The women of my family taught me
 to smile, but not with my teeth
 they taught me to smile with my eyes
 no matter how tall
 to never look down
 no matter how difficult the challenge
 to never look away
 they taught me how to choose fruit
 and how to choose friends,
 oddly enough a common rule 
 of never judging by looks alone
 they told me about staying quiet
 but they spent years having their voices
 hushed
 suppressed
 choked
 put a lid on 
 they taught me and now 
 I carry their breath
 I carry their screams 
 I carry the words they were never allowed to say
 and everything they were never allowed to dream
 they taught me how to whisper
 louder than how to yell and 
 they never taught me how to put a lid on.