A Diary of Women By Women. A Day in the Life of Women. On a Search of Women's Identity.
A Diary of Women By Women
A Day in the Life of Women
Time hath moved no more. As I seek for the truth, I have run into many a question that bewilders my mind with anger and frustration. Still I but find it amusing to poke fun of. The progression of women seems to be no worst now than that of Elizabethan time. In a world where men are responsible of creating words to songs, sonnets, plays, the rights for women was dimmed.
I recalled Professor Trevelyan who declared that in considering the works of Shakespeare, that there would never exist a woman who could posses his genius. I have news for the dead bishop, Shakespeare works of art were created not by Shakespeare himself, but, by his sister. Her name, Judith. A gifted woman that because of the hard times that women were living was forced to give ownership to her brother, who was a man.
In Renaissance time, marriage was a must but, there many that did not. This was considered bad luck, instead of a choice. The “Virgin Queen” Elizabeth considered herself married to her people. (Bedford Companion, pg. 299)
I have been blessed in my life, as you well know dear friend. As I have shared many a life experiences you have become witness to my eternal gratitude as a wife and mother. For from this I have inspired my creativity. The biggest of my inspiration are my children, those four cocks and hens. To them, if one day I shall pass, I would like you to relay the following: I have birth you, nursed you, taught you to sing and fly, to no near end. I was blessed with your presence for such a short time until you took your flight of life or end. One day as my presence fades, you will be my proof of life. I will live among you, always a mother, a wife, a woman.
Anne Bradstreet (In Reference to Her Children)
Today I ran into a friend that I have not encountered in about ten years. As I was face to face with this friend or foe, all the emotions that have been locked inside of me, came rushing through my veins, like the same blood that my body does desire to keep me alive at the same time as my death. Once again I had an affair with death. What once happened by pure accident has now become my drug of choice, although I have only taste tested three times. How can one posses such power to end it all in a moment? Am I the artist of my own creation? I am a powerful miracle. Oh! Sweet Diary, how I long to feel it once more, the rush, the power, the blood that today comforts my flesh and that tomorrow will turn to ashes. Until then, I wait, because I know one day we will be as one.
Sylvia Plath (Lady Lazarus)
One more of the recurring themes in this anthology, as it is in many of the works by Shakespeare ,was death and suicide. Romeo at the feeling of losing his one love took by his own hand his own life.
As the analyst that I am, I have found that violence is a present reminder that we are creatures trapped in our own curiosity and that it fascinates us without rhyme nor reason. Why is it that through history we have been fascinated with crime and the mystery it involves in solving it? Take the life of Connie, for example, an American teenage girl, who is curious with boys, and has no interest in living her life as her parents desire. Connie, caught in a web of a serial killer, Arnold Friend, whose smooth talking got Connie to follow his directions to go with him where ultimately, she would end up raped and dead. She was left powerless, a slave to his desire. It was not her being weak as a woman nor his strength of being a man, that drove her to tragedy. It was her nature.
Joyce Carol Oates (Where Are You Going..)
Joyce Carol Oates
Growing up as a Chicano, I have learned to appreciate two cultures, the American and the Mexican. Because I am both. I have moved around and to my knowledge I have not left at all. I have been blessed with a family that has stayed united through poverty and hunger. I give thanks to my parents who have set the foundation of my gift through stories and myths, like La Llorona which inspired my novel, “Woman Hollering Creek.” All women have a little bit of Cleofilas inside that is waiting to let out there own holler to let the silence break the cycle, be free, and accomplish happiness.
I remember it like it was yesterday. An ironic trip that took my mother to my uncle’s funeral, and in return claimed her own life. Oh! God! I do not question you, because I know that on that day, the day before her return, my mother lived every religious experience that indicated she knew what was coming. She went on a religious excursion that took her to visit several churches and its saints, she got confessed and took the body of Christ during mass. She fell ill while the bus rested at a shopping center, which was the last stop to see her alive. A priest appears dressed in humble attire and sandals, as she is pronounced dead of a heart attack by a doctor traveling with them. He offers himself to my dad to perform the last rites.
La Flor que Marchito
When the priest is done, he steps off the bus and leaves. Another passenger tries to go after him so he can console my very distraught father. The priest in nowhere to be found. The passenger asks around in the shops where they respond in confusingly, that it is impossible for a priest to be walking around in that attire there was not a church near by. Whether it was faith, dear diary, or it was hope. It was a death well deserved by a woman who lived her life religiously, and faithfully. No matter what challenges she faced, like women, she did not let them be obstacles, instead she defeated them in triumph.