The Feminist Monologues: III

An empty stage.  One spotlight.  A woman steps into the spotlight, adjusts her glasses, speaks.

I am a daughter.

A sister, too, but primarily a daughter.  Since I was a child, I have felt responsible for my mother's happiness.  When you are the firstborn daughter of immigrants, you have a special bond with your mother.  You feel her pain, understand her sorrows, and you want to do all you can to make her life better.  You take her side when it's your brother you hurts her.

I am a daughter.

A friend, too, but primarily a daughter.  When friends of mine started coming of age and making their own decisions, I still cared way too much about my mother's opinion.  I never went away to do my own thing without leaving half of my heart behind at home with my mother.  I could never really leave, you see, without looking back.

I am a daughter.

A student, too, but primarily a daughter.  I tended to do well in school and had fleeting aspirations of academic greatness.  But I never applied to my dream school, never really "went for it."  It was always more important to me that family come first.  What would I be if I achieved my goals, but at the expense of family?  Many things, but not the daughter I wanted to be.

I am a daughter.

A lover, too, but primarily a daughter.  I have loved many men, and many men have loved me.  But never to the point where I turned my back on my mother's feelings.  I understand that my personal happiness is always tied in with how I fit into my family.  Yes, I often do what I please.  Yes, I say "no" to my mother as often as I say "yes."

But I always do so as a daughter.  A daughter-friend, a daughter-woman, a daughter-feminist.

Lights fade.