. Wanda was spraying herself

generously with perfume. The repairman stepped inside the elevator

and breathed deeply. Lionel pressed a fifty-dollar bill into the hand of

the repairman and slapped him on the back. The repairman stood in the

elevator and thought how he loved the smell of approaching rain, the smell

of the forest, and the smell of lovemaking.”

*********

It was last week on the Wendy Williams Show that Leticia revealed that she

was Zena Taylor. Regina was at work, but she had gotten a tweet about

it. She called Leticia’s home immediately. Whatever she and Leticia were

feuding about was put on hold. How had she kept this secret? What other

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secrets was Leticia keeping? When Leticia returned home to California,

she returned Regina’s call and promised to tell her everything when

she came back to New York in a week for more interviews. Regina never

would have guessed Zena Taylor was Leticia’s alter ego.

Leticia’s reading ended with the girl getting the man and many

orgasms. The publicist announced that Zena/Leticia would not take

questions but would sign all books. The publicist directed them to Zena’s

website for her blog and listings of television appearances and reminded

them to pick up Essence Magazine next month to read the profile on

Zena.

Regina and Leticia approached each other with their arms

outstretched and hugged each other tightly. They stepped back and

looked at each other.

on?”

“Oh, my bad. You look just like my friend Leticia,” Regina asked.

“You are so crazy. I missed you,” Leticia said.

“Me too. I can’t wait until you tell me what the HELL is going

“A lot. I’m glad we have all weekend.”

“We just have to put up with my mother for a few hours, but …”

Regina said

“Your mother…” Leticia exclaimed, covering her mouth.

“I told you…” Regina said.

“No, you didn’t. How is that relaxation? Leticia asked.

“It’s a break from the media circus you’re in now.”

“This will be fun, like when we were in college,” Leticia said.

“I know isn’t it great?” Regina said, suddenly giddy from the

thought of Leticia and Andrea meeting.

Leticia rolled her eyes.

*********

It had been over 25 years since the spring break when Regina had first

brought Leticia to the country house. Leticia said she felt like she did

when she went to the Fresh Air Fund.

They walked in the woods for hours sharing secrets, smoking pot and

planning their post-graduation, successful, yet bohemian lifestyles. Raj

was smitten by Leticia. She was the first black girl he ever liked. Andrea

had hated the idea of Raj with a girl like Leticia.

“Who are her people?” Regina recalled Andrea yelling, the veins in her


pale neck rising to the surface, throbbing, engorged with blood silently

speaking for DNA long submerged.

“Please don’t invite her back. There is absolutely no advantage in her

friendship. Always forward Regina that is what my parents told me. We

do nothing that will set our family back.”

*********

“Look my fans need me. You’re okay with waiting right?” Leticia

said as she was pulled away by her publicist.

Regina watched everyone buzzing happily. Even the cash

registers seemed to be singing. Some women had two or more copies

of the book under their arms. Regina purchased a copy of the book

in support of the bookstore. She had read in the New York Times that

this bookstore was a victim of its own success. It was one of the small

business ventures in Harlem that needed every dollar to keep up with

the rent and stay open. Regina watched Daphne hustle books, move

chairs and pour wine. She seemed focused and happy as a lark in her

beloved bookstore. Regina admired Daphne for going for it and risking

her money. She wished she had the courage to quit her job. Regina

refilled her plastic cup with wine as she browsed the stacks, glancing

over at Leticia who, to her publicist’s dismay, was laughing, talking and

taking pictures.

It was two hours before all the books were signed. When the

last customers left, the publicist kissed Leticia, waved to Regina and

Daphne and shook the hand of the tall black man at the door. Regina was

standing at the register reading bookmarks and chatting with Daphne.

Regina noticed the tall black guy didn’t leave the door even though the

bookstore was closed.

“This must really be a hot spot? Does your security guard come

with velvet ropes?” Regina said, laughing.

“He’s doesn’t work here. That’s your friend’s bodyguard.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. Hot stuff too, huh? Let me go put this in the safe,”

Daphne said walking away with a red bag bulging with money.

The tall black man who had been quietly observant the entire

evening moved away from the door when Leticia gestured for him to

come over. They turned their backs and spoke conspiratorially. As they

walked over to Regina, she realized the man’s facial expression had not

changed since she first saw him.

“Regina, this is Brian, my bodyguard. Brian, this is one of my

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oldest friends, Regina Walker.” Brian extended his hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Brian. Leticia, why do you need a

bodyguard?”

“It’s a precaution. I’ve received strange emails, letters, and calls.”

“Now I’m frightened.”

“You should be, this is New York City.” Brian said.

The sarcastic look Regina gave Brian was met with the same blank

expression.

“The FBI has pinned it down to three possible suspects.” Leticia

chimed in.

“FBI? Three suspects?” Regina repeated.

“Do you know how much fan mail I get daily?” Leticia asked.

“Three letters with return addresses, I hope,” Regina said

smiling.

“Very funny. Give Brian the address.” Leticia said.

“Is he coming?” Regina realized she sounded rude.

“Your mother would love that. No, he’s not coming. But he needs

to know where I am at all times,” Leticia said.

“I’ll tail you to make sure you’re not followed, and I’ll let the

police know what’s going on. I know a couple of freelancers in Ulster

County, if you need somebody,” Brian said.

Regina started fanning herself with a bookmark, thinking “How come

this heifer didn’t tell me she was being stalked before I invited her to the

country? Hasn’t she seen Halloween?”

said.

“You look kind of shaky, we better get something to eat,” Leticia

“Leticia, keep it low key, please,” Brian said.

“Damn Brian, can a sister get some fried chicken in Harlem on

the low?”

“Can she?” Brian asked.

“Regina, sorry, this is my new normal. Fame, you gotta love it!”

Leticia said, snatching her suitcase and wheeling it towards the door.


Counting and Recounting

by Jawahara Saidullah

First meeting: he accompanied his parents and younger sister to see me.

We liked each other, our parents liked each other, our families seemed to

mesh, priests matched our horoscopes. I waited for my life to begin.

Second, third, fourth: at relatives’ homes. We walked in the garden while

our parents drank tea inside. We talked about our plans, children, our

futures. How could two strangers’ wants and desires, our hopes and

dreams be so alike? It was Kismat, perhaps? Our hands brushed. I felt

warm all over.

Fifth: he said he wanted to marry me. He was sure about it. So was I.

He liked that I wanted to stay home, have children, look after him and

his family. Why else did he want to marry me, to take care of me? It was

perfect. Love ran like fire through my veins. And his?

Sixth: our engagement party, at my house, with our families and 150

guests. There was lots of food. The cake was heart-shaped, our names

written on it in gold, intertwined. We cut it together, his hand on top of

mine. He slipped a delicate gold ring with one diamond on to my finger.

I put an embossed gold ring on his. The claps and shouts of joy and well

wishes from the family and friends crowded around us reverberated in

my ears. I saw only him, smiling into my eyes.

Six to 25: over eight months. Being engaged, we could be alone,

unchaperoned. We went to the movies, to dinner, for motorbike rides. We

held hands, kissed hotly.

26: our wedding took hours. The priest chanted Sanskrit shlokas,

spooning ghee into the holy fire. The end of my sari was tied to his silk

scarf. We walked around the fire seven times. He led four times, I led

three. Seven lifetimes together. The glow of the wedding fire made me

shiver in anticipation. Day one of our married life together.

Also, one: unbanked fire roared between us; our skin scented by the

jasmine blossoms crushed beneath us. We also became one. It was poetic,

almost.

Two to 120: we lived with his parents in their large house. Life was

normal but different from what I had been used to. That was to be

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expected, of course. I was no longer a daughter. I was a wife and a

daughter-in-law. Then, their family business started failing. Ask your

parents for money, they said sweetly. I tried, I couldn’t. He asked, they

asked, every day. They cajoled, shouted, called me names. I still couldn’t.

121-179: All this continued. I was useless. Utterly useless. Who did I

think I was? I could help them by asking my parents for money? How

could my parents not have that kind of money? I was a liar in addition

to being useless. Did I know there was a rich merchant’s daughter who

was perfect for him? She would make a much better wife than me.

Her parents loved her. They would give any amount of money for her

happiness.

180: the liquid his mother splashed on me, as I washed dishes at the sink,

was icy-cold. For an instant. I turned to face her then saw the blue flame

of the matchstick she had just struck. It was tiny, inconsequential until

it touched the edge of my sari. She ran out the kitchen door, closing it

behind her. Through my agony and confusion, my fear, I saw his face

outside the window. Our eyes met, then he looked down and walked

away. Fiery pain exploded in every molecule of my being. There was

nothing else to count.


Who Knew What to Do

by Brett Summers

The night we got the phone call that my mother-in-law had died,

we were on our way home from Hartford to Providence. We’d spent the

day breathing the stale air of the hospital room with her. Even though I

was sleepy on the car ride, I was kept awake by a small miracle that had

happened in that close, box of a room.

When we entered the room, there was Nonie, limp and lifeless,

dwarfed by the bed. It was Dave’s mom, but also – it wasn’t. None of

her poise and intelligence animated her face. Her head rested back on

the stiff pillow, her hair flat and wispy, not “done” as it always had been

when we came to visit. She had arrived at the hospital with a possible

brain bleed from simply bumping her head, and in the two ensuing

weeks, her essence had shriveled and vanished. She had already shuffled

off this mortal coil (know about her that she would appreciate this

Shakespeare reference).

The room was an airlock, a chamber between life and death; the

still air and diffuse light confirmed this as a sacred, if secular, space.

Dave and his brother sat on one side of the bed and I on the other. We

positioned the oddly wide hospital chairs a respectful distance from

Nonie’s body. Nonie herself had retained a respectful distance from

her own body all of the thirty-five years I’d known her. She was a true

intellectual, and her body was mostly an inconvenience, needing to be

fed and clothed. A doctor diagnosed her with rheumatoid arthritis when

Dave was still in middle school, so her body had also been her enemy for

years. She lived in pain every day and contended with excruciating flareups

and debilitating migraines periodically. She never spoke of any of it.

The disease taught her to perform a studied distancing from her body,

as though she were saying, There is my body over there being difficult; I

will ignore it until it chooses to behave. I imagine this performance came

easily to her, as she was a modest, philosophical woman by nature.

While Dave and Julian filled the room with talk of baseball history

and events, I looked at Nonie on the bed, her eyelids stretched over the

globes of her eyes and her mouth hanging open. In medical school Dave

learned to call this pose ‘the O sign’; it meant the patient was really out,

gone, unaware of their surroundings. Still, it stirred something in me; I

felt embarrassed by proxy – I knew Nonie would be mortified to be lying

agape surrounded by her children like this. But even in my mind’s eye,

I couldn’t imagine reaching out and touching the soft skin of her chin to

press her mouth closed. Dave saw me watching her and said, It’s sad, isn’t

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it? He asked tenderly; he was caring for me in that moment, not for his

mother, who couldn’t hear him anyway.

Dave brought his guitar, because his mom had always loved hearing

him play. He sang “Sweet Baby James” and Julian joined in. I couldn’t

understand how they could get out any words at all. I couldn’t sing

a single line without my throat filling with a big lump that blocked

all passage of sound, so I just listened to the alchemy of voices and

strumming created by the four walls of the chamber. Later we called her

sister and held the phone near Nonie’s ear. I heard Sally telling a story

about being at the piano in their childhood home in Omaha; Nonie’s face

betrayed no change. Finally it was getting late, and the nurse came in to

advise us to go get some food; she needed a little time for nursing tasks

in the room.

We ate a desultory meal from plastic clamshells. The cafeteria was

deserted both of diners and workers; we ate quietly and quickly, driven

by some urgency that the end was nigh. When we got back to the room,

the door thunked shut behind us. We were enveloped by the same smell

and otherworldly light as before, but Nonie looked more settled and

comfortable. The bed had been tidied and her linens neatly turned down.

The nurse came in and told us she’d given Nonie a bath while we were

out. This amazed me. A bath! Where was she going? For what, exactly,

did she need to be clean? The nurse added that she had put lotion on her,

as though in the face of dying, dry skin was a concern. “Us girls love

our lotion,” she said to me conspiratorially, like surely another woman

knew the facts. She was right of course. Even I, who consider make-up

a frivolity, know that lotion is lovely. We left shortly afterwards. With

Nonie lying flat on her back, we couldn’t easily hug her, so I kissed her on

the cheek and gently held her hand of bird bones and knobbed knuckles.

Her skin felt smooth and cold and slack. In the middle of the night, when

we got the call from the hospital, we were told that the nurse had come in

and the room felt still; when she checked, Nonie was gone.

I love that Nonie was tenderly touched and tended before leaving

the world. Dave, Julian and I stayed close to her during our visit, but

we didn’t touch her. We were daunted by how diminished and fragile

she looked in the bed, and by her own preferences in life. But just like

babies in incubators, dying people need to be touched. In that airlock

in-between space, the dying need to be physically ushered out. Gratitude

billows in me for the nurse who did this for Nonie – a paid caregiver, a

stranger, knew how to do what we couldn’t.


The Shot

by Elita Suratman

previously published on Herstry

https://herstryblg.com/theme/2020/12/21/the-shot

I pushed the glass door and took my first step into the store. A

man sat across from the entrance, separated from me by a glass display

of Minolta and Canon SLR cameras. He was reading the paper and his

pasty, distended arms looked like alabaster bookends holding the news

captive.

