I did not drop out of the sky.

Before my professional camera status, the fledgling photographer lived intertwined with the creative writer. However, that was in my young adulthood. Prior to that I was surrounded, loved, and nurtured WITHIN and behind the stage, music and film industry. Watching, learning how to navigate and create something out of absolutely nothing but a dream, and idea or a cord. Personas were who we believed we were- what we showed for “entertainment” but also who we were deep inside, and how we presented.

During that creative writing phase. I could not help but go back to how I AND IT ALL came to be. What power- if any led me, because I felt that so strongly. Even at a young age. I felt that the universe and that power let me explore-

So in one darkness of time, in one moment that a door opened and I stepped in, I met my beginnings.

CORNFIELDS-1933

IN THE VILLAGE OF CELAYA, MEXICO, THE

WOMEN WOULD BLEED THEMSELVES A SLOW DEATH. RIPPING THEIR FINGERS,

HANDS, AND THEIR HEART S. SWEATING BEADS

OF GOLD, WITH CALLOUSED HANDS, AND FINGER-

YELLOWED BY THE CORN, THE SUN, AND

THEIR YEARS.

MY GRANDMOTHER WAS ONE OF THESE

WOMEN. BUDDING WITH CHILD IN HER PLUMP

SWOLLEN WORB, SHE SANG A HEAVY SONG IN HER

HEART. AND SHE SANG HARD, LIKE THE CONTRACTIONS

BETWEEN THE ROWS OF CORN, AND HER LEGS.

AND BECAUSE THE WOMEN OF THAT TIME KNEW

NOTHING OF PAIN KILLERS. AS THEIR WOMBS

WERE ALREADY NUMB FROM YEARS OF LONG, HARD

LABORS. SHE SQUATTED, CLUTCHING

THE LONG SHAFTS OF CORN IN HER FISTS. SPILLING HER

BLOOD , AND PUMPING HER WOMANLY WATER

DEEP, INTO THE GENERATIONS OF BLACK

SOIL. AND WHEN SHE HAD TO SUCK THE MUCUS

FROM THE INFANT’S MOUTH, HER WIND CHAPPED LIPS

MADE THEM BLEED.

JUST THEN ANOTHER WOMAN CAME

UP TO HER, WIPING HER BROW WITH HER

SLEEVE, AND SEVERED THE INFANT FROM IT’S MOTHER'S

FERTILE VEINS. AS SHE TIED THE CORD WITH

THE YELLOW STRANDS PULLED FROM HER FINGERS, THE INFANT’S

CRIMSON LIQUID STAINED THE PALM OF HER HANDS.

THEN SHE SWALLED THE SCREAMING CHILD BETWEEN

ITS MOTHER’S MILKING BREASTS.

IN THE VILLAGE OF CELAYA, MEXICO, BETWEEN RIVERS

OF TEARS AND SWEAT. THESE WOMEN WOULD

BLEED THEMSELVES A SLOW DEALTH.

MIA ADMIRE-Published 2000 & Foliate Oak & 2021 poems (worldwide).

This is my genes, my grandmother when I met her at the age of nine. I saw those bleeding hands, and chapped lips of motherhood stressed and strained in those rows of corn that were as far as the eye could see.

She walked always like there was a job to do , hard and unforgiving to the earth beneath her feet. Seemingly lacking all the western feminine qualities I was familiar with-even at nine. I marveled at her stature-sure and strong- not delicate and her raven hair wrapped her back like a blanket of security-yet her eyes were tired and hard from the sun and decades of denied acceptance that was her fate.

I had a moment of wonder, trying to imagine how my own mother could be birthed into this space. When all I knew was the glamour and gowns of Hollywood and fame. Somehow my own mother became out of this.

Perhaps it was to overcome or showcase that strength in the redundancy of being a woman in 1933 old Mexico. I do not know. But I know this, that there was and always has been an empowerment in my maternal line that goes back to a sacred time. Barley tapped, barley beating, but strong like steel.

I am happy to have met it. I felt it. I learned & embodied it.

My parents/circa 1954-55