Feminism, Jam, and Mary Isabel.

there are things in my life, trivial and yet still so important to me, that have a complete connect with my grandmother. I’ve realized over the years that i didn’t know as much as I would have liked.  Raised on a farm, daughter of a preacher, worker on a nursery, and mother of a baptist family- and a woman I looked up to like something fierce.  Along with the influence of my grandmother- there was something that really bothered me- men. Men are paid better, portrayed in media differently, and most of in society are revered as something “better”. This anger and bitterness would fill me with hatred of men.

My father has always been an honest man, and I think I get so angry because there aren’t many men like my father.

So I go through phases. Today I shall be an artist. Yesterday I was a fashion designer- sewing through all the patterns I could find. Years ago I was a chef. And today, I think I will be a farmer. There is nothing wrong with any of these careers, but I feel like I struggle through all of them because of my sex. ” You? Farm?” Hah.

Your mother was a farmer, a fashion designer, an artist. She was the soft when you needed it and the strong when you were sure you’d fall.

I remember the day my grandmother made home-made strawberry jam. We picked the berries all morning, let the sunlight come through the kitchen window, and then she showed me how to make jam.

I don’t remember how to make jam.

What I do remember is thinking: I need to remember this. And I don’t.

Everyday I wish my grandmother lived  closer to me.  That she was here to guide me, and to be my mediator in the things I’ve wanted to do. I hope she is up there, sitting, knowing that I think of her everyday. I will make jam, Mary Isabel. And every batch will be for you.

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