Grandma Green

My great great great great Grandma Green was a whore, no really. She was a notorious whore who trailed along with the menfolk on the cattle runs during Florida’s Frontier days. So when this guy first started calling me Grandma Green I told him not to. Being referred to as Grandma anything had a chilling effect on me. I felt like I would surely never have sex again. But then I thought about it, and I settled into the idea of walking around, wearing the badge of my great great great great Grandma Green, whose DNA runs in my blood, who was a whore. A notorious one. The Orlando Sentinel ran a historical piece on Florida’s early history focused on my great great great great Grandma Green. She has a swamp named after her. I know, a swamp, who wants a swamp, but in the real estate of the mid-1800’s if you were gonna have something named after you in Florida of any repute it was going to be a swamp. My grandma told me that Grandma Green was an Indian princess, which I bought growing up. She might have been, an escaped Indian princess riding cattlemen across the state. My grandma says that’s where she got her dark brown eyes, nearly black like ink, from her little indian grandma. But what the Orlando Sentinel uncovered was that Grandma Green had been famous for her hospitality, that she had accrued the largest fine for prostitution ever meted down by the State of Florida, even to this very day, even accounting for inflation. No whore has ever been as big a whore as my great great great great Grandma Green and I have her DNA in my blood. The older generation was appalled, yellow journalism, lies and slander. Grandma Green was a strong independent woman, they’d say. Grandma Green was a good, god-fearing woman. So was the woman at the well. But I say, how do you think a woman got to be independent back in those days? What kind of woman would even be allowed by a husband, an uncle, a father, a brother, to ride the cattle trails. The kind of woman who didn’t have to ask for permission. A woman of the night, a woman of independent means. Don’t cry for me Argentina, there is no shame in a woman using her power to gain her own freedom, even if it’s just the freedom to wander about the wilderness, talking to cows all day, eating and drinking and laughing around a campfire until one of the men clicks his tongue at you and invites you back to his tent to look at the stars.


About audreyryan

semi-pro rogue theatre critic
This entry was posted in 12 minute writings, my partially fictionalized life and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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