I am not superwoman. My mother is not superwoman. My mother’s mother is not superwoman. I am, we are, soft. Can shatter. Crumble in your hands. Our survival does not mean we prosper. We are like other women but unlike them. So do not tell us we can handle anything. We only seem like superwoman, a figment of your imagination, because you have forced our lives to be perpetual labor with only seconds of relief. If we carry the world on our shoulders and the children on our backs, what are we but your glorified mules slapped with guilt praises of perseverance and strength. Our bones and our blood and our sweat have built the wealth of nations. Our burial should not be the first time we rest.
There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.
The not knowing what time zone you’re in or what day it is, dancing in the rain, chasing the sunrise, blaring good music, mountains climbs with dirty jeans and old boots, naps on the rocking dock, tan lines, being lost in a place you’ve never been, wrinkled-up maps, coffee stains on journals, midnight bonfires, laying in fields of wild flowers, new friends and old friends together, nostalgia and wanderlust all mixed together, skipping rocks under the overpass, crossing state lines on foot, walking the rails of empty tracks, miles of unplanned wandering, paddle boats and canoes, sinking in the tide, abandoned buildings, stories from strangers, falling in love with creation, finding yourself, seeing new life, total freedom. Back roads and highways, mountains and valleys, creeks and oceans, cities and desolate land.
This, this is what it’s all about.
We’re witnessing something that hasn’t been done in women’s basketball.
I will carry 17 grocery bags or die trying before making two trips.