I called myself Amara Aurantia, with help I reinvented myself after my life spiralled down into a dark, dark hole. I felt kinship to the dusty Bitter Oranges that grew along the river of my failed suicide. I looked to the river for oblivion, but that path was not open to me. Even in the depths of my despair I still struggled to hold onto life; just as the small straggly, dusty Bitter Oranges struggled to grow.
I had an ordinary upbringing; the expectation was that I would go into domestic service. I did the work asked of me no more willing or unwilling than any of the other girls. I knew that sex was an expected service; I did not expect to be beaten bloody and gang raped, then thrown out with the garbage.
When I gained consciousness that is when I chose the river. The river didn’t want to take me, it spat me out as if I was worthless and my body fighting to live spewed up the water I had swallowed. I lay there as miserable as a soul could ever be and stared up at the small, hard bitter orange fruit. I felt my soul was as shrivelled and bitter as those small fruits.
I probably would have lain on that bitter ground until I shrivelled up. I had no thoughts of where my life could go from this moment the sourness of self pity and despair curdled my spirit.
A hard voice broke through my paralyzing emotions.
“Ye gonna lie all night then? Ye gonna let those bastards win?”
The word floated hazily around me; suddenly my vision was filled with the hard, wrinkled face of the Old Woman.
“Let’s get ye up then” she mumbled “they did a right number on ye, didn’t they”
She bent over holding the old gnarled stick in one hand and grabbed my arm pulling me up. My body stayed limp, I wasn’t moving. Then a globule of spit hit my face. This was insult after the injury I had received. I reared up and slapped her. Then horrified by my action I burst into tears.
“I knew ye had some gumption, seen it in ye. Don’t just cry. Get yerself up” she ordered
I struggled to my feel, hunched over with pain from the beating and hurting in places I would never have thought could hurt. I could not straighten up and could only see out of one eye, i felt blood trickling down my face and down my legs. The Old Woman bent her shoulder under my arm and clutching the gnarled stick stumped off dragging me along.
It was several days before I came to my senses. Throughout my recovery the old woman was there, pouring broth and noxious medicines into me. Soon I was able to get up from the blankets and walk unaided. I sat down by the fire, looked across at the Old Woman and asked “Why”
She replied “Ye can make a difference”
“To what, I was nothing, I am nothing” I angrily responded
“That what they want ye ta believe”
“I can’t do what they did”
“Ye don’t do what they did, ye’ll do something different”
I shook my head; this was giving me a headache.
“What something different can I do?
“Change the world” she replied
That was the beginning for me, the place where I reinvented myself. I learnt skills I never thought I was capable of; I struggled to become all I could be physically, mentally and spiritually. For years I was taught by all the old women, me and other damaged women. We are the vanguard for a changing world. We are The Sisterhood and we are now ready to take on the Patriarchy.
