Worshiping a woman came very naturally to us. After all, my family is a
matriarcado—a matriarchy. My sister and I grew up in the Dominican Republic
with our mother, Mami, a teacher who held multiple side jobs to make ends meet.
She was smart, ambitious, and always with a plan: to do better,
to make more money, to help other women.
Perhaps
she inherited this drive from my grandmother, Carmela, who worked as a
seamstress and was known for feeding everyone in the neighborhood. I never met
my grandmother—she died after giving birth to her ninth child, when my mother
was only seven—but I knew her through Mami’s stories. My mother spoke of her
kindness, her creativity, and her vibrant spirit. Making was her gift. I know
she would have loved to see us creating too.
I’m sure
mi abuela was all the things I heard growing up, but I often wonder what made
her sad, what worried her. As I understand it, she had nine children by the age
of thirty-three; I can only imagine the toll that childbearing must have taken
on her body. In my opinion, she deserves a place on the altar of our ancestras
because she endured at a time when women couldn’t complain about their fate. I
hope she was happy and I hope she is proud of us. Judging by the stories I've
heard, abuela made the most of what she had and being creative was a big part
of what brought her joy.
My
grandmother was worshiped like a saint in our home. Mami kept her picture on
the wall, surrounded by candles and flowers—an altar in her honor. We talked to
her as if she were still there. My sister and I learned to love the woman on
the wall and everything we learned about her: that she was kind and beautiful,
talented and witty. She had seven daughters and two boys, she sewed, cooked,
and made-up songs. She loved fresh flowers and made bouquets to put on her
altar and around the house; she made curtains and dresses for her daughters. My
mother spoke of her with reverence, and we adored her completely.
The
altar has always been a presence in our home, a place of comfort, remembrance,
and connection to our dead. It is a space of trust, a portal where prayers are
received and answered, a place where love lives beyond the physical. Lighting a
candle is more than a ritual; it is a tradition rooted in faith—a way to honor
both our ancestras and the future ones. Mostly everyone in my mom’s part of the
family has an altar in their house with pictures of our loved ones. A place to
slow down and be present.
I
remember when Mami lost her teaching job and decided to open a school for women
in our living room. We moved the little furniture we had to make room for
students, who brought their own chairs if they wished. She called the school
Centro de Capacitación Femenina HELCA, an acronym for Helen (my sister) and
Carol (my middle name). She taught women sewing, knitting, macramé,
etiquette—everything you could think of. It was an afternoon school, and my
sister was her right hand, helping Mami with everything while learning too. I
was more of an observer, creating dialogues in my head as I picked up fabric
scraps from the floor.
The
school made space for women to be creative, to learn a craft that could earn
them income. It was a space for gathering and taking care of each other. Women
in our family are the light bearers—the creators of paths for themselves and
others. We were taught two things consistently: to have faith and to be
creative. When I think about this, it becomes so clear that these things go
hand in hand. Creating is an act of faith. You first have to imagen that
something is possible, a painting, a poem. Then you act on it, the act of
creating is faith accomplished.
I
realize now that my mother’s school for women, in the middle of our tiny living
room, was her way of coping with a situation that was grim and hopeless.
Instead of giving up, she created a space for women to create—to learn a craft.
By being of service, she was also taking care of herself. Creating was a ritual
that didn’t have to be explained or understood as a title; it was simply what
we did.
My mom
never called herself an artist; none of us did. When something is so close to
you, it doesn’t need to be named to exist, it just is.
Art was
a spiritual practice, and worshiping a woman came naturally to us because it
was never really worship, it was gratitude. Gratitude for the women who created,
who endured, who taught us to pray and to make something out of nothing. The
altar is only a mirror of what already lives in us: a faith in women, passed
down like a secret blessing.
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