Today I think of the women…
I think of the woman who birthed and held and raised this man.
I think of the woman who gave this man her hand and her strength and her forgiveness. And still does so. Everyday.
I think of the woman my daughter shall be.
I think of the woman to whom I spoke this morning who spent the last fifteen years as a carer for her husband and now begins the slow remaking of everything.
I think of the slave woman and the beaten woman and the raped woman and the broken woman.
I think of the strong woman and the brave woman and the resilient and the fighting.
I think of the mother of my children. I think of the single mother. I think of every mother.
I think of miscarriage. I think of the barren.
I think of the Suffragettes.
I think of the witch trials and the burning.
I think of Gran carting sacks of bananas and Nanna making machine guns in war.
I think of baby girls tossed into rubbish piles.
I think of the native woman shot through by the cock of colonialism.
I think of the woman told that she should not have walked by herself that night and certainly not with that clothing.
I think of the lonely.
I think of the lesbian Christian. The bi-sexual. The queer.
I think of she who should be a leader, but was told that her place was to ever only be the kitchen, or the bedroom or the birthing suite.
I think of the woman held down, in a chair, held down.
I think of the widow. I think of the divorced.
I think of sex-slaves and of those twelve steps that led her to the bottom of that basement.
I think of the razor that falls from the scarred legs of teenage shame and the burning throat of trying to vomit out the pain.
I think of the girl without a name, or a name forgotten, or a name that was lost when they sold her off to marry a stranger that did not know her though he was twice her age.
I think of women elders, the champions of their people, those who show us how to live out of deep compassion when our egos get in the way.
I think of bossy bitches and sluts and skanks and arm-candy and bimbos and damaged goods and catfights and the stroppy and moody and hormonal and frigid and prudish and ice-queens and ball-busters and how we always label that which threatens us the most.
I think of ‘Working Mothers’ and why I am not called a ‘Working Father’.
I think of groping and cat-calling and wolf-whistling and the rating of looks and the baiting of hooks made of date drugs and manipulation.
I think of fear.
I think of looking over the shoulder, of crossing the street, of all the things that I never have to do.
I think of cleaners and receptionists and centrefold models and checkout-chicks and lap-dancers and AFL players and CEO’s and doctors and firefighters and plumbers and builders and surfers and scientists and teachers. I think of the gap between what HE gets paid compared to what SHE gets paid.
I think of the poets. Those women whose voices burn like fire.
I think of feminism. I think of Emma Watson. I think of freedom of choice. I think of the freedom to decide ones own fate. I think of freedom.
I think of God. Mother God.
And I think of my daughter.
I think of my daughter.
I think of my daughter.