I talk with my hands: my PhD supervisor commented on this regularly. When I think out loud, when I talk, my hands draw pictures in support.
A few years back, I found myself behind a person who had hearing loss in a queue at the supermarket. She was talking to her friend, several lanes away, their words signed clearly across the intervening space, untroubled by noise. It was like watching magic at work. I cannot speak so clearly with mine, except perhaps via pens and keyboards.
Hands that clean and cook, hold, caress the cats, embroider, empty washing machines, carry bags and cups and trays. Hands that work.
I am looking at my hands.
My hands translate my words, but my words --written down, held between covers, on screens -- are silent unless looked at. My words can be ignored or not, as each individual chooses. My words can be judged, read or unread. "I don't read books by women." "I only have time for important books." "I don't like that kind of thing." Everyone has a right to choose what they read. But choices come with baggage. Choices are framed by societal definitions of importance and significance and value, by prejudice and bigotry, privilege and position. "I don't read books by women." My words are qualified in their value by my race and class and gender and age and sexuality. My words are only welcome sometimes. And as I age, the requirements pile up. Work in silence, do not be seen, do not ask to be seen. The weight of them loads my wrists and fingers, makes it ever harder to write my words, my words that do not deserve to be seen.
I am looking at my hands, that carry trays and sign chits, put up signs and make hot drinks, my hands that serve others, have served others, year after year, at work, at home, at cons.
My body, these days, is for hiding, as is considered proper in our culture for older women. No-one wants to look at *that*. My written words are judged, by some, by my age and appearance. They don't need to read me to know what I think, for older women are a uniform class. Our bodies, like our words, are not worthy.
My hands, though. My hands are always welcome, as long as they serve. As long as they work for others. My hands and the hands of so many other older women. My hands carrying trays in Green Room. Older women's hands looking after grandchildren and paying for teen children's treats; cleaning up after spills and administering comfort in conflicts. Caring for the sick, the young, the old, doing the background work, silently, silently, silently.
Our hands over our mouths, knowing our place.
Skirt of the day: blue batik print.