In our tribe, I am the battle strategist; I am the shaman. I organize all trade deals; I supervise all expeditions. I provide wisdom; I provide condolence. I sit by an elderly man’s bed as the life slowly seeps out of him. I squeeze his hand, which is both rough and smooth. His salt water blue eyes gaze into mine. The deep lines in his face crinkle and he sighs, “Thank you.”
I kneel in a quaint bungalow and present a treaty to the foreign woman that kneels before me. After several minutes of meditative thought, she scrawls her signature beneath mine. I grip her hand and give it a brisk shake. She shifts her eyes to mine in a calculating stare as she replies, “Thank you.”
Music waltzes down the road, a sign that the children are in music class. As they delicately pet their instruments, I enter the classroom with prime plums freshly picked for each child. The children sprint to me and instantly indulge in their treats. A girl, with red juice glistening on her chin, wraps her tiny arms around me in a tight hug and whispers, “Thank you.”
I do not claim to be skilled at physical labor. I do not claim to be a man. I am a woman. I am greatly respected, as all the women are. I am feminine; my hands and voice are soft. It’s what I do with them that make them strong.
I am the leader of the tribe.
THE SHAMAN
Michaela Brown