This is a poem I wrote sometime ago when contemplating on the fact that we have to often search for women’s histories more deeply than men’s:
To My Ancestresses
Who are you?
Why did you weep or hide in the shadows,
Ashamed to show weakness or strain?
Why do I read the words of your husbands,
your fathers, your brothers, but not yours?
Why were you silent?
Your stories call to my spirit, to my heart.
I seek to know you;
who you were;
what sorrows and joys were yours.
You will not be forgotten;
your life had value,
has value for me.
These women’s stories hidden from view as though they were of no worth and yet now we know. The women and their stories are priceless.