The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

Samantha isn’t eating yet. She’s staring at Grandmary, who lays her napkin in her lap and then picks up her spoon. As she lifts the spoon, I see others reach for theirs. That’s my cue. I choose the largest spoon before me and dip it into my soup. As we eat, I try to follow Samantha’s lead, afraid there might be other unspoken dinnertime rules that I don’t know about. I take small sips of soup and listen to Mrs. Ryland tell Grandmary about a recent trip she took to the city.

Mrs. Ryland says they steered clear of Madison Square Park. The suffragists were making a spectacle of themselves, hoisting signs and carrying on. I don’t know what the word “suffragist” means. I fight the urge to raise my hand and instead, I ask politely what it means. Mrs. Ryland says it’s a person who believes that women should have the right to vote in political elections, just like men do. It’s nonsense.

I flash back to the last presidential election. My mother didn’t just vote, she plastered her car with bumper stickers and carried signs supporting our favorite candidate. Sometimes it was embarrassing, but when our candidate won, I was proud of my mom. I felt as if she made a difference. What if someone had told my mom she couldn’t vote? What if I would never be able to help decide who would hold some of the most important jobs in the country?