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She is the temptress, pulling and corrupting and corroding-weakening the strong with her will, and her potion. She is for all of her guilt, innocent; she can not avoid her definition.
Me. A reflection of the wind, blowing smooth or swift, ravaging or caressing, sweeping and slapping. Twisting to the words that warmed the music. Rolling as the tide, skipping as the stone.
I am the daughter of the Mexican Revolution. It followed my arrival, but I did not truly exist until it appeared. It was only then that my soul was liberated and my wings could stretch.
I remember Mrs. Sachs-begging me for the "secret." But it truly was a secret, not mine to know, or to tell-yet. So I looked to her, I smiled and I said "You'll be alright." The words sounding wrong, the message: I am helpless, please have hope.
My voice lifts from the throats and settles in the ears and echoes in the minds of all who are.
My instinct is yours. To push and prod, to p1y and protect, to clarify and confuse.
Science-she was my first love, my eldest child and my most favored friend.
Opportunity lived within her and breathed her possibilities.
It was a lesson too early learned: trust is not a gift simply presented to the well placed. Rather it is an understanding created by knowledge and nurtured by faith.
I faintly remember her, holding me up, as to convince him that I existed. But I know now that it was not my existence that was in question.
In pursuit of my art I consumed all of the culture that I could. When doing this-I wore the clothes of the day-those most typically worn by men. Such a measure was to gain advantages known only to those who wore these garments, those who were men.
From my early memories, I recall the affection-the connection that music inspired from my surface to my center. As a voice with a deep and inspiring message, it spoke to me in cascades and crescendos.
In between worlds, that is where I landed. I attempted to soar the sky in search of understanding, and when I returned home its flavor was somehow different, my mouth now salty from the journey.
Such an unreasonable conclusion, so believed that it rings with the clarity of a great truth.
Why? What is it that makes the truth, the very simple, astoundingly available truth, so resistible?
In its most pure form history is a great ali to women.
Within it lies evidence of her contributions. The ability, the ingenuity, the risk, encountered and confronted by so many.
One simple understanding directed me toward the truth. The truth is, there is no child-regardless of the level of their intellect-that does not thirst for knowledge.