How I Became a Feminist

by Paul C. Gorski (gorski@edchange.org/@pgorski)

Grandma sat in the dark of her house,

fingers caressing the worn armrests

of her recliner.

Feigning sleep

on the fold-out sofa

I studied her face.

She smoothed the front of her pink pressed nurse’s uniform

staring into the silence.

Eight years old, a timid boy,

I watched Grandma

becoming herself

before me.

The wrinkles in her face:

sweet signs of overcoming.

The distance in her eyes:

a celebration of persevering.

Her stillness:

a calm confidence,

a meditation before

bursting out.

I watched wondering why

my mother’s mother,

a few years into her first career,

chose the midnight shift.

I imagined her saying, if she spoke

just then, This is the me

I always intended to be.

This is the me.

And my spirit rumbled.

Grandma pressed herself out of her chair.

“Time to go,” she whispered to herself.

“Time to go,” my conscience echoed.

And as Grandma stepped out

of the dark of her house

my pulse assumed

the rhythm of her footsteps.

Grandma chose the midnight shift.

Grandma chose the midnight shift.

And who shouldn’t choose?

And who shouldn’t choose?

And who shouldn’t—?

Time to go.