Monday Morning Musings:
“You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
From Maya Angelou, “Still I Rise”
Full poem here.
I.
I rise before the sun,
a woman’s work is never done,
or so the saying goes–
but often yet denied a place
debased, erased
from education, business, science, and the arts
kept apart, or not allowed to start
never mind, we’ve given birth to the human race
created beauty and gone to space,
although harassed and worse,
some want progress gained to be reversed
(believing in mythical pasts and Eve’s curse)
but we move onward, oppose coercion
and being brutalized and minimized–
we advertise and mobilize–
trying not to polarize–
OK, perhaps a bit we moralize
but feeling like we’re pressurized
we rise
again, we rise
I march (again)
with a friend
she was my daughters’ teacher
(way back when)
and we talk and cheer
reaching for something dear—
hope, instead of fear—
this is not a fight only for straight, white women,
rights are for all regardless of skin tone or orientation in
who they love
(is love is love is love is love)
yet why do some believe that to have what they desire
means others’ dreams should then expire?
They’d build a bonfire of the vanities
produce dark cavities,
gaping holes in knowledge—truth and beauty gone—insanities—
while the Doomsday Clock shows we more than ever jeopardize
life as we know it
(afraid to admit this)
we reach for the prize
rising still
again, we rise. . .
A woman handed out these pins on our Patco train.
and from the crowd celebrating Womanhood
I wander north–as I said I would
to celebrate two women and art on a smaller scale
because loves trumps hate, and it prevails
II.
I learned my mom wanted a career in fashion design,
or so she says now, perhaps then she was resigned,
as she went to secretarial school, learning typing and shorthand.
but then war came, with its demands
she willingly bucked the rivets and worked in shifts
then married, raised children—but art uplifts
and it was there for her, when she had time
perhaps no longer in her prime
days, to months, to years, the lows and highs
her parents, my father, her brother died
though weakened,
yet still she’d rise
Her cousin, like a sister, began a Yiddish club
a language almost gone, but rising up
through songs they sing and memories
of parents or grandparents’ spoken tongue
(curses uttered, lullabies sung)
I ask about the story I heard
that my grandmother had a lovely voice
and that she was often the choice
at family gatherings
asked to sing with Abraham Hankins, the artist cousin, famous
(shameless, we name him thus)
she says he studied music first, but his voice was almost done
(because of mustard gas during WWI)
she says–
he learned to paint in the hospital—“art therapy isn’t new”
but an online biography reports the opposite is true
born in Gomel, then sent to Philadelphia to live with his cousins
(I know he lived with my mom’s family, but there were dozens)
talented, he studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts,
then enlisted and wounded
the experts concluded
singing would expand his lungs, damaged from the war’s ravages
it turned out that he excelled in this field, too,
studied in Paris, this is true,
but though music called in tenor voice,
ultimately, he made a choice–
following when his heart said, “art.”
My cousin tells me about his studio
with many windows, but little else
and of the patron who, well-pleased
sent him frozen vegetables–beans, corn, and peas—
along with a freezer to store them in
vegetables at least to eat
not a starving artist, painting in the street
I am impressed by the work, cousins and mother’s
as well as those of many others
I love color, but I can’t draw—
no talent there at all–
maybe it skipped on to my daughter,
as her poster art I’ve carried twice to help me energize
Rising through the shadows
as we gather to rise
when again, we rise
While the art show reception is going on,
my husband puts together with care
for my mother, a new armchair,
kindly doing his share
for the woman who gave his wife life
so she can more easily rise–
it’s more difficult for her now
but she finds a way somehow
to paint and laugh and still to rise
as women have done throughout the ages
with baby steps, on platforms, and in stages
to rise
again
to rise
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
