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Aminata
Cisse, Midwood High School
First Place Winner, Barnard/CBS Essay Contest
The
Woman I Admire Most
She
wipes the sweat from her brow as she paces back and forth
from the ancient armoire. Her eyes remain alert as they scrutinize
every aspect of the water-stained walls of her bedroom. She
adjusts everything in her way, uttering complaints in a tone
that no language barrier can disguise. The heat intensifies
her state of unrest. The lack of rain wears on her being;
she is worried about the harvest.
Kuumbaa Tiam, my paternal grandmother, has lived for approximately
65 years. Her skin, like the reddish brown earth outside,
has been darkened by the sun. Standing over 6 feet, she doesn’t
fit the familiar model of the petite grandmother. Her intelligent
eyes simultaneously reflect pain and strength. She has borne
ten children and has outlived three. As the matriarch and
senior wife, she is given the respect of her station.
Far away in the West African country of Senegal is where my
grandparents live. One hour away from all electrical wonders,
my family has resided in the village of Diossong for over
130 years. The twenty or so huts that make up the village
are surrounded by acres of cassava plants and peanut bushes.
The livelihood of Diossong’s inhabitants rests in its
crops and its religion. It is late summer and the once-emerald
fields have turned a brittle brown. The Saharan winds, blowing
from the north, bring piles of stifling sand with them in
an effort to extinguish all life. As the fields wither around
her, my grandmother is left with nothing more than her daily
prayers. No one internalizes the suffering of the land more
than she.
I stand in awe of her. Born in a place and time where women
are relegated to a lower status, she has disavowed the passivity
fated for women of her culture and religion. She is pious,
but hasn’t compromised her God-given nature to be strong-willed
and outspoken. For over 45 years, she has endured my grandfather’s
philandering (albeit legal). He has married and divorced three
of the five wives he has taken, in addition to her, over the
years. She has stood as the pillar of financial support for
the family, going into cow herding when my grandfather couldn’t
provide for her and their children.
She has no education: she can’t read and write. I hear
her thoughts through the inept translation of a cousin, speaking
fledgling English, but where her words fall short her demeanor
comes through clearly. She has never been and never will be
cowed. She coddles her grandchildren and laughs with her daughters-in-law
as they prepare the evening meal. When she has to, her tongue
cuts deeply; her hands dismiss and nullify speech. Outside,
nature fights her but she doesn’t bend. She prays for
rain.
She has been a daughter, a mother, a sister, a wife, now a
grandmother, yet she has always remained—defiant, bombastic—just
like the red earth. My grandmother has lived her life with
few material resources or comforts but in her presence one
can see she has mined the deepest areas of human strength
and dignity.
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