Dear Blank
I am writing this under much duress, as I believe my husband has discovered my first drafts.
Those under my real name.
As of writing, I am using a pseudonym to tell you this.
I implore you not to tell a single soul of who I am, or rather, what I am.
Behind my poetries and published books, please, always assume that I am a man.
Under candlelit secrecy, I have been learning — reading books such as The Republic by Plato,
studying on the politics of our city, sharpening my will and determination to write within the four corners of my dark basement,
where the light from the dusty window dimly illuminates the old table that bore witness to the days I feverishly recorded my down my ideas on piles of papers like prayers.
I read a book once.
“A woman’s brain interferes with her womb,” it stated.
But why?
Is it really a sin for us to use our brains?
How can we not use our God-given gift?
How can they minimize our value?
But I knew deep down, that if I dared write my name and revealed what I am,
their criticisms would be beyond unfair, and my works might not be published.
If I were to reveal myself.
And in every lifetime I know I was born a woman, our oppression needn’t rhyme nor reason.
Even words on parchment were not safe.
As years passed by, women’s works were hardly recognized.
And you can’t help but wonder –
How many women’s works and achievements in history were erased
for simply being born as they are?
As women?
How many women, Hypatia, Sapho, and before them, were forgotten just because they used their minds?
How many women hid behind pseudonyms for their legacies to be acknowledged?
As I look on my piles of papers, no matter how good my ideas were, I know that
the world will find a way to snuff me out.
My papers, my books, my legacy — May all be lost to time.
I may even pass on without the legacy of my ideas attached to my name.
My real name.
But I know, even if history forgotten my existence,
There is one thing they cannot deny;
That even if my writings may be lost,
my ideas faded,
my name obscured to time —
my memory will never die.
–Mysterious writer
