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
