My Own Place

Good girls don’t cry. Or is that big girls? Nice women, behave; even though they rarely make history. Women should know their place – and with this I agree. The glitch, or rather, the opportunity being the place, and the time, and the pristine opportunity that is offered in this multitudinous variation. What is the right place, and the right time, anyway?




I can only speak what I know, and I know I often felt out of place. Others, apparently, knew their place, so I deduced that if they knew, and I didn’t, it made sense to just work around them. A colossal misinterpretation.

I know that being raised Catholic I was told to be quiet. Not silent, quiet. There is a difference. I was disciplined to behave, act nice, and think of others. Others were always first; not something I disagree with, but we never really discussed where my needs fell in the hierarchy of behaving and being quietly nice to all creatures, great and small. Therein lay the problem. If I was always thinking of others, then who was I relying on to take care of me?



Here I am thinking of others, and all the others knew what they were doing, so I was a little bit like a pinball either bouncing off of them in deference or in defense. Either way it was reactionary and haphazard, rather than focused and purposeful. What to do?
The first step, of an evolving process, was to cultivate an appreciation for my place in this world. That even if another seemed to know more, they only knew their place, and it was not their job to know my place, that was mine to divine.

The next step: practice the first step until I stopped falling flat on my face.

Photo: K.Brenton