The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

Samantha isn’t eating yet, watching Grandmary lay her napkin in her lap before lifting her spoon, and only then does everyone else reach for theirs. Taking the cue, I pick the largest spoon and dip it in, following her lead carefully through the meal, wary of more unspoken rules, sipping slowly and carefully while Mrs. Ryland describes a recent trip to the city.

They steered clear of Madison Square Park, Mrs. Ryland says, the suffragists making a spectacle of themselves with their signs. I don’t know the word and ask politely what it means. Someone who believes women should vote in elections, just like men, Mrs. Ryland explains, dismissing it as nonsense with a wave of her hand.

I think back to the last presidential election, when Mom covered her car in bumper stickers and carried signs for our candidate, occasionally embarrassing but proud, too, when he won, like she’d truly made a difference. What if someone had told her she couldn’t vote at all? What if I never got a say in who held the country’s most important jobs? The idea seems unthinkable now.