For Her, I Rise

For Her

When I saw this photo, I was stunned. With sadness and gobs of tears, I sat on my stairs crying as I faced this little girl (me) and all that she went through and all she has triumphed over as a woman. This poem is for her.

This is also for my sweet sisters, the girls I grew up. I was a witness to their abuse as children and fortunately, also a witness to their triumphs as empowered women. Our sisterhood sustains us and inspires me and continually gives me strength.

I wanted to run away from her.

I wanted to forget her.

Her in a sari and tilak (teelok) on her forehead.

Her with her head covered.

Her who wore her hair in braids,

as any other way was that of a prostitute.

Her, who cried at night with no one to hold her.

Her, who didn’t feel well but was told it was all a lie.

Her, who was smashed by Krishna at the hands of Matajis.

Her, who at 6 wet her bed and wore her pee soaked panties on her head.

Her, who at 7 ate her own vomit so not to offend her god

for his bounty of rotting eggplant and okra.

Her, who had nightmares, possibly possessed by demons.

Her, who was there but felt invisible.

Her, who was told to be quiet,

Act like a lady.

Her who was told to be seen.

Her, who was told to not be heard.

Her, who was told she was less than because she was a girl.

Her, who was cursed at 11 with blood pouring out of her whatever.

Her, who was ridiculed for her breasts,

That would one day feed her baby.

Her, who would shy away from friends because she and they were bad association.

Her, who could not be controlled.

Her, who talked back.

Her, who protected her brother at the hands of maniacs.

Her, who stood up for her friends.

Her who cursed in every sneeze.

And rallied the runaway girls to reach for their freedom.

Her, who at 11 escaped a child-hood marriage.

Her, who fought against hypocrisy.

And laughed in defiance at their vacant vows.

Her, who was blamed for men’s poor behavior.

Her, who was responsible for men’s sexual thoughts and unwanted advances.

Her, who made men forget their place in gods kingdom with her slutty side-part,breasts like jugs, and colorful saris tightly wrapped about her figure.

Her, who slept in basements as punishment.

Her, who lied to her parents to protect herself.

I ran away from her.

I shut her out and down.

I didn’t want to remember her pain.

I had forgotten about her.

She didn’t matter to them.

So why should she matter to me?

Tonight, as I sat on my stairwell and looked at her sweet face,

my eyes welled with tears of sadness, recognition and pride.

I remembered her.

There is no me without her

There is no future without her history

There is no peace in my denial

There is no freedom in my resentment

There is no forgiveness in my forgetfulness

There is no love in my fear

She was one among hundreds.

Because of her, I am alive.

Because of her strength, I am free.

Because of her resilience, I breathe.

Because of her faith, I love.

Because of her, I am one among many who survived

despite oppression, misogyny and abuse.

For all she’s done for me, I give her my heart and my future.

In her honor for her bravery and courage, I give her my word

that I will never again be quiet.

I remember her.

Because of her I have an unbreakable bond of sisterhood.

Because of her I have learned to trust again.

Because of her I have learned to love again.

Because of her I will speak up again.

Because of her I marched.

For her, I rise.

©2016 Vanessa Elle Wilde | For Her, I Rise