One of the Brave Ones

I’m tired of being “one of the brave ones”.

My mom always calls me that.

It takes it’s toll on my body in ways I didn’t realize.

I’m sad. 

I’m angry.

I’m frustrated.

I’m tired of trying to fit in spaces that don’t accommodate for my voice. 

Yet I still do it.

I’m in a room full of men. 

Circled around a giant wooden conference table, elders in a system that has long stood.

I notice my heart race as I speak up

My voice shakes and reverberates back to my ears and even I don’t believe what I’m saying.

The patriarchal teaching crosses my mind for a split second and I start to shrink and question myself

But I hold my ground at the wooden conference table.

All I can focus on is the grain. 

Don’t look up.

Don’t question yourself because of them.

Old, white, men stare back at me and I can see the look of concern in their eyes, not for me, but for me thinking somehow I could change the system.

Their brains churning with “oh poor dear, it’s been this way since the beginning of time, nothing will change with one woman’s voice.”

They patronize me, they tell me it’s the way it’s always been and I feel deflated again.

Why do I try? 

Nothing ever changes.

I have little hope it ever will.

Why do I put myself through this pain over and over again?

My mom calls me one of the brave ones. 

I guess that’s why I do it. 

Because no one else will.