“I need a photo, please,” I said. “For a permanent green card?”

Long before instant headshots were available at every pharmacy

and post office, you had to make an appointment at an actual photo

studio or walk in a camera store. The closest camera store that offered the

special Polaroid headshots was several miles north of where I lived. I was

unfamiliar with it as it was of me.

It was just a transaction, an exchange of money for services, I told

myself.

No more. No less.

The store looked the way it smelled, musty, like a pile of beatup

gym shoes. In a corner, I saw a barstool with legs chipped from too

many reincarnations. A few weeks’ worth of the Columbus Dispatch

was stacked on the stool, leaning against a yellowing Vanguard sheet

taped on the surface behind it. A Polaroid box camera on a tripod leaned

against the wall which was plastered by a Rand McNally world map

stippled with red push pins.

This has to be the right place.

The man said nothing to me but inched his stool behind the glass

counter toward his studio corner, picking up the stack of the Dispatch

along the way and dropping it to the floor.

“So where are you from?” he asked.

“Singapore,” I said, my legs tethered to a spot on the store’s

musty carpet.

“Hmm … Singapore,” he echoed. The man surveyed the

continents on his world map, picked up a red push pin and stuck it on an

island one degree north of the Equator. Singapore. The world map was

clear of pins except for a splash of red plastic in the continents of Asia

and Africa.

Is he mapping me?

He motioned me to sit on the barstool, the carpet releasing me

at his command. I walked to the stool and climbed on the vinyl seat, my

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legs dangling about four inches off the ground.

“Not China, eh?” he grunted, appearing irritated perhaps

because he had me pegged wrong.

“China … hmm … that’s where all those lesbians go to adopt

little Chinese babies,” he said nonchalantly.

What did he just say?

“So …,’ he said, positioning his right cheek against the camera

after gesturing me to look straight at him, “… you finally decided to be

part of the solution.”

Click. He took his first shot.

Part of the solution.

I tried scanning my still-new-to-America databanks in search of

some kind of cultural cipher, a Cliff Notes reference to understand what

he had just said.

When was I a problem? When I stepped on American soil, paying

Singapore dollars to get an American degree? When I walked into

the lives of a small-town Ohio community who embraced me and my

newspaper stories? Or was it when I started to take up space, brazenly

trying to start a life in someone else’s homeland even though I had my

own?

“Don’t move,” the man ordered. “I’m going to take another shot.”

My legs felt tight under me even though I had not moved since I

sat down.

He took another headshot then motioned me off the stool as he

walked over to the glass counter, photo plate in hand. His oversized

fingers were surprisingly deft, peeling the protective film off the top of

the Polaroid photo sheet. He tucked the corners of the sheet into the slots

of what looked like a passport cover.

Did he just take my picture, or did he already have one in his head?

“Your headshots will show up when it dries,” he said, handing

me the package. “You can wait here if you want.”

I paid him $14.99 for the transaction. In exchange, I received the

images he captured, plus a bonus: his personal world view waved at me

like the American flag. I felt pinned to a point on his map, driven by a red

post into the ground to make sure I stayed tethered to the longitude and

latitude I was born, not to be let out to wander into worlds where I did

not belong.

It was just a transaction, I tried to remind myself.

No more. No less.


The Evolution of a Girl

by Robin Mayer Stein

PLANTING SEEDS–JACKSON HEIGHTS 1959

As a child, I plunged into projects with high hopes. Each year, I spent my

allowance on seeds for sale at school. I checked off marigolds and zinnias

on the long pink slip, imagining the gold and orange blossoms that

would emerge in a few weeks under my tender care.

I nestled the small seeds in soil in small milk containers and placed them

on the fire escape in the sun. I watered them and waited. In a few days,

bright green shoots appeared. But as the weeks went by, they never grew

flowers. Still every year, I ordered seeds with my heart full of hope.

BOYCOTTING WOOLWORTH’S–NEW YORK CITY–1960

When I was seven, my mother and I walked to Woolworth’s to buy

toothpaste and hairbands. A group of people bundled in warm coats and

hats, marched in a circle outside the store. They held up signs saying,

“Don’t shop here. Boycott Woolworth’s.”

“What does that mean?” I asked my mother.

She said, “Woolworth’s doesn’t allow Black people to eat at the lunch

counter. That is wrong. We will not shop here.”

I knew from her serious tone that this was a moment of great importance

and, in some small way, that we were both a part of it.

COMING HOME FROM A 7TH GRADE PARTY

One night, after a boy-girl party, which I spent mostly in the kitchen,

drinking soda, my friend’s father drove us home. He dropped me off

on the corner of 81st Street and 35th Avenue, not at my doorway. “Your

street is one-way” he said,” so I would have to drive around the block to

drop you off in front of your house and I don’t want to do that.”

It was midnight in New York City. Would he have wanted his daughter to

walk that block alone? I ran down the street as fast as I could. I unlocked

the lobby door and then had to take the elevator or walk up four flights. I

walked up as quickly as I could.

Out of breath, I unlocked our apartment door. My parents were sound

asleep. They never doubted that I would arrive home safely. At that

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moment, I realized that I was now responsible for my own safety in the

world.

QUITTING THE MATH TEAM 1969

In tenth grade, I was the only girl on the math team. I hadn’t wanted to

join but Mrs. Hayes, my math teacher, pursued me. She followed me up

and down the halls. She said, “It’s important that girls get involved in

math.”

I must admit, I was proud to be good at math. I could see a real career

for myself in math, so finally, I said yes. Every day at lunchtime, I sat in a

classroom with six boys. We ate the lunches our mothers had packed–tuna

sandwiches and apples, drank grape juice and worked on exponents and

equations.

I enjoyed the symmetry of math. I liked that there was only one answer

to each question, unlike in life. We were preparing to compete with teams

from other schools. The boys were friendly and funny, but I missed eating

lunch with my friends, so I quit the team.

A week later, the Honor Society held its election for president. I ran against

Lisa Anderson. All the members of the society voted in the cafeteria by a

show of hands, a very public display. Lisa and I were supposed to cover

our eyes during the vote, but I peeked.

When I saw my two best friends raise their hands for Lisa, my heart was

crushed. Why would they betray me? And why in front of everyone? I

couldn’t confront them because I wasn’t supposed to know how they

voted.

I should have gone running back to the math team where the boys were

friendly, and my talents were appreciated. I’m ashamed to say that I went

back to sitting at the lunch table with those girls. At fifteen, I craved

acceptance, but I had chosen the wrong people.

WATCHING MY MOTHER TEACH 1970

In her fourth-grade classroom, my mother showered her students with

acceptance and joy. Many acted as interpreters for their parents who didn’t

speak English. They had responsibilities too great for children, but my

mother allowed them to be young and gave them confidence. They came

back to visit her years later, to thank her for believing in them.

MOVING TO BOSTON 1975

When I moved from New York to Boston to attend law school, my mother

seemed more excited for my adventure than I was. A realtor showed us


one dreadful place after another. Finally, in an old fortress of a building

on Commonwealth Avenue, we settled on a one-bedroom apartment

with a balcony.

I looked out over the trolley tracks and saw my future stretching out

before me. It struck me, with a pang, that my mother had never had the

chance to follow her dream. She had moved from the constraints of her

parents’ house to the confines of a stifling marriage. In each case, she had

to adjust to the needs and whims of others, never having, in the words of

Virginia Woolf, “a room of her own.”

WALKING WITH MY MOTHER 1983

When I went on errands with my Mom, she stopped at the stores all

along Queens Boulevard to chat with people she had befriended—Liza at

Key Food, George at Greenwood Savings Bank, Joanie at the coffee shop.

She knew the names of their children and she knew their life stories.

That’s the greatest gift that women can give–to make a difference in this

world, no matter how big or small, to show people that they matter and

to stand up for what is right not only for others but for ourselves. And

one day, the seeds we plant will burst into golden blossoms of equity,

justice and freedom.

132


That Boy’s a Catch

by Tina Tocco

“Your daddy and I just figured all this nonsense would be over

by now.”

My mother has just dropped six spoonfuls of instant coffee into

a mug filled with hot water from the bathroom sink. Her spoon chinks

and chinks and chinks and chinks the side with the chip. I sip the tea I

brought from Berkeley.

“You’re thirty-one, Tanya Grace. I hope someone’s told you what

that means.”

My father has read what he can of the newspaper. He has shaved

off the end of his pencil and is circling the houses locked in foreclosure.

He and Uncle Rex can be in and out in under an hour, the knobs and

faucets silent in the sacks my mother sews.

“Four sweatshirts wide,” she used to tutor, “so the stuff don’t

clang so much, like.”

I sip the tea I brought from Berkeley. My advisor told me about

the place, extoling the flakiness of their scones. After walking past it for

two more semesters, I finally got up the nerve to go in and order one.

When the high school girl behind the counter asked, “Which kind?” I had

to say, “Surprise me.”

My mother’s housecoat catches the nick in the butcher block as

she tips her weight against the counter. “He’s not going to wait around

forever, you know.”

The last chunk of the butter cake I picked up in St. Louis is still

in its box, propped on the little burner at the back of the range, which

my father has been meaning to look at. My mother sets the box on

my father’s newspaper, but he waves his pencil at it, the hunch of his

shoulders inert. His pencil shavings blow into the Used Autos column.

My mother settles the box on one of the front burners and eats. “You

know what happened to that Morton girl.”

“That Morton girl” — there are five — is Jane. After two years

at Mike’s Tackle, she bought a duffel bag and begged one of her cousins

to drive her to Middle Tennessee State. Sociology and Anthropology.

And waitressing. Seven years. She moved to New York the year I started

my thesis. When she came home the following Christmas, John Harling

paid her back rent. His marriage to her lasted less time than her time in

Greenwich Village.


“No use keeping it in if nothing’s coming out,” my mother says,

her nose in her mug.

The phone rings. It is probably Mrs. Morton. My mother makes

for the living room. My little cousins like to call it the alligator phone;

they do not yet know the word “avocado.” They like to twirl the cord

around silverware they have pilfered from the kitchen, pretending it is

green spaghetti.

I pull Applied Mathematics for Physics: A New Approach from

the chair alongside me. It sticks against the cherry vinyl, making that

sound my cousins think is hilarious. My father smiles, circling another

foreclosure. He turns a page; I turn a page. He pulls another pencil and

his knife from one of his breast pockets. He gives the pencil four easy

strokes, then blunts the new point between his fingernails. That point will

never break. He hands the pencil to me without a glance. I take it, even

though I have started in yellow highlighter. I underline words that will

never be spoken inside the county line.

The door swings in, and my mother is back. She is about to shoot

off a tale about someone or something, but stops a few words in. “Books

off the table, miss.” I oblige, returning it to the chair. There is still plenty

of time to finish my syllabus before the start of the semester. As my

mother would say, “There’s never any reason to court an argument.”

“You need to think about what you want, Tanya Grace. He’s

always been on a path, that one. It’s not easy getting county work

nowadays, and he’s got seniority.” The last wedge of butter cake in her

throat, my mother says, “Medical benefits for life.”

She goes back to the bathroom for some more hot water, and

I pull out my phone, pointing it at the four walls for a signal. I am

uncertain if it is the aerial on the roof or the hills’ minerals that deter the

natural flow of anything in or out. I am finally reading, “Grace, when you

get here on Monday, can we review…” when my mother’s slipper cracks

a curl in the linoleum. “Oh, for the sake of the Lord, girl!”

I return my phone to the patchwork knapsack I have carried since

grad school, the one that reminds me of Meemaw’s quilt work. It will

blend in at Cal State, even though it never blends with my Fendi pumps.

I sip the last of the tea I brought from Berkeley. I bring the mug

to the sink. I am explaining under the cold spray that I do not want to hit

traffic in Kansas City. My mother says that’s wise of me.

My knapsack is not even on my shoulder as I swing the door

toward the living room. My mother follows me, and my father follows

her. I sidle around a few of his boxes, heavy with his latest round of

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acquisitions, and I admire the way he has taped them. Those seams will

never break.

At the screen door, my mother has my face in her palms. She is

telling me to drive safe and other things. The alligator phone starts up

again. She kisses me hard on one cheek and makes for the receiver. She

tells whoever it is to hang on, and without covering the mouthpiece, says,

“Now get your head in line, Tanya Grace. That boy’s a catch.”

My mother fades, and my father steps into her place. He dips into

his other breast pocket, pulls out a small rectangle of bills; probably fives

and singles. He nestles it into my hands, cups them at the knuckles. I

smile, push the little pack into my pocket, next to the pencil.

As I maneuver down the driveway, then floor it on the county

road, I remember that Applied Mathematics for Physics: A New Approach is

seated on the cherry vinyl. I do not go back. My mother will send it with

one of her little notes — “This was at my own expense, Tanya Grace” —

to the address she has for me in Berkeley. But the book will never reach

me. My boxes are already headed south to Cal State, to an address I have

neglected to leave behind, and I am well beyond anything sent from

home.

Originally published in New Ohio Review, Spring 2016.


Just Another Day on Larkspur Lane

by Linda C. Wisniewski

It’s a cloudy fall day on Larkspur Lane, and the humidity level is down

from yesterday. Thank God, Birdie thinks, as she wraps her white cotton

robe around her, tying the cord tightly at her waist. She scurries out her

garage door and bends to pick up a few leaves from her driveway. There

are more on the sidewalk, and two on the lawn, so she scuttles over to

them, picks them up and hurries back into the garage to find a plastic

trash bag.

