Voice

Philip, my husband, gently massages the knot in my shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Turning, I kiss him on the lips. “Of course.”

My daughter is playing with her grandmother, talking gibberish. This is for her future as much as it is for mine. She will be more than a housewife.

I grab my banner, walk out the door and join the parade of women marching down “Fifth Avenue.”

It may not happen today or tomorrow, but we will keep on going until we’re equal.

With Philip smiling and watching from the sidewalk, I feel confident our voice will be heard.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Suffrage

I clear the breakfast plates as a dutiful wife, while my husband, Robert, legs crossed, newspaper in hand, clears his throat and faces me.

“Are you seriously considering going to the parade, Grace?”

“Not considering, I’m going,” I say and slam the cabinet door, dishes rattling.

“There’s no reasoning with you,” he says and leaves the room.

I want more than keeping a home and obeying Robert’s commands. I want the freedom to choose.

I hold my head high, grab my “Women have the Right to Vote banner,” and walk out the door to Fifth Avenue to make a difference.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher