There are many things I have noticed as a woman in the world. It's been a rooted understanding that women are dangerous. When I say that out loud I realize that I have many wonderful, supportive and kind women who do not fit into this statement. I acknowledge that there are people in general who can be categorized as dangerous. It's an instinctual statement that comes from a deep place that automatically feels this. Where is this simmering in my conscious? It might have been planted when little girls ran away instead of played. It might be the later prepubescents that snidely commented on my clothes, or maybe the teenage wanna-be's that hated my boyish confidence. All I know is that I grew up being treated like a she-boy. I learned to cook, clean and take care of littles like a good Iranian woman, but chopped wood, cleared corn, and was taught to beat the boys in my karate class. I do tend toward masculinity in some physical aspects and certainly in my train of thought. It did not serve me well with the "secret-telling", whispering girls who played mental games. I noticed the boys were more straight forward like me. The boys didn't play head games and the boys were easier to befriend as long as I didn't best them in a fight. That was hard not to do. I did eventually find girls like me. They exist. A little rough around the edges and different, odd, eccentric. Straight-shooters. They became my trusted, lifelong confidants.
From these experiences, I learned that when girl looks you up and down she is either instantly hating you or friendly with the intent to hate. It will come later when she has devised a plan. The only people I knew I could trust besides my rag-tag gang of "misfit" girls was my grandmas. I was blessed to have both of my grandmas through my youth. Oddly, these woman both adored me. Grandma Tryfonas spent most everyday with me. I shared her love of music and the ability to play and sing. I also had her fiery temper. She was my fiercest ally and my biggest fan. Every concert, pageant, talent show, she was there, her face shining with pride. She let me be me and I loved her. My Grandma Tizpa only knew me for a short time before we fled Iran. I was 4 and she was miles across the ocean. Still, I was her favorite. She told me and everyone else as well. She loved me unconditionally. She loved me in spite of the miles between and she loved me for me.
There is a little sniff of a woman who cleans my Bears room. She is the same size and color as my grandma. She has the same twinkle in her eye. She calls me "mia" and speaks to me in her broken English. There are many women around me. Some are friendly while others simply do their job. Some don't like me even though we have never spoke , but Ruska sees me. She remembers me. She sees me. She loves me. In a world where so much pain, fear, uncertainty, and unkindness abides, she sees me. I believe our ancestors watch over us. I believe they are our guardian angels. This little sniff of a woman who reminds me of my grandma was sent for me. In this difficult time, she was sent for me. How grateful I am.