The leaves on the trees are mostly green but already a few have begun

to drop, and if she doesn’t keep on top of them, they will be all over her

driveway and lawn and sidewalk, and Birdie can’t have that. If there’s

one thing Birdie cannot abide, it’s a messy lawn. Or sidewalk. Or street.

But all she can control is her little patch of property in front of her

townhouse.

On Monday morning, she waits for the recycling truck. Her blinds are

open just a crack so she can see outside but nobody can see that she is

watching. The truck rumbles around the corner and stops at the first

house. A tall young man jumps off the side, picks the first bin on the curb

and empties it into the truck, then tosses the bin back on the curb. He

does this up and down the street until the whole neighborhood is littered

with empty blue bins. Birdie can hardly wait to hurry outside.

She walks quickly up the street, returning each blue plastic bin to the

garage door of each townhouse within sight of her window. Donna

comes out of the house next door just as Birdie is coming back up her

own adjoining driveway.

“Thanks,” she says, “for returning our bin.”

“I like to do it,” Birdie looks down with a tight little smile.

Donna shakes her head and goes back into her house. Birdie likes her but

can’t quite understand her. What does she do all day?

Birdie picks up more leaves from her driveway, shaking her head as she

walks toward the garage, her eyes focused on the blacktop.

Donna comes outside again, getting into her white Honda.

“Working hard?” says Donna, and Birdie sees a look of pity on her face.

“They get into the garage,” Birdie says, but Donna just smiles.

“I kind of like them,” she says.

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“Do you?” says Birdie.” They’re so messy.”

Donna loves the crunch of dry brittle leaves under her feet. The red

maple in front of her townhouse blazes with color in the fall and each

day more color lies beneath it like a red blanket.

The day Birdie and Donna met as new neighbors, Birdie told her that Mr.

Clean was the best floor cleaner. Donna just laughed and Birdie could

tell she didn’t really care. And sure enough, in the first week after they

moved in, a cleaning service showed up. Birdie learns they come back

once a month because she’s seen them through her blinds.

Birdie likes to think that “helper” is her middle name. Twice a week, as

soon as the trash truck comes by, she scurries up and down the street

bringing empty trash cans from the curb to everyone’s garage door. Just

like she does with the recycling bins, and that includes the new, big ones

on wheels. The ones she refused, because she and Bill don’t need them.

The small ones work fine but she doesn’t mind bringing the big ones up

to everybody’s garage door. Once, Donna came up the sidewalk and saw

her. “I can do that,” she said.

“Oh, I do it for everybody,” Birdie replied. “I don’t like the way they look,

out at the curb.”

Dolly, another neighbor, had a big problem with leaves and Bill had

helped her ‘clean them up.” She also mentioned that somebody up at the

cul de sac has “leaves all over the place.” Donna just smiles at her like

she’s an idiot. That tells Birdie she just doesn’t care about helping anyone

out. Birdie has never seen her do it.

The homeowners pay a monthly fee for trash removal, mowing, pruning

and leaf removal. But they haven’t come around yet. Birdie cannot wait.

In summer, when they mow every week, she puts a broom across her

front walk “so they don’t blow grass on it.” She’s the only one in the

neighborhood who does this, and hers is the only walk that is always

neat as a pin.

When Birdie gets sick, Donna brings soup from the deli. When Donna

gets sick, Birdie brings a bigger soup from an Italian restaurant. At

Christmas, Birdie rings the doorbell and delivers big tins of store-bought

cookies and bottles of wine to selected neighbors, including of course,

Donna and Marc, who always thank her and invite her in, but of course

she always says no. Gotta deliver some more, she says cheerily, happy

holidays! She waves and scurries away.


Donna prides herself on her feminism. Marc cooks more often than she

does. He also likes to buy groceries and do laundry. Birdie frustrates her.

How can a woman scurry around like that, doing chores she doesn’t have

to, and that aren’t much appreciated. Does she know the neighbors talk

about her? Still…she’s ninety-five and going strong. What’s that about?

Donna shakes her head and moves away from the window, where she’s

been watching Birdie at work. Just when you think you have things all

figured out, she muses, someone comes along and throws new questions

your away, just by being themselves. Someone who does the opposite of

what you want for her and still seems happy.

Just when you were minding your own business.

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Women

Writing Forward


Not Enemies

after Stephen Levine

by Evelyn Asher

We are not enemies

though strangers toss epithets.

We are not enemies

though your tongue is mocked by ignorance.

We are not enemies

though your voice rises to a pitch that affronts my senses.

We are not enemies

though my home is occupied by your forces.

We are not enemies because the bombs have stopped,

boys will be boys, men’s egos holding us hostage.

If we can forgive ourselves,

We can forgive anyone.

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La Presidenta:

A victorious woman in a country dominated by men

by Noris Binet

“I am not here alone; we are all here. With our heroines who gave us our

homeland, with our ancestors, with our daughters and granddaughters.”

A new linguistic phenomenon in Mexico challenges the Royal Spanish

Academy, which deems the feminine gender incorrect usage for a person

occupying the presidency. Now, in the person of Claudia Sheinbaum,

who in June 2024 was elected the first female president in the 200-yearold

Mexican Republic, everything is changing, including the use of the

feminine gender in all professions that before only used the masculine

gender, regardless of whether a male or female filled the role.

For the first time, we hear an intentional inclusion in the president’s

daily and official communication of the female gender. But what is the

importance of language? When things are not named, they do not exist.

The historic nonexistence of women in public functions has been reflected

in a language that excludes the feminine gender and even prohibits it.

What has happened in Mexico shows an extraordinary process of

women’s empowerment at many levels of culture and throughout the

political arena. Since the nineties, gender quotas promoted both in Mexico

and in other countries have been one of the first initiatives to improve

the representation of women in the political sphere. This improvement in

the status of Mexican women is linked to the progressive actions taken in

Beijing as the following quote asserts:

“Flavia Freidenberg and Vázquez agree that it was at the Fourth World

Conference in Beijing in 1995 that provided a starting point for many

democracies, including Mexico, to begin adopting affirmative laws and

regulations to guarantee women’s access to decision- making public

spaces….” (BBC News Mundo, May 27, 2024)

Indeed! The Mexican congress achieved parity among its members,

increasing the number of women to 50.96% in 2018.

Though Mexico as “early” as 1993, held its first legislative discussion

on the rights of women to access more important positions. This debate

managed to modify the Federal Code of Electoral Institutions and Procedures

by specifying that political parties should promote the participation of

women in politics. However, this forward statement remained only a

recommendation.

Section 3. Writing Forward 141

Although political parties began nominating and electing female

candidates based on the principle of gender parity, access to municipal

presidencies remained lower for women.

Then, election results in 2015, 2018 and 2021 began showing an increase

in female victories as municipal presidents. Claudia Sheinbaum, for

example, was elected as the mayor of Tlalpan from 2015 to 2017 and in

2018 she was elected as mayor of Mexico City.

This is not a detailed statistical report of how the process of gender

advancement has taken place, but rather a description of the process

that, starting in the 1990s, has created the conditions for more and more

women to be able to access the political process.

These gender balancing reforms bore fruit demonstrating that female

participation generated positive social changes. For example, among the

constitutional reforms achieved, the Political Observance against Women

stands out, published by CNDH (Political Participation of Women in

Mexico), which states in part:

• The prohibition of political or electoral propaganda containing

discriminatory and/or violent messages against women

• The prohibition of participation of people with a history of

political violence against women

• The redefinition of political gender violence

• The extension of parity to the General Council of the Electoral

Institute of the State of Mexico and to the Electoral Tribunal of the

entity

• The principle of gender parity and inclusive language in state

regulations

• Guarantees of the principle of gender parity in the candidacies of

political parties

• The creation of the Technical Unit to Address Political Violence

against Women and the Electoral Institute of the State of Mexico,

which is responsible for addressing attacks on female precandidates,

aspirants, activists, public servants, journalists and

human rights defenders

Claudia Sheinbaum was elected president as a result of a long

“transformation in progress” in a country where machismo is openly

exercised, which has left many of us surprised and intrigued.

When word got out that Claudia Sheinbaum was very likely to be

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the Morena Party candidate, the reactions were mixed, but above all

people doubted that a woman could be elected president in Mexico. In

Sheinbaum’s case not only her gender stood against her but she was of

Jewish descent—not Catholic, in fact, not religious at all. All kinds of

videos came out to discredit her.

I found it very interesting to observe the reactions of both men and many

women in Mexico. This was all the more intriguing because a coalition

of neoliberal parties opposed to Morena (Sheinbaum’s party), which had

held power for many years in Mexico, plunging the country into a state of

corruption, violence and poverty, also decided to nominate a woman.

The poor qualifications and the record of rampant dishonesty of the

female candidate they nominated to run against Sheinbaum made me

think that they only nominated a woman out of fear that the majority of

Mexican women would vote mostly for Claudia Sheinbaum, if they chose

another man to be their candidate.

They had good reason to fear a strong female candidate. The large

number of femicides that Mexico has suffered for many years, had

riled multitudes of women across the nation. The discontent and anger

of women, evident in massive protests demanding the authorities to

prosecute the criminals and develop a coherent policy on prevention,

was impossible to ignore.

Finally, Mexico went to the polls with two female candidates, and the

polls made it quite clear which one would win. Nevertheless, Mexico, her

men included, was bound to elect a woman as president.

Obviously in my mind—absent fraud--Claudia Sheinbaum would win

the election because when I saw her for the first time, I realized that this

woman had been prepared since childhood to reach a position like this.

She is the daughter of left-wing political activists, academics and

scientists who fought for freedom of expression, equality and the rights

of all peoples. They participated in the great student protest of 1968 that

ended with the Tlatelolco massacre, when Claudia was six years old. This

has led Claudia to declare herself a daughter of ‘68, indicating that she is

with the people and will serve the people.

Following her parental footsteps, Claudia Sheinbaum had an academic

and scientific career, earning a postgraduate degree in energy

engineering. She wrote her doctoral thesis at the University of Berkeley,

California, where she lived and worked for four years.


As a youth she learned ballet and how to play the guitar, charango, harp,

maraca and Argentine bass drum. She belonged to a musical group as a

teenager and performed in theaters in the capital. This balance between

artistic sensitivity and the “hard” sciences forged her humanism and her

executive skills in official positions, in addition to her academic work at

the National Autonomous University of Mexico.

Claudia Sheinbaum won overwhelmingly against her candidate with 35

million votes. Even after the recount demanded by the opposition, her

margin of victory rose.

The inauguration displayed extraordinary symbolism, the person who

handed her the presidential sash was Señora Ifigenia Martínez, the

president of the General Congress.

“She is Ifigenia, a graduate, master and doctor in Economics from UNAM,

and is the first Mexican to obtain a master’s degree in economics from Harvard

University. In 1967 she was the first director of the National School of Economics

of the UNAM and in the turbulent year of 1968 she defended the University

after the Army invasion of Ciudad Universitaria.”

(El Sol de México, September 30, 2024)

“For Sheinbaum, the fact that Ifigenia Martínez gave her the presidential sash

has great significance because it represents a woman who throughout history has

paved the way for many Mexican women and who has been consistent in the

fight for the democratization of Mexico.” (El Sol de México, September 30, 2024)

In fact, when Claudia went to vote, she wrote the name of Ifigenia

Martínez on the ballot for president and placed it in the ballot box, as a

personal statement that Martínez was a woman who could have been

president as well.

The arrival of a woman to the presidency is a significant event in history

not only in Mexico but in the world. Since Women currently serve as the

head of government in just 13 of the 193 member states of the United

Nations.

Mexico is a complex, multilingual, multicultural country-- one of the 10

countries with the greatest linguistic diversity in the world. There are

68 indigenous languages spoken and two sign languages. The shift that

Mexico is undergoing under the Morena party with its humane motto

“For the good of all, the poor first,” and their genuine recognition of

indigenous peoples that the previous president, Andres Manuel López

Obrador (AMLO) put in place and that Claudia Sheinbaum continues to

champion.

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Addressing the generational marginalization of the indigenous

peoples in Mexico, Claudia, as part of her inauguration celebration,

included women representatives from 70 indigenous and Afro-Mexican

communities. Collectively they handed her the Baton of Command

and Service. In this way, the president reaffirms her commitment to

implement the Constitutional Reform on the Rights of Indigenous and

Afro-Mexican Peoples, continue the justice plans, and guarantee cultural

and linguistic rights, which are already incorporated in the Constitution.

“At 5:00 a.m., in the Templo Mayor, the epicenter of the culture,

worldview and civilization of the ancient inhabitants of Mexico-

Tenochtitlan, a delegation of men and women, representing the peoples

of deep Mexico, carried out a ceremony of purification and consecration

of the baton of command and service and the beginning of the new

cycle of government of the constitutional president, Claudia Sheinbaum

Pardo. Amidst prayers, songs, incense, copal and an atmosphere full of

spirituality and symbolism, traditional doctors and marakame (spiritual

guides of the Wixárika people)

“Later, in the capital’s Zócalo, before a crowd gathered to witness the

ceremony of handing over the baton of command and service, and to

hear the message of the Constitutional President to the people of Mexico,

114 indigenous and Afro-Mexican women handed over the baton of

command and service, which represents a recognition of their solemn

investiture and a symbol of service, on the part of the heirs of the oldest

inhabitants of Mexico, from the depths of their identity.” (National

Institute of Indigenous Peoples—INPI)

For those of us who have had the privilege of participating in indigenous

ceremonies and rituals, this moment means a rebirth, it marks a new

era. For the first time, indigenous peoples participate and contribute

visibly, energetically and spiritually to the direction of the country. They

are part of the new era: Mexico is finally returning to its deep roots, its

ancestral legacy, and what had been latent, waiting for this moment, is

re-emerging.

