Saturday, April 12, 2014



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.