Writing because I can and writing because I have to.
Just ask.
Generations ago.
This was forbidden.
I wish they would.
Forbid, that is.
A skill, but a gift.
A gift not given lightly.
Who chooses?
Who’s given?
My mother couldn’t.
Can’t.
Write.
But, thoughts? Plenty.
Opinions, too.
Fears, a plethora - inherited.
I am her scribe.
A scribe.
One for the children.
Bodies buried.
One for the mothers, silenced.
Mothers, rambuctious.
Yet, ignored.
One for the activists - with action.
The ones that died.
The ones killed.
The ones that had the answers.
Answers for me.
For us.
For my mother.
I am a scribe for my mother.
An immigrant.
Disabled.
Abled.
Married. Not.
Tall and short.
Illiterate. That the word?
I am a scribe for myself.
Susana.
A girl. A woman.
A mother.
Abled. Tall and short.
Loud. And quiet.
Writing because I can and because I have to.
It’s pulling teeth.
“Why?”
“For fun…” I said.
Fun isn’t worth it.
Creating.
Isn’t worth it.
Productivity. Working for the man.
The applause and the acknowledgments.
Being a scribe of experiences.
A scribe for mothers, children, my children’s mother.
My inner child. Get over it…
I have the privilege to scribe.
To document the experiences of the silenced.
The forgotten.
The shushed.
The hearing, the seeing, and the not.
So, I must.
I can no longer ignore the ability.
The want.
The need.
To express.
To scribe.
To document.
And to write.
To write because I can and because I have to.