Very excited about her victory, the candidate of Morena, the Labor Party

and the Green Ecologist Party arrived at the celebration. In her speech at

the Zócalo, embracing her victory, she emphasized: “It is time for women

and for transformation, and I also want to say it here, this means living

without fear and free from this violence. And from this platform I say

to the young women, to all the women of Mexico: Comrades, friends,

sisters, daughters, mothers, grandmothers, you are not alone.” (President,

Jorge Zepeda Patterson, p. 17, Planeta Publishing, 2024)


For the first time in my life, I am an observer of a historic moment that

many women have long awaited; perhaps more than waiting, I have

dreamed of it. For more than forty years I have worked with women

using a psychotherapeutic model to promote healing and transformation

of the traumatizing dehumanization that women suffer under a

patriarchal system. At an early age I became aware of the oppression of

women, both social and religious, and I could not understand it clearly.

I was born under the Trujillo dictatorship in the Dominican Republic:

a totalitarian, bloody and misogynistic regime. Although he was killed

when I was six years old, his reign left its mark on my psyche: the murder

of the Mirabal sisters a year earlier (November 25, 1960) cut through the

country like a dagger and left it suspended in a precarious balance that

led to the overthrow of the dictator. In my country, women were killed:

this was engraved in me in childhood.

During my Sociology studies, I realized that social changes are slow

and that even those who spoke of social transformation did not include

women. For this reason, I decided to look for alternatives so that women

could have access to at least individual healing and achieve a life where

they could experience greater internal liberation, since external liberation

was denied to us.

Therefore, being present in Mexico to observe and contribute with my

reflections on the importance of this historic moment has inspired me to

write this article.

During these first weeks of the new President, I have dedicated myself

to listening to her, to observing how she moves, how she communicates,

what is the difference with what I am used to seeing, what moves me

about her presence and above all about what she says.

She is someone who has a very well-balanced masculine and feminine

sides: there is firmness in her statements, but there is also subtlety and

embrace. There is great honesty in her statements, an enthusiasm that

does not let controversies nullify it, a confidence in life and a deep faith

in what she does and in the people who have elected her.

Hearing the head of a nation state that femicide is an aberration of

human behavior, that it has to be defined as a hate crime against a

woman for being a woman, and that it has to be condemned by the

authorities, opens a new panorama that has never been seen before.

Someone who has the intellectual and emotional clarity of what the

people need is refreshing. Someone who knows what the causes are that

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need to be worked on to eliminate corruption, drug trafficking, drug use,

youth neglect, migration and violence is putting her finger on the sore

spot, where healing can begin.

We could say that Claudia Sheinbaum’s government, which she describes

as Mexican humanism, ambitiously focuses on multiple areas of

importance to transform the situation of women, including:

• A welfare program for financial support to women aged 60 to 64

who do all the housework and do not receive any remuneration

• A reform of gender pay equality, which was approved by the

Senate

• Women’s education and training, with a strong emphasis on free

education and new university programs

• Health programs related to the right to abortion and its

decriminalization

• The Sembrando Vidas project, which provides financial support to

rural families to plant trees, in which women are the pioneers

• The creation of the Women’s Secretariat focused on women’s

human rights and their protection against media, physical,

institutional and political violence

I could describe Claudia’s government as one that places great emphasis

on the situation of women, although it is committed to all people, from

young people to the elderly, to offer free and accessible education for

all, eliminate violence and corruption, protect the rights of indigenous

peoples, promote Mexico towards equitable development, negotiate

broadly with all countries and respect the sovereignty of peoples.

Her motto is: “I am not arriving alone, we are all arriving. With our heroines

who gave us our homeland, with our ancestors, with our daughters and

granddaughters.”

Sheinbaum defines her commitment to the people as follows: there

cannot be a rich government with poor people. Her determination is

overwhelming, and she has a daily dialogue with the people. Each day

press conference of the week is dedicated to an area of government work:

• Healthy Living: education on how to live healthily, from food to

physical exercise


• Mexican Humanism and Historical Memory: dedicated to

emphasizing to the people their human quality, their true value

and to reconnect with their essence as a nation, since the US

bombardment of discrediting the Mexican people is tremendous.

• Women in History: educates about forgotten women who have

played important roles in all areas of the country’s development:

education, art, politics, the fight for independence, the revolution

and much more.

• Soft Homeland: shows the diversity of indigenous peoples, their

cultural, linguistic and spiritual wealth.

During these press conferences, her government team makes

presentations and there is a space for all the press present to ask their

questions. There is also one day a week when the opposition’s elaborate

lies are dismantled with a segment called The Lie Detector.

Before President López Obrador, no president communicated with his or

her people on a daily basis. This direct information from the President

is a necessary and important platform for us to really know who our

presidents are.

Does she face challenges? Of course, not only internally in a country that

has been dominated by men, but in the geopolitical landscape. Being a

neighbor of the United States under the new government, which before

taking office is releasing continuous threats, from mass deportations to

military invasions, is not easy.

President Sheinbaum has not engaged in attacks and responds with

kindness, firmness, without attack, but with a clear position: Mexico is a

sovereign, free country and will not submit.

Noris Binet

© January 12, 2025

148


A Brighter World Led by Women

by Juliet Cutler

On a sunny Sunday afternoon, it’s relatively quiet in Arusha’s leafy Njiro

neighborhood—a place where fancy supermarkets, salons, restaurants,

and hotels cater to wealthy locals and expatriates alike. Located just

southeast of downtown, Njiro has long been a regional center for

Tanzania’s nonprofit sector, which remains robust in the Arusha Region.

Conservation, community development, and social service organizations

provide critical services to people in need and advocate for the region’s

significant natural resources, which include not just the famous Serengeti

National Park but also more than twenty other national parks and

conservation areas that encompass nearly one-third of the country’s land

mass. Arusha’s Njiro neighborhood serves as a springboard for much of

this activity.

As we drive through the neighborhood, imposing gates guard sprawling

bungalows and modern offices. Small local initiatives exist side by side

with international heavy hitters, such as World Vision and the African

Wildlife Foundation. Somewhere between these extremes is a modestsized

nonprofit called Solar Sister.

With a regional office in Arusha, Solar Sister works to fight energy

poverty in Tanzania and other sub-Saharan African countries by

promoting solar energy in places where people live off the power grid

and are reliant on firewood and kerosene for cooking, light, and warmth.

As the organization’s name suggests, Solar Sister reaches these remote

places by creating sisterhoods of local women who sell solar energy to

their neighbors, creating a two-for-one impact by providing economic

opportunities for women and bringing clean energy to places where

people live in deep poverty and lack access to the power grid.

Solar Sister’s two-story office building is located just a block off Njiro’s

main thoroughfare in a quiet corner of the neighborhood. As if harkening

to its very mission, the organization’s office building is painted a bright

sunshine color. It’s surrounded by lush green trees and plants. Though

largely vacant on a Sunday afternoon, the office has a vibrant, welcoming

feel, as does the woman who walks up to greet us as we pull into the

building’s small, gravel parking lot.

We are here to interview Agness Joseph Porokwa—an accomplished

graduate of the first secondary school for Maasai girls in East Africa and


Solar Sister’s program manager in Tanzania. Dressed in a leopard-print

top and black slacks, Agness’s hair is cut into a short bob, her fingernails

are immaculately manicured, and she wears a flattering, deep purple

shade of lipstick. While her appearance projects modern professionalism,

Agness’s demeanor is friendly and soft-spoken, her smile warm and

kind. As we stand in the parking lot, she introduces herself to the

interview team and shakes each of our hands before leading us upstairs

to Solar Sister’s office.

While the videographer sets up his equipment, I take in Agness’s place of

work—a large, open room with desks and chairs scattered about to create

a common workspace. Boxes of solar panels and lanterns are stacked

around the perimeter of the room, and promotional materials adorn

the walls. I can tell this is a functional, busy place that houses several

employees; I suspect they spend as much time here as they do out in the

field, well outside the comforts of Arusha’s Njiro neighborhood.

Solar Sister’s success is evident in the vibrant images that lend the room

intimacy and purpose. Many women featured in the photos wear orange

Solar Sister T-shirts. Some stand with their arms slung over each other’s

shoulders, big smiles on their faces. Others hold solar lanterns, visibly

delighted to demonstrate their use. One image I linger on features a

group of children gathered around a table strewn with books. Though

the background is dark, the children are studying by the light of a solar

lantern.

A poster behind the desk where Agness has taken a seat depicts the

United Nations’ seventeen Sustainable Development Goals. Even though

I do not yet fully understand the work that Agness and Solar Sister

are doing in Tanzania, it’s clear that they’re working toward several of

these lofty international goals, including “affordable and clean energy,”

“gender equality,” and “no poverty.”

Agness watches me closely as I study the images around the room. She’s

eager to share about her work, and even before we begin the recorded

interview, she starts telling me about the various people and groups

pictured around the office.

“We recruit, train, and support women to be the suppliers of clean

energy in their communities,” she says as she points to a picture of ten or

so women gathered in a happy-looking group. “These are participants in

one of our training seminars.”

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I ask her to tell me more about the women in the photograph. She looks at

the image as she speaks, and I can tell by the soft expression on her face

that she knows these women and their stories personally. “Imagine you

are one of these women who wakes up and goes to bed without reliable

power. To make dinner, you must start early, because it takes time to

collect wood to make a fire. Your eyes sting and your lungs hurt from

the woodsmoke every day. You wash dishes in the dark by the light of a

kerosene lamp. The burden of energy poverty falls on these women”—

she points at the image again—“but at Solar Sister, we are changing this.”

A wide smile extends across Agness’s face and her eyes light up. With

this brief introduction to her work, she’s hooked me. I want to know

more about how Solar Sister is changing the equation for the women

whose images surround us. We’re ready for the interview at just the right

moment, and as the camera starts to roll, I prompt her, “Tell me about

your work at Solar Sister.”

Her eyes still alight, Agness begins: “I work as a country program

manager at Solar Sister Tanzania. We are working across the country

with women to eradicate poverty through the clean energy industry.

How do we do this? We have employees in every district. We call them

business development associates. Their job is to recruit, train, and

support women. The women we recruit live in places without electricity.

Only 63 percent of Tanzania is covered by electricity, so there are many

places that are totally untouched. They have no government services or

hospitals or electricity. We go there. We spend time with women, and we

teach them the benefits of solar energy.” She picks up an orange lantern

with a solar panel on top. “For example, this small solar lantern costs

12,000 shillings [about $4.60]. If a woman buys this lantern, she can save

on the cost of kerosene every day and use that money for something else.

She will bring cleaner air into the house. She can extend the hours for her

children to study. She can have extra hours to do her work.”

Agness points to another image on the wall, this one showcasing five

women, each of them holding a different part of a solar system. One has

a small solar panel; two hold LED lamps; another has a battery; the last

holds a cluster of charging cables. “For a woman who can buy a phonecharging

product like this one,” Agness says, pointing to the woman

holding the cables, “she can make money by charging the phones in her

community. She can charge ten phones each day for 200 to 500 shillings

each, and that’s a little bit of income [about $2 per day]. In the village,

that’s actually not a small amount of money. It can buy something else to

support the family.”


I quickly grasp the ways in which a single solar lantern or a small solar

system can improve life for a woman who lives without electricity.

I want to know more about how Solar Sister is creating networks of

women entrepreneurs who are more broadly promoting clean energy

in Tanzania, so I ask Agness to tell me more about that aspect of the

organization’s work.

“Solar Sister does not manufacture solar products,” she explains. “We

buy from suppliers that provide a two-year warranty, so we make sure

our solar products are reliable. We buy the products and then sell them

at a reduced price to women who are interested in starting clean energy

businesses. Our prices ensure that entrepreneurs will make 18 to 20

percent on each product they sell. These women are already embedded

in remote communities or places where people can’t afford to connect to

the power grid, so they are perfect ambassadors for clean energy. These

women are trying to create a change. They are improving life for other

women and families.”

She shows me a black bag with a Solar Sister logo on the front. She

pulls out promotional brochures, a receipt book, and a cash bag. “Our

entrepreneurs get all the tools they need to start a small business. They

are trained in a sisterhood group of five to ten women. They go through

twelve modules that are designed to help them grow a business while

also building their confidence. Every month has its own specific topic.

So, the women benefit personally from using solar power, and then, by

creating a small business, they benefit even more. Beyond this, they gain

courage and confidence. We build leaders in the community. They inspire

each other. We see the difference. We see how women are transforming

from one stage to another.”

When she pauses to catch her breath, I find myself so inspired by her

work that I can’t help but interject, “Agness, you must be so proud of your

work. It’s clear you are changing lives.”

She smiles bashfully and looks away, but her enthusiasm has already said

it all. She obviously finds her work rewarding and is delighted to share

Solar Sister’s innovative model—one that brings electricity to women

but also gives them newfound skills and confidence. I know that Solar

Sister serves a population of women who have had few opportunities

for growth and success; I suspect the sisterhood model provides a

source of encouragement even beyond what I can imagine, and I can’t

help but reflect on the sisterhoods that have uplifted me over the years.

152


“There isn’t much a group of women can’t do when they put their heads

together,” I say to Agness, and we both smile because we know it’s true.

Agness places her hands on the desk in front of her. “Our vision is to

see a brighter world led by women,” she says with passion. “That’s what

we really want to see. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, but that’s the

vision. That’s what we want to see.” She nods and smiles, letting a little

silence surround that statement.

As a segue into talking about her life before Solar Sister, I ask Agness if

her upbringing prepared her for this work.

“The village where I grew up is called Emboreet,” she tells me. “It is in

the Simanjiro District of the Manyara Region, and many people there

struggle with poverty, so of course I understand the challenges many

women face personally. When I was a young girl, I really wanted to go to

school, but it was difficult to get money to pay for it. My mom and dad

believed in education and wanted me to be educated, but the challenge

was income. We had no money. We had no cows. We had no support.

When I graduated from primary school, I was asking, ‘What’s next?’

Fortunately, I was selected for a scholarship at the Maasai Secondary

School for Girls. I was among the lucky ones who got the chance to

pursue an education and gain other skills. Who would have thought I

would go to college and study community and gender development?

Among the Maasai, not many girls get the opportunity to go to school, so

you can spot them.”

While it is difficult to gather accurate demographic data about the

Maasai, most estimates suggest that fewer than 50 percent of Maasai

girls enroll in primary school, and only 10 percent of girls make it to

secondary school. The Maasai are one of more than 120 cultural groups

in Tanzania, and they remain among the poorest people on the planet.

Maasai women and girls like Agness often bear the brunt of this poverty.

They rise early to milk cows and goats. They cook, clean, and care for

children without access to running water or electricity. Many must walk

miles just to get the minimum amount of water required to sustain their

families. They live in austere, mud-walled homes in places where access

to healthcare is limited and preventable diseases are prevalent. Too

many Maasai girls still endure female genital mutilation and forced child

marriages as early as age ten or eleven, though both practices are illegal

in Tanzania.


These challenges mean many Maasai girls are unable to attend school.

Some are denied access because their families see more value in a dowry

than in an education. Others can’t afford even basic school supplies. For

many, the workload at home means they don’t have time to study. Yet if

you ask most Maasai girls like Agness if they want an education, they

will emphatically tell you that they do. They know it is a pathway out of

poverty and into a life where they will have fewer challenges and more

choices.

In the late 1990s, a group of Maasai elders began discussing how to help

their people face escalating challenges in a rapidly changing world. These

elders knew that in order for the Maasai people to endure in the twentyfirst

century, they would require different skills and ways of being. They

believed that the Maasai needed more access to education, and that girls

required a special school that would honor their cultural identity and

maintain Maasai traditions. And so the Maasai Secondary School for

Girls was born in partnership with Operation Bootstrap Africa, a USbased

nonprofit that would fund the school’s construction and operation.

In 2025, the school celebrates its thirty-year anniversary. Agness is one

among hundreds of graduates who are now advancing positive changes

within their own lives, communities, and country. Even with all the

progress the school has made in educating Maasai girls, I know Agness is

right—there is still more work to be done.

“Those few educated girls, they really need to go back to the community

and contribute in a positive way,” Agness says. “This is what I’m doing

through Solar Sister.”

Like most graduates of the Maasai Secondary School for Girls, Agness

feels her education requires more of her—that with her good fortune has

come a responsibility to give back to her community so that more women

and girls can have the opportunities she has had.

“In my home district—Simanjiro District—we gave seven midwives these

big solar lanterns,” she says. “This is an example of women helping more

women. The midwives can help women who are delivering at night. The

impact is exponential. In 2020, a donor gave one hospital in every district

a solar system. That had a big impact. I’m helping to do something for

the community. Even if I’m touching only one person’s life, at least I’m

helping. That is my dream for my two children, too, that they grow up

willing to change somebody’s life. That is what I pray for them.”

154


As we close the interview, I tell Agness how inspired I am by her work.

She and Solar Sister are changing people’s lives across Tanzania—2.3

million of them, in fact, which is the number of people Solar Sister has

reached since its work began in 2013. Together, Agness and a sisterhood

of women are lighting the way, literally transforming poverty into power.

This essay is adapted from Juliet Cutler’s forthcoming book, Lessons in

Hope: A New Era for Maasai Women in Tanzania. In this inspiring collection

of interviews and portraits, over twenty Maasai women share the

ways education has transformed their lives by giving them the tools to

overcome poverty and empowering them to make profound differences

in their communities. As graduates of the first secondary school for

Maasai girls in East Africa, these thriving leaders now hold positions

in education, health care, nonprofits, government, and business. Their

stories reveal a veritable cadre of Maasai women working toward positive

change within their own culture and offering a compelling, optimistic

vision for the future. Proceeds from the sale of this book support

education for Maasai girls.


No, I’m Not Like These Women Victims

by Zefi Dimadama

“I’m not like those women. I don’t understand why they tolerate violence

from their boyfriends, why they are so weak and passive!” This is exactly

what a good friend of mine, Helen, a 40-year-old businesswoman, used to

tell me repeatedly.

Helen often emphasized her professional status and independence: “I’m a

professional woman, an independent entrepreneur. I have my job, I have

my money, I’m strong, and I don’t understand why you keep focusing

on issues like equality and women’s rights. That’s enough! Feminism is

obsolete. Find something more modern, more interesting, more ‘sexy’ to

work on.”

She echoed a common stereotype: “Gender equality? Solved. Human

rights? Violence against women? Those issues are practically resolved;

they don’t exist anymore.”

A few months later, my phone rang. It was late on a Sunday night. Helen

was crying softly. Her voice was trembling, almost a whisper, as she

struggled to speak.

Helen had gone on a short vacation with her new boyfriend at a resort

near Athens. I knew she was excited about this trip and her new partner.

Through sobs, she murmured, “Help me. Help me.”

“Helen? What are you saying? Calm down and speak louder; I can’t hear

you,” I begged her, my mind racing with worry.

“He hit me,” she finally managed to say. “I’m locked in a small room.

I can’t get out. He hit me on the way back from the restaurant, in the

car. He slapped me. Then he hit me again when we got to the room.

Punching, kicking—everywhere.”

My heart sank. I was speechless. I called her name repeatedly: “Helen?

Helen?”

She continued, her words broken by sobs: “He beat me and tried to rape

me. I begged him to stop. I cried and said no, no. But he wouldn’t listen.

He kept yelling at me, cursing me, humiliating me.”

Suddenly, I heard a crash and a scream. Helen screamed as someone

kicked the door of the small room where she was trapped.

“Call the police now!” I urged her. “I’m hanging up to call them myself.

You’re strong, Helen. Hold on.”

I called the police and reported the area where Helen was staying, but

156


I didn’t know the exact hotel. I hadn’t asked her earlier because I was

simply happy for her—happy she had found someone who seemed kind,

handsome, and financially secure. Helen had been thrilled about Kostas,

her new boyfriend. She believed she had found a loving companion.

This wasn’t the first time I had witnessed a strong, independent woman

fall victim to abuse. Stories like Helen’s are far too common. I recalled a

recent workshop I attended on domestic violence and its psychological

impacts. One of the speakers, a survivor herself, emphasized that abuse

doesn’t discriminate. “It can happen to anyone,” she had said. “Strength

and independence don’t make you immune to manipulation or violence.”

The statistics support this harsh truth. Globally, one in three women

experiences physical or sexual violence in their lifetime, often at the

hands of a partner. These numbers are staggering, yet the issue is

persistently minimized.

Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. It was Helen. She sounded calm,

no longer crying or whispering.

I assumed the police had arrived and she was safe. I was wrong.

Kostas had stopped shouting and threatening her. Instead, he had started

apologizing and begging for her forgiveness. Helen opened the door for

him. She pitied him.

She called me back to say they were together again. “It was just a bad

moment,” she said. “Don’t worry. We’re going to sleep now.”

Her tone was lighthearted, almost dismissive. She laughed as she hung

up the phone. I panicked.

I called her again and begged her to leave. “Helen, please, go down to the

hotel reception and take a taxi or a bus. Don’t pack your things. Don’t tell

him you’re leaving. Just go. You’re in danger.”

“Come on,” she replied, laughing. “It’s fine. It was a misunderstanding.

Kostas apologized. We’re fine. Thank you for caring, but you’re

overreacting.”

Kostas even chimed in, laughing in the background and told me “Your

friend is in good hands.” I froze. It was almost dawn, and I couldn’t relax

or sleep.

The next morning, as I drove to the university, I listened to the radio.

A journalist was discussing the upcoming 30th anniversary of the

Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action in 2025. The principles of

gender equality, the elimination of violence against women, and the

advancement of women and girls were being highlighted.

“The path to sustainable development lies in investing in women’s


rights,” the journalist declared. “Gender equality is not just another

problem to solve; it’s the solution to many global challenges. Recognizing

and promoting the human rights of all women and girls is our shared

responsibility.”

Her guest, however, dismissed the significance of these issues: “All of

that has been solved. Violence against women? It’s practically a thing of

the past.”

I gripped the steering wheel tightly, anger surging through me. I thought

about the 15 femicides reported in Greece in 2024. Fifteen women

murdered because they were women. The patriarchy remains alive and

well.

These femicides aren’t just numbers. Each represents a life lost, a story

cut short. Helen’s laughter from the night before echoed in my mind, now

tinged with chilling irony.

As I parked my car, I reached for my bag and glasses. Just as I was

about to turn off the radio, the journalist interrupted the program with

breaking news:

“A woman was found dead this morning in Sounio, at a luxury resort

near Athens. She was murdered in her hotel room by her partner after a

fight. Witnesses reported hearing shouting from the room. The victim’s

partner admitted to the crime, claiming he didn’t know how it happened.

He didn’t understand how he picked up the knife or how the room filled

with blood.”

The reporter’s voice continued, but I couldn’t process the words. My

mind went blank. Helen was gone. She had trusted him, pitied him, and

now she was no longer with us.

In the days that followed, her story became another headline, another

statistic. But to me, Helen was not just a number. She was a friend, a

woman who had once been so confident in her strength that she couldn’t

imagine herself as a victim.

Her story is a grim reminder that no one is immune to abuse and that we

must continue to fight for a world where such tragedies no longer occur.

Zefi Dimadama, Msc, Phd

Lecturer, Panteion University of Social & Political Sciences Department of

International, European & Area Studies

f. Secretary General for Equality and Human Rights of Greece Member of Global

Women Network “Leading Women for Oceans”

158


Kindred Souls

by Adhara Mereles

Somewhere along the block, a dog barks nonstop. A heartfelt sound—

with the force of a siren there is no off switch for. It’s the night before

election day. I wander around my apartment. Restless.

I immigrated to the United States from Mexico with my family as a

kid. My brother, a Black girl, and I were the only students of color at

school. By the time I reached my forties, San Diego’s colors shined more

vibrantly.

The dog worries me—its cries entwined with the occasional howl.

Pleading. Abandoned. An undercurrent of anxiety sullies my blood when

I consider the decision America is about to make.

I’ve lived openly as a queer woman for years. But the path to acceptance

remains rough for people like me, my trans niece, and so many others.

Our pack lives under the shadow of increasing violence and harassment.

The barking grows louder, then fades, as if the dog’s pacing through an

empty pad. Can she sense this epidemic of isolation and loneliness?

Growing up, I fell in love with the allure of Californian beaches and 80s

pop culture. Though the country paints a pretty picture, its marginalized

communities are unable to exist equally and authentically. Capitalism,

the patriarchy and white supremacy swipe at freedom and safety

without shame.

She keeps up her yelping, in sync with my thundering heartbeat. Maybe

the dog’s yearning for belonging. Can she smell the spears of separation

pointed our way? Hate, racism, and sexism on the rise. Reproductive

rights in peril. Women in peril.

My elementary school held annual fire and earthquake drills. Nowadays,

children practice school shooting drills. People are not born violent, they

learn what they absorb. Education in danger. Books banned. History

erased. Ignorance praised. We are being defaced.

I want to pick up the pooch and cradle her in my arms, tell her she’s

going to be okay, tell her this will pass. She echoes my angst—grasping

at hope.


Extreme weather forewarns climate change is no joke. Extreme denial

eclipses America. Lands in need of nurturing, people too. When will we

be ready for a future that is female? Guns have more rights than women.

We are the same, the dog and I. Barking ad nauseam. Wanting to shake

the world. Wanting to wake people up.

Fear and toxic othering are fueling division. But I believe we can channel

courage and optimism. I believe we can trust the light within us to lead

us out of this impending gloom.

Later, as the votes reveal devastating results, silence befalls my canine

kindred soul and I. Spiritually tethered, we share the grief of our

collective consciousness, giving way to intention, compassion and

determination. This bitch ain’t done. Hate may have won, yet the fight for

love has only just begun. We may rest, but we will not stop making noise.

160


What Tries to Kill Us

by Brenda Wildrick

The abuse of women and girls is the most pervasive

and unaddressed human rights violation on earth. – Jimmy Carter

What has tried to kill us,

and is still trying, is violence,

is rape, is hate, is cruelty.

The actions of evil men –

terrorists, greedy dictators,

and ordinary weak cowardly

damaged men – are a tsunami

crushing and destroying us all.

An attack on any woman, any child,

any vulnerable person, is personal,

is an attack on us all.

We are not your toys to be mangled

for your sick pleasure, crushed under the boot

of your absolute control by your tactics

of humiliation and dehumanization.

We must stand up for our sisters,

as if they were right here, instead of far away.

Because no one is far away. We are all at risk.

As long as any person is unsafe, we are all unsafe.

Rise up, stand together.

Protect each other


Writers’ Biographies

Writing has been part of Mary Kathleen Adams

life since she was a child. Forms of writing have

included poetry, short stories, travel essays, business

documentation, research papers, blogs, and websites.

Her passion is poetry, using words to capture

moments and communicate feelings. Originally from

Texas, Mary has lived in Europe for 25 years. She is the

Human Rights co-chair for FAWCO, an international

women’s organization. She is co-author of the book

Hope is the Thing with Feathers, Portraits of Human

Trafficking Survivors and Change-Makers.

Usha Akella has authored ten books that include

poetry, and two musical dramas with publishers such

as Spinifex Press, Australia, Sahitya Akademi (India’s

Academy of Letters), and Mantis Editores, Mexico. She

earned an MSt. in Creative Writing from the University

of Cambridge, UK. She is the founder of Matwaala

(www.matwaala.com), launched to increase the

visibility of South Asian poets, and www.the-pov.com,

a website of curated interviews. She was selected as

one of the Creative Ambassadors for the city of Austin

in 2019 & 2015.

Linda Albert is an internationally published, awardwinning

poet, essayist, and former theater director.

Her poetry draws inspiration from her academic

training in Jungian Archetypal Pattern Analysis,

communication coaching, and Neurolinguistics, and

explores the evolving roles of contemporary women.

Linda has received prestigious awards, including the

Olivet and Dyer-Ives Foundation Poetry Prizes and the

Atlanta Review’s International Merit Award for poetry.

Her poetry collection, Charting the Lost Continent:

Poetry and Other Discoveries, earned her the Florida

Authors and Publishers Association President’s Book

Awards gold medal in 2021. The book was successfully

adapted for the stage and produced in 2023.

162


Debbie Allen is a cofounder of Poets Against

Racism & Hate USA. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she

has performed internationally, and her poetry has

appeared in various journals and collections. She has

served as an associate poetry editor for Poets Reading

the News, a committee chair for the Ohio Poetry

Association, and a board member for The Watershed

Journal Literary Group. Debbie is committed to

combating systemic inequities, with much of her

poetry tending toward response to injustices. She

practices her craft on land originally inhabited by

Myaamiaki and Bodéwadmik.

Janice Alper is an active octogenarian who writes

poems, personal essays, and memoirs. Her poems

and essays have been published in the San Diego

Poetry Annual, When a Woman Tells the Truth, The

Jewish Writing Project, and in several publications

from IWWG. Janice is currently enrolled in the

Creative Writing Program-Poetry at Sand Diego State

University. You can follow her at www.janicesjotttings1.

com or read her memoir, Sitting on the Stoop: A Girl

Grows in Brooklyn, 1944-1957.

Rosemary Amato, a former CMA, CISA, CPA, and Six

Sigma Green Belt, is a bold changemaker whose global

career spans the U.S., Netherlands, and Malta. She

advanced in finance and IT across industries before

spending 20+ years at Deloitte, serving clients in

over 20 countries. Rosemary has served on the global

boards of IMA and ISACA, participated in AACSB peer

reviews, and currently chairs IMA’s SCMS Scholarship

Committee. A board member of the Association of

International Women in Malta, she embraces challenge

and change while making a lasting impact across

borders and disciplines.

Writers’ Biographies 163

Evelyn Asher uses poetic techniques to tell her

personal story wrought with compassion and

unwavering commitment to social justice. She thrives

wherever she lives and travels, the furthest being

cruising five days on the Yangtze River. She cherishes

her writing experiences in the Women Writers Guild,

Pens Unlimited, Tall Tales Writing Critique Group,

Eastern Shores Writers Association, Katey Schultz’s

Emerge and Book Club, and High Country Writers.

She is thrilled to be a mentor with a woman in Ukraine

which is her ancestral heritage. She is crafting her

third poetry collection about immigrant life in the

voice of her great-grandmother.

Ellie Bates is a member of the Martha’s Vineyard

Museum, Polly Hill Arboretum, Cleaveland House

Poets, MV Poets’ Collective, New England Poetry Club

and Pathways Institute.Her collage work of images and

words has appeared at Featherstone Center for the

Arts. Her writing has been published in the Vineyard

Gazette, MV Times, Cleaveland House Poets: 50 Years

and In the Company of Poets, Anthology 2021.Other

credits are Covid Monologues MV, PathwaysArts: New

Works 2020-2021and the Island Educational Journal:

Refocus. Ellie’s photographs and poetry are in her

three small chapbooks: Everything Changes, Rooted

in Change & A Collage of Poetry Her book, Seasonal

Wonderings:Poems for Summer Fall Winter Spring was

published by Kelsay Press in 2022.

Diane Bell is a writer living in Minneapolis Minnesota.

She loves exploring the intersection of the physical and

spiritual worlds and finding creative means to express

those experiences. Her work was shortlisted for the

2024 Craft Literary Flash Prose Prize, appears or is

forthcoming in Kaleidoscope: Exploring the Experience

of Disability through Literature and the Fine Arts;

Bloodlore: A White Stag Anthology, and others.

164


I, Sheila Benedis, am an artist and writing is a

grounding practice. I use poetry in my work to amplify

my woman’s inner voice. I champion empowerment,

equality and justice. In the poetry I am submitting, I am

cultivating conditions for creativity and care for the

world. I am empowering my creativity, self compassion

and growth.

Allyne Betancourt is a nonfiction writer, with a focus

on life within a Deaf family. She has contributed essays

to various magazines, anthologies and writes for her

local newspaper. Allyne lives on a small farm with her

husband, Raymond, where she tends to her small

animals and three gardens. Her current book, “Think

Easy? My Story About Growing Up in a Deaf Family,”

is in the final editing stage and is expected to be

published by summer.

Dr. Emily Bilman is a widely published author of

poetry, essays, and short stories. Her PhD dissertation

on T.S. Eliot and Paul Valéry was published in 2010.

Her poetry collections include A Woman by A

Well, Resilience, The Threshold of Broken Waters,

Apperception, and The Undertow, all from Troubador

Books, which reissued Resilience in 2025. Her work also

includes La rivière de soi and Modern Ekphrasis. Her

sonnet “Pathfinder” reached the moon’s south pole via

a NASA time capsule in 2024. She teaches literature,

psychoanalysis, and creative writing, blogs online, and

enjoys sea-swimming.

Visit: www.emiliebilman.wix.com/emily-bilman


Noris Binet, born in the Dominican Republic, lives

in Ajijic, Mexico/US, is a visual artist, author, poet,

psychotherapist, sociologist, environmental activist,

and spiritual teacher. Received an honorary doctorate

from the International Institute of Human Science

in Canada, IIHS/ United Nations, for her community

work with women. Published her book Women on the

Inner Journey, Healing Racial Wounds, and in several

anthologies: A Rooted Heart, Sonoma Writers Alliance,

Light and Shadows, Benicia Poets, The Foundation of

my Spirituality, Mago Books, Indiana University Press.

She wrote a bilingual newspaper column for La Voz CA.

A regular contributor to Return to Mago E*Magazine.

Her Satsang and meditations at: www.norisbinet.org

and https://m.youtube.com/@norisbinet

Vanessa Caraveo is an award-winning bilingual

author, published poet, and artist who has a passion

for promoting inclusion for all and helping others

discover the power they possess to overcome

adversity and persevere in life. She is involved with

various organizations that assist children and adults

with disabilities and enjoys working with nonprofit

groups and volunteering in the promotion of literacy.

Her work brings focus to many social issues that exist

in today’s world and has been published in Literature

Today Journal, The Poet Magazine, Latinidad Magazine,

Poetrybay, Anacua Literary Arts Journal and in multiple

anthologies throughout the years.

166


Susan Chute is a poet, librarian, book artist, and

curator/founder of Next Year’s Words: a New Paltz

Literary Forum, where she is known for her reader

introductions. Recently, she placed 1st in the

CAPS (Calling All Poets) 25th Anthology contest.

Publications include La Presa; Lightwood; Shawangunk

Review; Comstock Review; Reflecting Pool: Poets and

the Creative Process; and, many years ago, Sinister

Wisdom. Her writing also appears on the blogs of

The New York Public Library and Women’s Studio

Workshop. She holds an MFA in Theatre from the Univ.

of Michigan and an MLIS from Pratt Institute.

Anne Cognato is a poet, fine art photographer,

gardener and computer programmer residing on Long

Island, New York. Her poetry has been published in the

Bards Annual, the Suffolk Country Poetry Review and

GreenPrints.

My name is Judith Woolcock Colombo. I am the

author of two published novels. “The Fablesinger”,

a fantasy set in the Caribbean, was first published

in 1989 by The Crossing Press. “Night Crimes”, my

second novel and first mystery, was published by

AmErica House in 2000. My short stories, “The

Gasman” and “The Death Of Betty Pinto”, were

published under the Amazon Shorts program. My

essay, and current submission, The Metaphysical

Magician was first publish in 2001 in the Anthology

Voices From The Couch. My blog is: https://

judithonwordpresscom.wordpress.com/


Kate Copeland’s love for languages led her to

teaching; her love for art & water to poetry. She is

curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review & runs

linguistic-poetry workshops for TER and IWWG. Find

her poems @ TER, Wildfire Words, Gleam, Hedgehog

Press [a.o.] and @ https://www.instagram.com/kate.

copeland.poems/ Kate was born in Harbour City, and

adores housesitting in the world.

Juliet Cutler is a writer and exhibit designer for

museums, parks, and cultural centers around the

world. In 1999 and 2000, Juliet lived in Tanzania, where

she taught English at the first school for Maasai girls

in East Africa. She recounts her experiences during

those years in her award-winning first book, Among

the Maasai. Twenty-five years later, she illustrates the

positive impacts of education on Maasai women in her

second book, Lessons in Hope. Juliet regularly returns

to Tanzania to support causes that uplift Maasai

women and girls. She currently lives with her husband,

Mark, near Atlanta.

A poet, artist and photographer, Linda M. Davies

has been leading writing and creativity workshops

for over thirty years. She’s an active member of the

International Women’s Writing Guild whose work has

appeared in various publications both here and in

Europe. She loves collaborating with other artists and

has worked with The Susan Turner Dance Company,

sculptor Alton Falcone (Conversations in Red, and

the Echoes series), and illustrator Doug MacGregor

(Broadsides poetry series). When not traveling, Linda

makes base camp on the north shore of Long Island.

168


Tiffany Davenport is a native Texan who’s spent the

past 28 years in Amsterdam, where she lives with

her tall Dutch husband and their equally tall 16-yearold

son. For over two decades, she’s worked as a

senior copywriter for brands like Ketel One, Doritos,

Paula’s Choice and Samsung. These days, she splits

her time between commercial work, writing her own

screenplays, and translating scripts from Dutch to

English for fellow filmmakers. This is her first published

flash fiction piece — and hopefully not her last.

Dr. Zefi Dimadama is a Lecturer at the Department of

International, European and Area Studies at Panteion

University. She holds a PhD and a Master’s degree

in the scientific field of Regional Development and

Environmental Policies. She has served as Secretary

General for Gender Equality and Human Rights of

Greece, as well as Director General of the International

Center for Black Sea Studies (ICBSS). She is currently

President of the Union of Women of Greece and an

active member of international networks, as the Global

Network “Leading Women for Oceans” (LWO).

Joanne Durham is the author of To Drink from a Wider

Bowl, winner of the Sinclair Poetry Prize (Evening

Street Press 2022) and the chapbook, On Shifting

Shoals (Kelsay Books 2023). Her poetry appears in

over 100 journals and anthologies across the US and

English-speaking countries. She lives on the North

Carolina, USA coast, with the ocean as her backyard

and muse. She teaches poetry workshops online and in

person. Visit her at https://www.joannedurham.com.


Victoria Dym is a graduate of Ringling Brothers

Barnum and Bailey Clown College with a degree in

Humility, a Bachelor of Arts, in Philosophy, from the

University of Pittsburgh, and a Masters of Fine Arts,

Creative Writing-Poetry from Carlow University. Her

two poetry chapbooks, Class Clown, and When the

Walls Cave In were published by Finishing Line Press

in 2015 and 2018. Victoria’s chapbook, Spontaneous,

winner of the 2021 Poem-A-Day Chapbook Challenge

Contest, was published by the West Florida Literary

Federation in 2022. Ms. Dym’s full-length manuscript,

The Hatchet Sun, was published by Finishing Line Press

in August 2023.

Rebecca Evans writes the heart-full guidebooks for

survivors. She teaches high school teens in the Juvie

system and co-hosts Radio Boise’s Writer to Writer

show. She’s a disabled veteran, an avid gardener, and

lives with four Newfoundlands and her sons. Her poems

and essays have appeared in Brevity, Narratively, The

Rumpus, Hypertext Magazine, and more. Her books

include Tangled by Blood (Moon Tide Press, 2023) and

Safe Handling (Moon Tide Press, 2024).

Caprice Garvin - Caprice’s poetry has been published

in Colorado Review, North American Review, Terrain.

org, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Banyan Review,

Lily Poetry Review, Poetry East, The New Verse News,

Indolent Books, The Belfast Review Magazine and

Writer’s At The Well, and has been archived in the

international academic database, Project Muse. She

has recently co-written songs with producers Roberto

Priori and Jody Gray and the veteran Italian hard rock

band, Danger Zone, which may be found on the band’s

latest album “Shut Up” (Pride and Joy). Visit Caprice

online at www.capricegarvin.com

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Linda Ohlson Graham is a fine art photographer

and ecstatic poet who has sailed thousands of miles

through the Bahamas, Caribbean, and Central and

South America. From 1984–93, she lived in and codirected

The J.M.W. Turner Museum in Denver, which

was named one of the “99 Finest Museums in America”

by Atlantic Monthly. Named Colorado’s Department

of Peace Poet Laureate in 2009, Linda now shares her

spiritual and artistic vision through EARTH OCEAN

HEAVENS, a mini-guide for humanity’s next era,

viewable at earthoceanheavens.com.

Dorothy Randall Gray is author of the bestseller,

Soul Between The Lines, Sharing The Same Sky, and

numerous publications. An award-winning artist,

master teacher and co-founder of Women Writers

& Artists Matrix, she is also a former IWWG board

member, LA Poet-in-Residence and Hedgebrook

Fellow. Her fiction and poetry have been published in

anthologies that include Conditions, Sinister Wisdom,

Best Black Women’s Erotica2, Spell Breaking, and

2020:The Year That Changed America. Her monologue,

Anger, was selected for the Eve Ensler and Aja Monet

2024 production of Voices: A Sacred Sisterscape.

Dorothy has represented the City of West Hollywood

for National Poetry Month and recently received a

Lifetime Achievement Award.

Faith Swingle Green was born in a small town in

upstate New York. Her first collection of poems, “My

Prophetic Soul and other Poems’ was published in 1992

by Mellon Press. She has been published in ‘Silhouette’,

the Virginia Tech literary magazine, Trolley, the online

newsletter at SUNY Albany, and in an anthology, “With

Pen in Hand”. Most recently she published a pocketbook

of poems, “Seasons of the Heart” with Local Gems

Press. Her work has also appeared in the New Writer’s

Journal Issues XX 1 & 2.


Geri Mendoza Gutwein, Ph.D., is a poet, educator,

and lecturer. Her poetry has appeared in Fledgling

Rag, Libretto Magazine, Green Elephant Anthology,

and Dream Anthology, Roots Trunk Sky: IWWG’s

Imagination and Justice Meditation-Free Writing Circle

and Pasque Petals. A Pushcart nominee, she is the

author of three chapbooks: Every Orbit of the Circle,

The Story She Told, and An Utterance of Small Truths.

Of Lakota and Mexican-American descent she is an

enrolled citizen of the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe. She

lives in the sacred Black Hills of South Dakota.

Selene Hofstetter is a first-year graduate student in

Colorado State University’s MFA poetry program. She

graduated from the University of California, Riverside,

with a Bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing. She is

a lineal descendant of the Lummi Nation, Musqueam

Indian Band, and an enrolled Tribal Member of the

Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs, Oregon.

Kimberly Hirsh lives with two dogs and two cats

outside Boston, Massachusetts. She is a vegetarian,

traveler, writer, and artist. She works in global public

health and has traveled to more than 60 countries.

She has published travel essays and essays on

interracial relationships and is an executive member of

PensAroundtheWorld.com.

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Susan Justiniano | RescuePoetix is a self-taught

bilingual, internationally published performing poet,

workshop facilitator, teaching artist and recording

artist, and a twice honored Poet Laureate: first Puerto

Rican Poet Laureate Jersey City, NJ (2020-2022),

State of NJ Beat Poet Laureate (2022-2024). She was

shortlisted in the 2023 Downtown Urban Arts Festival

(NYC) as a first-time playwright, leading to the 2024

Paterson Performing Arts Development Council

playwright in residence. An IWWG member since

2021, Rescue has produced on line events for IWWG

and participates in committees. She develops a body

of work focused on community and social justice. Learn

more: https://linktr.ee/rescuepoetix

Marjorie Kanter is author of three books of hybrid

short literary poem-like pieces based largely on real

life experiences: ‘I displace the air as I walk’, ‘Small

Talk’ and ‘Field Notes/Notas de Campo’ and the

projects ‘The Saddle Stitch Notebooks’, ‘The Bagged

Stories’ and ‘Im/politeness: One Hundred Im/polite

Days ‘amongst other texts; she has participated in

Public Word Art Installations and Interactive Projects:

‘In-comunicación’ at La Caixa, Lleida, ‘Historias

para la Espera’ for La Noche en Blanco, Madrid and

‘Nexus’ a project for Madrid Abierto. Born and raised

in Cincinnati, Ohio, she lives in Madrid, Spain. www.

marjoriekanter.com

Elsa Wolman Katana is an Israeli American. She has

an MFA in painting from the Maryland Institute College

of Art, studying under the late Grace Hartigan. She is a

maker with words, collage, photographs, and textiles.

Her calling is to assist others in finding a connection to

their own Muse.


Raised in the north of England, a parental desire to

farm necessitated a move to the southwest corner of

Wales as a teenager. Out of college, in part to escape,

Sarah Blackburn Kehoe went until the map stopped

in Alaska and stayed for 32 years. Work as a Physician

Assistant/Associate in a small end-of-the-road Alaskan

community informs her writing, as well as the return to

her British roots in her 50s.

Dr. Kellie N. Kirksey is a Global Wellness Consultant

who has used poetry and expressive arts to teach

social justice, self-care, mental health, and cultural

awareness. Dr. Kellie is passionate about drumming,

dancing, writing, travelling the world, cultivating joy,

walking labyrinths, learning global healing practices,

and encouraging audiences to use the gifts they

were born with. She is the author of Word Medicine:

Affirmations and Poems to Support our Journey (2021)

and Poetry Prose and Miscellaneous Musings (2018).

Her current project discusses the impact of slavery

on current psychological functioning. Dr. Kellie is the

proud mother of Kelsie, Dominic and Gabrielle.

www.drkelliek.com

Juanita Kirton a Black, gay, African American, elder

women; earned an MFA from Goddard College. The

2024 1st place winner of Oprelle Publication/Matter

Anthology. Recently published in AVOW (American

Veterans Women Magazine), Mom Egg Review,

Narrative, Persimmon Tree, Stillwater Review, Stone

Canoe, Veterans Voices. A member of Women Who

Write, IWWG and Women Reading Aloud workshops; a

teaching artist Crossing Point Arts, a Trauma informed

facilitator for Warrior Writers, conducts writing

workshops at Kirkridge Retreat Center. Her chapbook,

Letters to my Father, (2020). Juanita is working on her

first a full-length book of poetry. Riding her motorcycle

keeps her sane.

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Tanya (Hyonhye) Ko-Hong (고현혜) is an

internationally published poet, translator, and

cultural-curator who champions bilingual poetry

and poets. She is the author of five books, including

The War Still Within (KYSO Flash Press, 2019). Her

poetry appears in Rattle, Beloit Poetry Journal,

WSQ: Women’s Studies Quarterly (The Feminist

Press), the Choson Ilbo, and The Korea Times, among

others. In 2015, her segmented poem, “Comfort

Woman,” received an honorable mention from the

Women’s National Book Association. In 2024, Tanya

was honored by the Saharawi Women’s Forum in

Laayoune, Morocco. She holds an MFA degree from

Antioch University, Los Angeles.

Donna J. Gelagotis Lee is the author of two awardwinning

collections, Intersection on Neptune (The

Poetry Press of Press Americana, 2019), winner of

the Prize Americana for Poetry 2018, and On the

Altar of Greece (Gival Press, 2006), winner of the

Seventh Annual Gival Press Poetry Award and recipient

of a 2007 Eric Hoffer Book Award: Notable for Art

Category. Her poetry has appeared in numerous

publications internationally, including Amsterdam

Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Feminist Studies, The

Massachusetts Review, and Women’s Studies Quarterly.

Her website is www.donnajgelagotislee.com.

Over the years, in between various employments and

scholastic endeavors, geographical locations and

life events, Elizabeth Dominique Lloyd-Kimbrel

(whose car masquerades as a branch library) has

published biographical, critical, and scholarly articles

and essays in academic journals and tomes as well as

poems and creative non-fiction in assorted literary

journals (some now defunct, which she hopes was

not her fault). Her poem “Anna Kuerner” was selected

by Littoral Press of Richmond, California, as its 14th

annual letterpress broadside poem. Her poetry

chapbook MATRIMONIES (Finishing Line Press) was

released from the gates in 2023.


I’m Doris Mahaffey (she/her). I reside in Westerville,

Ohio, a place affectionately termed as “the city within

a park.” I’ve been an economist and a wanna-be

writer. Of the two I prefer the second, but the pay is

less. I’m currently at work on a novel that takes place

in the late 1960s and could be classified as either a

comedic coming of age story for septuagenarians

or historical fiction for young adult readers.

Disorganization is my superpower.

Lynne A. McNamara feels privileged in her wondrous

international career allowing her to wander and live in

Europe, the Middle East, and Asia while being gifted

with the music of lives lived differently than within

her US home. In her mid-life journaling, she saw

the poetic arrays in her writing that led to linguistic

dancing in poetry. For her, poetry is word art, painting

the multidimensional flows of life to share with others

in their similar quests for understanding human

realities. Her most recent poetry is included in the

California Quarterly and Art in Public Places Program

(Loveland, CO).

Adhara Mereles was born in Mexico and raised in

California. She earned a bachelor’s degree from the

University of San Francisco and a master’s degree

from Columbia University. Her work appears in the

anthology, A Year in Ink, Volume 17, and in the

online journal, Red Rose Thorns. Beyond prose and

poetry, Adhara enjoys photography, playing the piano,

and discovering life alongside loved ones.

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Dr. Meenakshi Mohan, an internationally published

writer, is an educator, art critic, children’s writer,

painter, and poet. She is on the editorial Committee

for Inquiry in Education, a peer-reviewed journal

published by National Louis University, Chicago, Illinois.

Meenakshi received Setu and Panorama International

Awards for Excellence in Literature. Meenakshi lives in

Washington, DC, USA.

Leslie B. Neustadt is a retired attorney, and a poet

and collage artist. Author of The Sustenance of Stars

(Kelsay Books, 2024) and Bearing Fruit: a Poetic

Journey ( Spirit Wind Books, 2014), she explores the

beauty and power of the natural world, and life’s joys

and struggles. Her poems have been published in

anthologies and journals, including Veils, Halos and

Shackles, International Poetry on the Oppression and

Empowerment of Women; Rumors Secrets & Lies:

Stories & Poems About Pregnancy, Abortion & Choice;

and Heels into the Soil: Stories & Poems Resisting the

Silence. Leslie serves on IWWG’s board of directors.

Mary K O’Melveny, a three-time Pushcart Prize

nominee, is the author of four poetry collections

and a chapbook. Her most recent work, If You

Want To Go To Heaven, Follow A Songbird is an

album of poems, art and music available at https://

www.jerryjazzmusician.com/if-you-want-to-goto-heaven-follow-a-songbird-mary-k-omelvenysalbum-of-poetry-and-music/

Mary’s award-winning

poems have appeared in numerous print and on-line

literary journals and anthologies and on international

blog sites. Her book Flight Patterns (2023) was

nominated for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. Her

collection, Merging Star Hypotheses (2020), was a

semi-finalist for The Washington Prize, sponsored

by The Word Works. Mary’s website is: https://www.

marykomelvenypoet.com.


Catherine O’Neill returned to her love of writing

in her forties as a debut author, graduating from

the Grub Street Memoir Incubator program and is

presently looking for representation for her memoir

Zero Balance: A Journey into the Invisibility of Gambling

Addiction. She lives in Massachusetts and advocates

for families and friends affected by gambling. She was

a guest reader at Tell All Boston and is published at

Write Angle, Write Launch, Irish Central Newspaper

and Medium. Both Sides Now is an essay that was

previously partially published at Covey Club.

Kathryn Katafiasz Pepper holds an MSEd in

Counseling from Duquesne University and an MFA

in Creative Writing from Carlow University. She has

been a counselor and life coach, taught personal

growth and writing-related seminars, and now

devotes her time to teaching meditation in the

county jail, writing fiction and essays, and completing

a revision of her novel, Storm Dreams. When she’s

not off visiting her adult children or on a different

adventure, she resides near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

with her husband and dog, Yoshi.

PS PERKINS P.S. most currently was Founder of

the University of the District of Columbia’s Artist

Collective. She is past board chair of the Poets on the

Green Line and major contributor to recently released

Poetry Anthology, POEMS FROM THE GREEN LINE,

2023. Recent poetic contributions also, POETRY X

HUNGER, 30 for 30 Poets (Mike Maggio), the D.C. Hill

Rag, Prince George’s Community College Reflections

Magazine 2018 - present, and the poetry/prose/visual

art compilation Hallelujah Anyhow, volumes 1 and 2!

She is published in several poetry anthologies as well

as scholarly writer of Human Communication articles

and books.

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Suzanne Lima Pickford is an educator, as well as

an artist-in-residence on Prudence Island in R.I. She

holds an M.A. in Creative Writing and Literature and

publishes an annual literary magazine for teenage

writers and artists. Her work has been published

in Grown and Flown, The Providence Journal, and

IWWG Network.

