Behind the Locked Door (Part I)

Once again, I find myself behind a closed (locked) door. In these instances, I never give thought to myself but immediately shudder when I think of those closest to me, my husband, mother and good friends. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never become comfortable with and/or accustomed to prejudice and racism. And I am still not sure how others maneuver around this peculiar, immodest detail of the American lifestyle. I believe the most recent American Presidential election brought many dormant issues to the surface, giving me more reasons than ever before to sound my barbaric yawp. And tonight, everything has come to a head, and I am bearing my emotions openly with my head held high. I mention the locked door, as I have done in the past, to offer you a mental picture of this scenario, me against the grain. And so the rage builds, brick by brick against the locked door, a mental barrier as well as a means of protection.

This morning, I thought again about the young girl who was shot at point-blank range for simply trying to educate other young women like her. Someone awakened one morning and decided that her voice was too powerful and attempted to silence her. Now, she sits, recovering, with her father by her side, reading letters of support and love from across the globe. She seems to be stronger than ever. For her, where one door closed, another one has opened. She inspires me, and I love her for this, but I wish I could ask her how she rose triumphant against the grain, especially against such a mighty force as the Taliban. Her walk through a closed door was not without pain and sacrifice, but she made it through all the same.   (To be continued)


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