I went home over spring break. It was about as exciting as that sentence was. On the Thursday during break, I spent the entire afternoon cooking the traditional Irish meal of corned beef and cabbage with carrots and red potatoes. St. Patrick’s Day wouldn’t be until the following Friday, but I wanted to share the meal with my mom, and I wanted her to pay for it too.
I suggested that we make a visit to my nana, who lives about an hour away in Florissant, Missouri, and bring her some of the food. I thought it would be nice to share it with her too, but I felt the need to ask her a few questions. I wanted to know why she is so interested in Native American culture.
My nana once made me a dreamcatcher, one with colorful patterned beads and several fluffy feathers that look like they were hand plucked. I still hang this emblem near my bed, not because I think it works in the way it’s supposed to, but because it reminds me of her. She also sends out holiday cards at the beginning of each month, just to get it out of the way in case she forgets, but no matter the holiday, the cards always feature a picture or painting of wildlife and include a tribute to a Catholic saint. She signs each of these cards “Nana in the woods.”
When I was a kid, my nana, Kathleen Tankersley, lived in a cabin just outside of Arcadia, Missouri in the Mark Twain National Forest. I only visited a few times over the years but I remember it very distinctly. On one side of the stilted cabin, there was a garden with lots of different vegetables and a small coop that housed chickens and rabbits. There was a path on the other side that led down to a very secluded lake. She also owned a large black lab named Oso, who would follow you around everywhere you went outside. She doesn’t live in the woods anymore, but she still signs her cards “Nana in the woods.”
As I was munching on the meal I had just prepared, my mom called me and told me she wasn’t feeling up to the drive to Florissant. I was upset but I still needed to ask my nana about her Native American affinity, so I gave her a quick call.
“My grandma was Native American,” she said. “Her name was Margaret and she was full blooded from the Osage tribe in Missouri. I just really looked up to her. Do you remember my house out in the woods? I liked to grow peas, corn and squash out there.”
I was reminded of my nana and this night while deciding how to write a column on Women’s History Month. It’s always hard for me to find a topic about women that is relatively anti-inflammatory and uncontroversial to talk about during this month. I guess that’s not really a reflection of my research skills, but the fault of the media that only focuses on the small kindling that starts the forest fire and not the huge swath of towering oaks and budding redbuds that grow there.
I think if we focused only on disagreements and divisiveness this month, we would really be doing our fore-mothers a huge disservice. These issues like equal pay and abortion are valid topics and are one part of women’s history, but in the process of shouting over one another, we forget about the stories, the contributions and the women themselves who made such a huge impact on American culture.
Women have been subjugated and forgotten for the majority of known history, and this is a month when we can honor what they did accomplish even while pinned down under the hand of the patriarchy.
Before today, few people knew who my nana is, and now a few more will know her name from this column. She didn’t invent anything nor is she a political leader, but she is one of the kindest and most unconditionally caring women I know.
Kay Tankersley is just as much a part of the collective history of women as Elizabeth Cady Stanton or Cecile Richards.
So are your mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers and great-great-grandmothers. See the forest for the trees. Call your granny or mee-maw and tell her how much you appreciate her and what she’s done for your family. She is strong and valuable, and she loves you very much.
