Hello readers, this is Connie Palmer writing the
blog this month, and I’ve got a gripe a lot of folks won’t agree with, but I
don’t care. I want to know when did I become a matriarch. According
to some of my relatives that’s what I am, the family matriarch, and I don’t
like it.
I want to know where it is written that the
oldest woman in a family all of a sudden becomes a “matriarch”. What
does that mean anyway? I guess since I managed to live to be in my
sixties all of a sudden everyone can come dump their problems on me?
Oh, I guess it’s suppose to be an honor being
the one who has lived so long that people come to you for your advice and
wisdom. Really? Age and wisdom in America are hardly
respected, especially when it comes to women.
I don’t mind my four kids calling me once in a
while to ask for some advice or to see what I might think about
something, I call that mothering. But all of a sudden some of my
cousins are calling and telling me their problems under the guise of this
matriarch mess. Hell! I haven’t seen some of these people in
so long I don’t remember what they look like, and all of a sudden I’m the head
of the extended family? I didn’t run for
that office and nobody elected me.
I’ve always been a person who minded my own
business, and I expect others to do the same. I’m not comfortable advising
others about what they should do in their lives. If my advice blows
up in their faces, guess who gets the
blame. Uh huh, you guessed it—me.
I can’t do anything about my age, and I don’t
want to. I’m glad that I’m still around. I’ve found peace
in my life now and I don’t want it disturbed by being a “matriarch.’ No thank
you. No matriarch for me.
