I always dreamed big. Big enough to be the scapegoat of wet blankets from society, relatives, friends, and pessimists. For a long, I remained oblivious of the reason. Later on, I got to know. It was only obvious. My dream was considered paradoxical to my standards. For a woman, it was only a double disincentive. A woman being a leader would be the queerest thing you would hear. That's how it was in my village.
I had always wanted to be a leader. Always. From marshaling the girls in my village to school to escorting the neighbor's sheep, I always had the urge to rule. The only bound my joy knew the day I was selected as the class leader was the fact that this would last only for twenty-nine days. A new student would take the throne next month. Leaders change. Quite difficult to accept for a bubbling enthusiastic girl of ten, who wanted to boss people around.
I wailed out of my Mom’ womb on November 8, 1905. It was a weird confrontation, honestly. Neither of us knew what to do with the other. The world was confused with me and I was troubled by the notion of being delivered to this strange—what is it called? World?
The battle began then. And to this day, I haven’t stopped fighting. Some call me a warrior, but I knew life too well to become friends with it.
Now, what is life? A different day. We’ve got more pressing issues.
To meet our demands, Dad sold matchsticks, toiled in the landlord's field, and shepherded the neighbor's cows while Mom was a domestic help for the same landlord. Amidst the struggle to win bread, they never ignored the simple pleasures of life, whether it's watching us grow, joining in our scuffles, or playing with us. I was sent to school at the age of five and to this day I consider it an honor. Not all the girls in our village attended school. The first emulation of sexism in my life.
But not the worst.
Life was difficult. With the Great Depression, matters only exacerbated. I and my brothers had to drop out of school. The future was uncertain as ever. The light at the end of the tunnel seemed only a fantasy. A pacifier.
It was on such a day, that I was struck with the harsh reality of life.
I waited on the doorstep, watching the seconds dissolving to minutes and the minutes dissolving to hours. Occasionally, Mom, in a flurry of movement appeared behind me, peering out into the dark, over my huddled self. Little did I know the wait was in vain. His death did nothing to ameliorate our situation, but the fact that it was somehow my fault, shattered my insides.
Some weeks back, I had publicly castigated a man twice my age for trying to grope me. That day, I realized he was a ruffian of the most feared bandit in my village. They had their revenge. Only on a different person. But they knew it would crush my insides. Fearing for our safety, Mom packed us out of the village to another.
The thug’s message was crystal clear. I'm not to be meddled with. I have the cart-Blanche to do whatever I wish. In which case, you retaliate, there will be consequences.
Over the next year, the Great Depression alleviated, but my depression level reached an all-time high. All my desires degraded to dreams. The one you see when you sleep.
Now, when I think about it, I realized that those were the moments that stimulated me, empowered me, pulled me from the ground, from out of the shadows to the light, and finally to the most coveted house in American History.
I am what I am because of my Dad, who never gave a damn about what society thought, and my Mom, who always strived until the very last to pay for not only my brother's college but also my education without reluctance. She was never the one to believe that education was useless for girls. On the contrary, she advocated for equal rights for women, equal pay, and treatment in workplaces to the extent she was murdered by blatant misogynists.
I am left with a world, trying to bury women and muzzle them. I remember learning democratic: Everyone has a voice in decision-making. Do they?
Three years back, I was appointed the Goodwill Ambassador of UNICEF. Easily, it was one of my most treasured moments. Standing at the podium, beaming at the audience, I traced back my path to where it all began. A mixture of emotions lurched through me; pain, for the fact that the people who laid the bricks for my path were not able to witness what their hard work had wrought, happiness, confusion, nervousness, and gratitude. Thinking of what led to this moment; What was the driving force? Where did it all start?
There is only one plausible answer.
After high school, I decided to take up work along with my college.
I discussed this idea with my brother who suggested that there was a vacancy for a dorm assistant at Emory Dorms, where he was working as one, ad interim. Without a doubt, I secured the job, juggling a job, and a degree. On the 30th day after my induction to the post, I was quite disappointed. I was paid less than half of what my brother did. Dialing my brother, I wondered out loud at the idiosyncrasy.
“That’s how things are, Aloha”
I was thunderstruck at the reply. Okay, I didn't grow up in a village that was brimming with gender equality, but at least I expected to be paid equally for the same work.
This incident aroused me. I had had enough.
From being appointed as the President of the City Club to becoming a senator, I had unwavering support from a source which soon after was cut off; My mother.
Her death left an indelible blemish on my life. I was shattered. To this day, I wonder: What was her mistake? Why was she killed?
After her death, I viewed people with disgust; it made me rethink. Why am I working for these people who are not ready to accept the truth?
But then I realized, there were always people like that. There never was, is, and will be an ideal country. Perhaps in movies, yes, but not in reality. Still, I had to work for those people who are forced to believe magnificent lies, hindered from seeing the truth, and those with no choice except lies.
My designation as the Secretary of State coincided with the untimely death of my-----
“What would you like to drink, Sir?”, the stewardess beamed.
The man looked up from My Life, My Story: An Autobiography.
“No, I’m fine, thanks”, he waved, summoning a smile.
“Your Mom’s book, I see”, she walked off, glancing at the cover.
Hugh nodded at her, looking out at the clouds disappearing behind him.
Having dozed off, he roused to the blare of the television.
“Aloha Broughton, President of the United States, who was seriously ill for the past two days has passed away. The cause, as of now is unknown.”
Author Bio:
Afreen Shanavas is a budding author, who currently lives in India. She has won many accolades for creative writing contests. Her work has appeared in Inframe magazine.
Qualification: Grade 11
The Xmas Special Contest! 3rd Prize winner - Miss. Afreen Shanavas (prize 250 Rs Amazon Voucher)
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