A Woman's Virtue: Sister I Need to Hear You Sing That Song

Cave Canem: A Special Section

I wanted to remember the women of virtue who believed apostle paul told women to shut their mouths according to scripture eternal.

I wanted to remember one old gal whose death made men cry pot likker tears at her grave—a eulogy for cornbread yellow sundays and collard greens.

I wanted to remember not Aretha or Mahalia who sang their souls to crowds, but the ones who hummed with the radio alone and fried their rebellions hard.

I wanted to remember Harriet’s Aunt Nancy who slept on floors at her mistress’ beck on call for life, a life of desire, and gave desire which was her life to Harriet who ran looking back

I wanted to remember my sister lost her voice, boxed, to the scalpel and greeted death in sliced silence sanctified.

I wanted to remember everything uncelebrated. The ones who learned to worry about their hair their shoe size, the length of their eyelashes, who wove a virtue of self disdain into work, channeled desire into song, sang to need.

No Harriet Tubmans in my family. No legends of foremothers who slapped the slaveholding mistress silly or drove a blade beneath the heart of the master once again upon her. No such stories handed down by the women who bred me. No tales of fight preserved in stories adored above the god of the turned cheek. No. My mothers opened their hearts to the Christ (honorary woman, really, the way he suffered) believed their abiding was heroic then made it so.

I know a poet who speaks of virtue of impudent men masquerading submission’s face but will she mention the women chewed obedience to feed the hearts of their personal christs, according to paul, then sang their husbanded hearts from breaking?

I want to sing the broken heart brought her daughters in marriage to silence and rebellion, slept silently on floors all her life on call, trace the map that suffering drew by starlight.