Cecelia Ungari

Silent Adminst the Shame

How did they go silent?

Amidst the brutality, the lynching, the segregation, the humiliation;

Those who saw

and despaired

got quieter and

ceased to stand up

for our shared humanity,

for what we know to be true.

We are connected.

We are one.

Whatever you do to the least of my people,

we do to ourselves.

How did I learn silence?

How did I learn to ignore

the injustice,

the incarceration,

the brutality?

How did I learn to embrace my privilege,

my white heritage

without considering that

it was upon my sisters and brothers that

doors opened for me?

Or did I know and stay silent?

Do I know and stay silent still?

Now that my eyes are bearing better witness,

now that my ears can hear the sounds of prejudice--whispers and shouts--

now that I see we live here, today, chained to our collective pasts,

what will I choose?

How will I find my voice without yet again taking away other’s?

Can I stand amongst-- rather than behind, between, or in front of?

What would that sound like?

What would we hear?

King, Princess, Prophet

King

Princess

Prophet

Some people’s past lives might be a Who’s-Who of power,

Of property.

Of prestige.

I’m fairly certain my past lives were born of peasants,

gypsies,

exiled Jews.

Maybe in the desert with Moses,

Maybe in ghettos or labor camps.

Or nothing so despairingly noteworthy, just an ordinary laborer, like so many before me.

What are my clues to these past life biographies?

It's in what comes naturally, knowingly, my knee-jerk responses, and inborn interests.

My fingers

quickly remembering how to knit--weaving together warmth from scraps and fibers.

They seem to move on their own when digging in the earth-- building soil and gardens from compost, dirt, and stone.

They comfortably brew stew and soups--remembering how to make meals from fragments of bruised vegetables, bones, and bits of meat.

My body, mind, and spirit

choosing to endure pain rather than stopping to protest or demanding something different.

These are the gifts of my nameless and landless heritage.

The longing to seek redemption through kindness,

simplicity,

and anonymity.

2000 Days

I’ve had someone in, on, or nursing from my body for over 2000 consecutive days.

They told me this brand of mothering was demanding and depleting.

I believed, but couldn’t understand until every cell in my system knew.

Knew the exhaustion of pushing through your limits.

Knew the anger of being awakened yet again, moments after finally drifting to sleep.

Knew the tears cried in fatigue, frustration, in famine, not from absence of food, but from the absence of connection, conversation, space, silence.

My bones ache after giving so much to create so much more than I could ever be.

How can nature multiply my nutrients into new life? How can my breasts sustain the rapid growth, the brain blossoming, the teeth, hair, poop and the tiny piece of humanity that arrives?

,

Through our blood, sweat, tears, sanity, strength, sisterhood– in pure survival mode.

2000 straight days I’ve given my body to you. Will it ever again be only mine?

I sense relief, along with sorrow at our connections drifting.

Not severing, but becoming ethereal,

suggestions rather than physical ties to each other.

It’s been amazing. Exhausting. Depleting. Lifesaving.

My lifeline in a sea of anxiety and change.

I’d be wise to say goodbye, relieved to be free of this burden of motherhood, to march forward into my reclaimed space.

Yet, I’m willing to do this again. Aching to do this again.

Can you believe it? I can’t. Maybe this is yet another miracle of motherhood.

Author’s Note 2022: I added another 1,000 days to this tally, nearly a decade of my life. We were amidst a global pandemic for – gestating, birthing, nursing and weaning. How cosmically, absurd that these experiences can be so nourishing and so depleting all in the same breath.