Things I tell my daughter
I strive to be a woman that practices what I teach
And what kind of woman would I be to raise a daughter with the same scars as mine.
I tell her, first we acknowlege that crying over spilled milk knowing it is already sour is pointless.
We are women who take full accountability for our actions.
I tell her that laying on her back and opening her heart is not the same thing yet they both contain their own set of risks.
I tell her that gentleman are sometimes nothing more than patient wolves.
I tell her that young women are more mature but young men are more convincing.
I teach her what love is not because she will search for it but so that she knows what it looks like when someone tries to convince her of what it is when it isn’t.
I feed her resilience and courage like I feed her vitamins and whole wheat bread.
When she turned 12, she was not afraid to discover this blood rite of passage from girlhood to womanhood. I was already preparing her for it.
You’re a little lady now. This beautiful sisterhood of: tylenol swaps, vigilant checks for leaks, passing of pads like contraband; this communal lament over pain.
I tell her, womanhood is not synonymous with menstruation, its synonymous with bloodshed.
The blood you lose when you surrender your virginity,
The blood you lose in childbirth, in fighting a life into this world,
The blood you lose when you scrape your knees falling for him,
The blood you lose from suppressing emotions within,
The blood you lose when he stabs you in the heart,
The blood you lose when from carving yourself into the mold you've been given,
The bloodshed in silent sacrifice.
Beautiful is the spine that remembers where it came from.
I tell her you are a poem carefully made, thought of and loved deeply.
Womanhood is not all ours to keep, we will lose some blood along the way but remember whose image you are made in…
The ultimate bloodshed for our bodies and mind and heart and soul to be reunited with the one who created us. Jesus the lamb of God.
No man could tell you better than that name of who you are…
He causes your bones to rise from the ribs of men that dare reject your existence.
Ia loto tele! Ia loto tele, my girl!
I am writing you love letters from Hilo.
I pray you read this with hope and love. With joy and expectation— knowing Jesus loves you but more importantly He needs you to grow up— in your word reading, praying, believing, hoping, looking for His return.
All my love,
G.
