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.   

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