Hands of Matriarchy

My hands,
are my mothers,
are my grandmother’s,
are my great-grandmother’s,
are my matriarchy.

My hands are scarred from clumsiness,
curiosity embedded in fingerprints,
and my fingers twitch with excitement as they dance on a laptop keyboard,
spoken words first written,
and my hands already know how to form stories into legends.

Like a paradox,
my hands have created beauty in wonderlands of aspirations,
and they have ripped apart daydreams of peace.

I often wonder if my hands feel remorse and sorrow,
question whether or not they deserve forgiveness,
and if they feel joy and gratitude when given the chance to rebuild what was unmade.

My hands,
are my mother’s hands,
and they whisper about her lineage.

My mother’s hands know rough soil,
dirt under nails whisper about,
the grime from the time she spent as a marching soldier,
before the palm of her hands understood what it meant to hold love,
instead of holding a gun.

My mother’s hands have protected and nurtured the blood in her veins,
and I often wonder what it’s like to be the callouses on her fingers as she beads,
and how often does she ponder about the grief?

My mother’s hands,
are my grandmother’s hands,
and they speak about her upbringing.

My grandmother’s hands are soft,
wrinkled fingertips, smudged,
with age spots sprinkled on smooth skin,
and memories of her mother’s hands reflect like a mirror right back at her.

My grandmother’s hands have planted gardens,
harvested cherry tomatoes and dill.

They’ve planted trees and dreams that provide me with shade and sanctity,
her hands have baked bread and sliced cake,
and they’ve written our language into lesson plans in an attempt to revitalize the voice of her mothers.

My grandmother’s hands,
are my great-grandmother’s,
and they pray about a sanctuary.

My great-grandmother’s hands are always warm from the wood stove,
and quiver with decades of stories aching to be told.

Her fingerprints are faded, and I wonder if they sleep in the star quilts she’s made,
wrapped themselves in her patience and love for her community,
before arthritis made it hard for her to create.

My great-grandmother’s hands have raised chickens and nurtured her family of eight,
they’ve baked gabubu and frybread during cold winter days,
and they’ve carried her through sorrow and grief.

My hands
are my mother’s hands,
are my grandmother’s hands,
are my great-grandmother’s hands,
are my matriarchy.

Pte San Win Little Whiteman is a student at Oglala Lakota College.