Judith Prest is a poet, photographer, mixed media

artist and creativity coach. She has published 3 poetry

books: After and Geography of Loss (Finishing Line

Press, 2019, 2021) and Grafted Tree (Kelsay Books,

2023). Her poems have been published in Misfits,

Rockvale Review, Mad Poet’s Review, Chronogram,

Akros Review, Earth’s Daughters, Up the River,

Fredericksburg Literature and Art Review, Upstream,

Waxing and Waning, and in 17 anthologies. She is

a longtime member of The International Women’s

Writing Guild, Hudson Valley Writing Guild ,Foothills

Arts Council and is a poetry partner with Institute for

Poetic Medicne. www.spiritwindstudio.net

Adriana Rocha was born in Bolivia. She is a

psychologist who has been writing for five years and

was published in three languages: English, Spanish

and Portuguese. She believes in the healing power of

art, and she has found in it, both a way of expression

and reflection.


Desirée Rucker is a multidisciplinary artist who

tells stories through words and video. She earned

her MFA in Creative Writing from LIU Brooklyn in

2015, with work published in Brooklyn Paramount,

By the Overpass, and others. Her poetry appears in

the Writers Studio 30th Anniversary Anthology and

Resources for Joy. Her work was featured in 50 in 50

by Frank Silvera and the Billie Holiday Theater. She

appeared in the documentary Spread Love, and her film

credits include Hairstory, The Theater, and hundreds of

Culture Matters TV episodes aired on BRIC Free Speech

TV since 2001.

Linda Leedy Schneider, a psychotherapist in private

practice and poetry mentor who was awarded The

Contemporary American Poetry Prize by Chicago

Poetry, has written six collections of poetry including

Through My Window: Poetry of a Psychotherapist

and edited two poetry anthologies, Poems From 84th

Street and Mentor’s Bouquet. Linda leads a poetry

workshop for The International Women’s Writing

Guild’s Annual Summer Conference and founded The

Manhattan Writing Workshop. She believes a regular

writing ritual leads to discovery, authenticity, personal

growth and even JOY.

Jawahara Saidullah is a writer and columnist based in

Düsseldorf, Germany. Her novels include The Burden of

Foreknowledge (Roli Press, 2007) and Where the Rivers

Meet (Tara Press, 2023). Her nonfiction book We

Are…Warrior Queens was released in 2024. A former

columnist for Mid-Day Mumbai, her work reached over

a million readers. Her short stories and essays appear

in Panorama, Open Road Review, Rind Literary Journal,

and more. She is the creator of Kissa: A Story Podcast,

sharing voices from the Global South.

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Margaret R. Sáraco is a storyteller, writing at the

intersection of fiction, memoir, plays and poetry.

She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and won

several Honorable Mentions in the Allen Ginsberg

Poetry Contest. Margaret is the author of the poetry

collections If There Is No Wind and Even the Dog Was

Quiet (Human Error Publishing.)

Myra Shapiro, born in the Bronx, returned to New York

City after forty-five years in Georgia and Tennessee

where she worked as a teacher and librarian and, with

her husband, raised two daughters. She is the author of

four books of poems, most recently Crossing the Street

to Paradise, and a memoir, Four Sublets: Becoming

a Poet in New York. Her poems have appeared in

many periodicals and anthologies, including The Best

American Poetry. She serves on the Board of Directors

of Poets House and teaches poetry workshops for the

International Women’s Writing Guild.

Barbara Simmons is a Wellesley College and The

Writing Seminars ( Johns Hopkins) alumna, and a

Counseling Psychology and Education graduate

of Santa Clara University. A retired educator, she

continues to write in order to share her wonder

and hope.. Publications include Soul-Lit, Capsule

Stories, Journal of Expressive Writing, Writing it Real

Anthologies. Her book, Offertories: Exclamations and

Disequilibriums, was published in 2022; chapbooks,

Sweeping, Not Swept Away, in 2022, and Hopefully

Before their Expiration Date in 2023.


Jessica Genia Simon began writing poetry at age

seven. As a teenager based in Rockville, MD, she

competed and won a spot on the 2001 Brave New

Voices D.C. National Youth Poetry Slam Team. She

earned a B.A. in English and Textual Studies and

Policy Studies at Syracuse University and her M.S. in

Education from University of Pennsylvania. She works

at Brady: United Against Gun Violence, volunteers

as a writer-in-residence with Day Eight and lives

with her family in Silver Spring, Maryland. Built of All

I Shape and Name (Kelsay Books, 2023) is her first

poetry collection.

Kashiana Singh (http://www.kashianasingh.com/)

serves as President of the North Carolina Poetry

Society, Managing Editor of Poets Reading the News,

and has authored five collections of poetry. Kashiana’s

TEDx talk was dedicated to her life mantra of Work as

Worship. Her newest collection called Witching Hour

was released with Glass Lyre Press in September 2024.

Megha Sood is an award-winning Asian-American

author, poet, editor, and literary activist from New

Jersey. Literary Partner with “Life in Quarantine”,

at Stanford University. Her four poetry collections

include the award-winning (My Body Lives Like a

Threat, FlowerSong Press, 2022). She has received

support from VONA, Pen Women, Dodge Foundation,

Kundiman, and Martha’s Vineyard Writing Institute.

Her 900+ works have been featured in Poetry Society

of New York, MS Magazine, NYPL, Pen Magazine, PBS,

WNYC Studio. Her poems and anthology “The Medusa

Project” have been selected to be sent to the moon in

2025 in collaboration with NASA/SpaceX. Link: https://

linktr.ee/meghasood

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Lisa St. John is a writer living in upstate New York.

She is the author of two poetry books, Ponderings

(Finishing Line Press) and Swallowing Stones (Kelsay

Books). She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize

nominee for her poem “War is a Human Child” from

The Poetry Distillery. Lisa is published in journals such

as 2Elizabeths, New Verse News, The Poet’s Billow,

The Ekphrastic Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal,

Light, Entropy Magazine, Poets Reading the News,

Glassworks, and Chronogram. Lisa believes that art is

hope and that there is beauty in possibility. Find out

more at lisachristinastjohn.com.

Sara Stegen is a Dutch poet, equity advocate,

and non-fiction author who writes about family,

neurodivergence, and the landscape she lives in.

She has published in Spelt, Ranchlands Review, The

Brussels Review. Sara has an MA in English from the

University of Groningen and is a 2022 Rural Writing

Institute alumnus run by best-selling authors Kathryn

Aalto (Writing Wild) and James Rebanks (The Place of

Tides). Home is a boulder-clay ridge in the northern

Netherlands where her bike shed contains eight

bicycles. Sara works for Research Centre Art&Society

and is working on her first poetry collection and

memoir about autism.

A native New Yorker, Robin Mayer Stein wrote and

illustrated her first book at the age of five. Her poetry

and fiction have appeared in The Paterson Review, the

new renaissance, Home Planet News, Urthona and 50

Give or Take. She received an Artist’s Grant in Poetry

from the Massachusetts Cultural Council. She speaks

about her children’s book, “My Two Cities: A Story

of Immigration and Inspiration,” at schools, libraries

and community centers. She lives in Newtonville, MA

and loves dancing, swimming and sharing stories with

Stella, Maya and Liam, her grandkids.


Brett Summers taught English for fifteen years

and has always written alongside her students. This

year she is reinventing herself as a writer by writing

daily, submitting regularly, and by reading a lot of

what writers have to say about writing. She lives in

Providence, RI with her family (furred and human).

Elita Suratman emigrated from Singapore with

dreams of following in her father’s footsteps as a

writer. A master’s degree, family and a twenty-year

marketing career later, she’s discovering her writing

roots, working on a cross-continent memoir on her

flyway toward self-identity. Read excerpts in Beautiful

Things, Flights, Herstry, Beyond Words, Cutbank

Literary Journal and Five Minutes. You can find more of

her work at elitasuratman.com.

J. Catherine Tetrault is a mother, teacher, writer,

feminist, and advocate for children’s mental health and

well-being. Her poetry is influenced by observations

of the natural world and the mindful experiences

of nomadic travels in the U.K., Europe, and India.

When she’s not wandering the planet, she’s walking

the mountains and coastlines of New England. She

publishes a regular Substack blog at jctetrault77.

substack.com. Her poetry has been published by the

Scottish Book Trust, One Page Poetry, and the London

Writer’s Salon. This poem first appeared in a Spring

2024 exhibit at the Glasgow Women’s Library.

184


Tracey Thiessen’s life began in London, England. She

then lived through ‘The Troubles’ of Northern Ireland,

experienced the scenic four seasons of Winnipeg’s

prairies and finally settled in the urban city of Toronto,

Canada. This globetrotter existence helped create

her eclectic poetry and stories. Tracey received a

Recognition of Achievement in Creative Writing from

Sheridan College, Oakville, ON and belongs to The

IWWG and The Ontario Poetry Society. She is a Golden

Grassroots Honorable Mention Chapbook Winner, 2nd

runner up winner for the Wingless Dreamer anthology

‘Darkness in Me’ and her work has been published

by several Wingless Dreamer anthologies, The White

Cresset Arts Journal and Verse Afire.

Cathy Thwing has been teaching writing at

community colleges since receiving her MFA

in Creative Writing from Eastern Washington

University. You can find some of her recent poems in

Blue Heron Review, Meniscus, the Orchards Poetry

Review, and Whitefish Review. Gardening, practicing

cello, and swinging in hammocks fill her life’s other

nooks and crannies.

Tina Tocco is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has

appeared in publications for both adults and children,

including New Ohio Review, River Styx, Hobart, Portland

Review, Potomac Review, South Dakota Review, Italian

Americana, Highlights for Children, and Cricket. The

author of the children’s poetry collection The Hungry

Snowman and Other Poems (Kelsay Books, 2019),

Tina has also contributed to multiple anthologies,

including The Best Small Fictions 2019 (Sonder Press,

2019) and the middle grade horror anthology The

Haunted States of America (SCBWI-Macmillan

Publishers, 2024). Tina earned her MFA from

Manhattanville University, where she was editor-inchief

of Inkwell.


Deedle Rodriguez Tomlinson was born and raised in

the Philippines. Her poems, reflecting her peripatetic

life, appear in Under The Storm: An Anthology of

Contemporary Philippine Poetry, the online travel

publication Wonderlust Travel, Live Encounters, the

literary issue of Silliman University Journal, as well as

Tomas, the University of Santo Tomas literary journal.

Her first short story, touching on Philippine mythology,

was published in Mom Egg Review and was nominated

for the 2023 PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for

Emerging Writers. She is Program Manager for New

York Writers Workshop.

Nichole Turnbloom is a poet, yoga therapist, amateur

potter and workshop facilitator. She currently works

for a nonprofit where she provides individual and

small groups sessions to those affected by trauma and

violence. She has an MFA in poetry and has completed

additional training through the Institute for Poetic

Medicine. You can read her work in Acumen 108,

Westbrae Literary Group 2, Spillwords among various

other venues.

Pramila Venkateswaran, poet laureate of Suffolk

County, Long Island (2013-15) and co-director of

Matwaala: South Asian Diaspora Poetry Festival, is

the author of many poetry volumes, the most recent

being We Are Not a Museum, winner of New York Book

Festival award and Exile is Not a Foreign Word (Copper

Coin 2024). Her literary criticism book is Tamil Dalit

Feminist Poetics (Rowman and Littlefield 2024).

Camille Westermann is a poet and writer, born in

the USA, raised in the Netherlands and educated

at King’s College in London. She studied English

Literature and Film, and also enjoys writing

screenplays. She loves travelling, trying new cuisine

and spending time with friends and family, who are

spread all over the USA and Europe.

186


Simone Muench, recipient of an NEA Poetry

Fellowship and multiple arts awards, is the author of

seven books, including The Under Hum (2024), cowritten

with Jackie K. White, who has also authored

three chapbooks. Muench directs the Creative Writing

Program at Lewis University and edits for JackLeg,

Tupelo Quarterly, and Jet Fuel Review. She co-hosts

the Hungry Brain Sunday Reading Series. White,

former editor at RHINO and Jet Fuel consultant, brings

collaborative and editorial expertise to their shared

work. Together, they champion innovative poetry and

nurture emerging voices through teaching, publishing,

and community engagement.

Brenda Wildrick, poet and visual artist, member

of Columbine Poets of Colorado, the Arizona State

Poetry Society, Colorado Poet’s Center, and IWWG,

has published poems in various anthologies. Her

first book, On the Train for Somewhere Else, and her

coloring book with haiku were published in 2023 by

Wild Rising Press.

Linda C. Wisniewski is a retired librarian and

journalist living in Bucks County, PA, where she

volunteers at the historic home of author Pearl S. Buck.

She is the author of a memoir, Off Kilter, a time travel

novel, Where the Stork Flies and an essay collection,

Old Women and Other Strangers. Visit her on the web

at www.lindawis.com.


PUBLICATIONS

Published by IWWG Press, 2025

Edited by the International Women’s Writing Guild (IWWG)

Designed by Alexandra Chilikina

IWWG is deeply grateful to the The de Groot Foundation for their

generous support of this anthology. The Foundation’s mission to recognize,

promote, and cultivate the work of emerging and underrepresented

writers aligns powerfully with IWWG’s commitment to uplifting diverse

voices and building literary community. We share a belief in the power of

stories to shape, heal, inspire, and educate.

We also thank the I’m Still Here Foundation, the Cornelia T. Bailey

Foundation, and the Kettering Family Foundation for supporting our

writers and the transformative act of storytelling through publishing.


IWWG WRITE FORWARD UN ANTHOLOGY

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