Her Story
The moon. The fire. The water. The metal. Blended and
conjured up from spitfire women, from dirt and air. This woman I see has stories
never told. Born unwanted by the unwed, given away and sent into the hands of a
system not fit for children. Bruises, swollen face and body. Into the recess of
the brain, far reaching but solid, her mind to the spasms of kindness, formulating
hope and strength. See this cruelty. See my brown skin and red hair and know
that I am dark and light in one. Fire and Ice under the moonlight. As a
teenager this young woman set out on her own, headed north, leaving behind the
dusty streets where gossip spread, but the cornbread and corner store healed.
She walked to the bus one day, not looking back. Fake ID and a mind set on new
beginnings. She learned to fight. She shook the drugs that used to run through
her infant veins to a clean life, no drugs, no alcohol. No boys, no girls. Just
a dream to be free. Self-love taught in the books hidden under her mattress. Late
night reading until the sun came up transformed her world into something more
beautiful, but no less than what she saw in herself as she imagined being these
books’ characters and authors at the same time. She would write, but until
then, she would work.
She found herself working at an auto plant. She landed in a
hostel and got an address. She researched places that would train her, and she
started at $18/hr – a feat she knew was from God. But her God didn’t look like
the ones in the stories. Her God looked like a Mama. She had bear qualities and
she sat down with her and reasoned. Her God didn’t have so speak. She just gave
an expression and MoonFire would find the words necessary. Gods didn’t speak. They
listened. She worked during the day and
read during the night. A few years into
this life, she moved back south for a promotion. The metal and plastic that
made the cars encased her heart as well. There was no love for the men who
dared to try. A mission to writing for the rest of her life needed no distractions.
Her skin, pale and brown, never said
where she came from and she didn’t care. The red hair meant fire and she vowed
to keep it as it was.
She did write. She wrote herself into college and started
taking classes at night. She wrote her words down on anything she could find.
She sold a few to a rap artist down the street. But her goal was to teach. And
she did. She went on to more degrees. The metal around her heart eventually
faded as money and life came easier with routine and careful living. She met a
man. He loved her more. She knew he would do. No kids. The dream was stronger
than procreation. She met a woman who told her that there was power in those
red locks. She knew that, but she knew the real power was the fact the
moonlight let her read until sunrise and her nights became days. She became the
fire in the night. She became a woman of her own being. She landed in an HBCU
and she began writing tales of women long forgotten but stories almost real to
the touch as they bounced off her students’ ear drums and onto paper. She
taught them power. And writing. And she lived as if she was loved every day of
her life. She lived because her own love was strong enough to see her through. She
was a woman of dreams and consequence. A dream became reality. She is the
MoonFire Woman of the Elements.
Comments
Post a Comment