bridgets flame second April entry
These seeds were sown so long ago.
She enters the booth and swings the curtain shut behind her. She’s been waiting for this day her entire life, and, though there are others waiting to use the space next, she wants to savor this moment. She studies the choices before her for a few minutes. She closes her eyes, and takes a slow, deep, breath. She reaches out her hand . . .
To everything there is a season,
. . . and grasps the reaching hand of her sister. They march up the boulevard, heads and placards high. It was the busiest time of day; they had planned it that way. The sidewalks are filled with people, and many of them heckle and jeer at her and her sisters. A group of boys fling rotten apples at them. They march on; there are women and girls watching in the crowd, too. She hears a thud, and one of her sisters stumbles. She reaches out her hand . . .
and a time to every purpose under heaven.
. . . and touches the wall of her cell. If she stretches her other hand out, she can brush the opposite wall with her fingertips. Her cell is five paces long, and the span of both arms across. Bed, chair, tiny table, chamber pot and ewer: this is her existence for the moment. She could go home if she wanted to; all she had to do was sign the statement they had prepared. But her cause is too important. She will not let them bully her into backing down. Her husband had come and brought her some writing materials; she will be able to send letters while incarcerated. She sits on the bed, reaches out her hand . . .
a time to sow
. . . and picks up the pen. She signs her name on the voting register, and picks up her ballot. Her husband doesn’t know she’s here, and by the time he finds out, it will be too late. He will be very, very angry with her, despite there being nothing illegal about what she’s doing. She is the first woman in her family, a family that fought in the revolution, who has been granted the right to do this. She enters the booth, sets her ballot down, and reaches out her hand . . .
and a time to reap.
. . . and picks up the pen. Her great-great grandmother was the first woman in her family who was able to vote. Family legend says that her great-great grandfather beat her that election night. In her lifetime, though, women have always had the right to vote. She studies the ballot, and makes her choices. All the names on the ballot are men, but someday . . .
These seeds were sown so long ago.
. . . She reaches out her hand . . .
There is still a crop to reap.
. . . and places it on the Bible, so that she may take the oath of office.
For my great-grandmother, the first woman in our family to have the right to vote.
For my daughter, who goes with me every time I vote, and who may someday be President.