the year is 1920. as she steps over the threshold on the speakeasy floor, her heels click on the dirty wooden panels and even though the air is stale and the liquor is aged and the men are ancient, she feels new. On election day with her hands shaking and her heart pounding she manages to keep her head up despite the foul words overwhelming her hearing and the looks on their mustached faces not even attempting to hide their disgust for the women of suffrage. because Mrs. Catt may have cracked the dam of freedom but the floodgates will not open until man smiles at the thought of standing evenly-matched with a woman. “19”, she whispers. who knew a number could possess so much power.

the year is 1923. change wizzes like a rocket through the thoughts of our daughters creating new minds like outfits shimmering with each step towards the fashionable design of equality. because have you ever noticed rouge lips smile at cities but frown on farms and how urbanization may define a nation but without the female there is no population.

more than just pre-pinup barbies the ladies of a generation buttoned up in white collars filling the void of industry. isn’t it funny that as soon as the men step away with their guns we’re seen as mammals without mammaries and gender is no longer an excuse. who knew it was possible to  have the ability produce a child and work too?

the year is 1924. dollar signs in her eyes because for the first time her wealth is her own with divorce almost a norm. she doesn’t need a man to build her a home. flapper. a young bird learning to fly. a young woman with the world beneath her wings characterized by her short hair, her short skirt and her short temper. she doesn’t understand what’s so wrong with smoking up a room with her future already on fire lit up by endless possibilities. for the first time in her life she rebels and glasses chime like a battle cry. neither a drunkard nor a diva but nonetheless being able to claim your own elbow room at the bar calls for a celebration.

the year is 1927. as she throws her head back in a rambunctious laugh she wonders what her mother thinks of her now. if she’s heard the boys hollering from Harlem when she does the Charleston. the aging generation may call her unruly but the shine in her eyes dares them to pull out a ruler and measure her skirt. “pardon me, but i don’t seem to understand my behavior as being unladylike because if i remember correctly I am still a woman and I can be loud, proud, and embrace my femininity without you teaching me how.”

the year is 1929. sexuality rules over vulgar talk with saxophone in the back who knew jazz made such a great soundtrack to modernity. with the drop of a pill there is no need to wait for the white dress and suddenly the war on our bodies begin with big brother fastening chastity belts around our waists. Well God bless this flesh and blood that today I am lucky enough to call my own. We only pray that it lasts.

It is the 1920’s and for the first time, women reign.