Women Die Like Trees

(Rage Is A Four-Letter Word)


"Women die like trees, limb by limb. . . "
Cherokee poet Marilou Awiakta used an allegorical tree in 1978 to describe the older woman's inevitable fate of quiet deletion from society sans fanfare or mourning- When I first read Awiakta's poem, I was 35 and, although her words struck chords of instant recognition, it wasn't until another 20 years had passed that her words rang with chilling, stark reality. My middle-age years have been an astonishing, albeit unwanted, personification of Awiakta's poem-prophecy.

"Women die like trees .. [failing] with a sigh-unheard except by those nearby-"
Yet-to-be-initiated thirty-something females have accepted my employment application and "over-qualified" resume, then averted blank-microchip eyes while intoning, "Your resume will be on file, in case something comes up for which you're qualified." She and I both knew I'd never be considered for any position with the "young, aggressive firm." Or a management position for which I was eminently qualified was waiting to be filled and, after a long, tedious application process was completed, I was betrayed by one of my own gender contemporaries: This ranking female decision-maker decrees that the sought after position is a political plum being "saved" for the young mistress of a state politico (the same circumstance under which the over-50 woman in power was appointed to her position in the previous decade) and not for me.

"Women die like trees .. no bugle sounds for deaths like these- . . "
Indignity by indignity, betrayal by betrayal, women die limb by limb, root by root, until we are worn down to our anchoring taproot. Survival becomes all we can hope for as we doggedly continue to complete 'job applications for minimum-wage, unskilled employment-ostensibly available for ovcr-50 women. And every bottom-of-the-ladder application is completed amid a silent torrent of four-letter words free-associating in a protectively numb brain: Good ... evil; pain ... hurt; rage ... fury; worth ... none; hope ... dead.

Copyright © 1992 by Ilene Jones-Cornwell
(Excerpt from "Women Die Like Trees," by Marilou Awiakta, 1978.)


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