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I was just seven years old when I received my weapon. It is a rite of passage for every person who walks this Earth. There are few rules, and hardly ever understood if there are, but yet, still an aspect of identity.
My mother wielded a beautiful double-handed broadsword, a true sight to behold. She spoke often of her youth, and how she overcame adversity and proved others wrong with her strength and drive.
My father, however, carried a simple bow and arrow. He was never that good at aiming, as was the irony of his gift. It did not matter much, he was never one for fighting.
My classmates had already begun to find their weapons and blades. They came as a trick of the light, one moment their hands were empty and another they held a shield or ax. For every young child, once they find their strength, their weapon shall appear to them.
The first boy to hold his own was granted a short sword, in which the other children gasped and stared at with wonder and awe. He was overshadowed by the next girl to find her lovely, bejeweled daggers. She held them proudly to her friends, who appreciated the shining gems and delicately crafted gold and silver.
The rest came in gradually. Some got swords, others axes, shields, or bows. I saw a few spears and daggers, but I had yet to find my own.
I dreamed of a gleaming sword like my mother’s, or an expertly crafted bow made of dark wood and string. My family wondered if I would get a weathered battle mace like my grandfather, or two pristine daggers like my grandmother.
I sat in class every day anxiously awaiting my gift. All the other students had their weapons leaning against their desks, and I was beginning to collect many ogling stares as time went on. My hands remained empty.
One day, after I reached into my desk to grab my free reading book, I looked up to see a feather, one that wasn’t there before. Glancing around, I wondered who had put it there.
The first time I touched it, I knew. It was meant to be for me. Mottled with brown and larger than my own hand, it belonged to no bird, no creature that ever lived before. It was mine.
I cradled it in my hands, admiring the soft fibers. My teacher looked at me from her seat, her brows furrowed. Mine were too.
This was it? This was the weapon bestowed upon me to wield for the rest of my living days? This can’t be real. I sputtered.
The other children immediately snapped to attention. It was a mixture of confusion, shock, and taunting laughter.
It's just a little feather!
Is that even a weapon?
How? Is that even possible?
Their whispers bothered my ears, and the room began to spin. My teacher silenced the classroom with her voice, telling us all to rejoice that we had all received our gifts of weaponry. No one cheered. They only stared at me, or pretended not to.
At recess, my best friend at the time offered me one of her small, retractable daggers. I refused. She reasoned that she hardly used them anyways, she did not want to. I adored her, but her strength is not mine.
The girl with the bejeweled, ornate daggers, as well as her friends, came up to me then. They jokingly asked to spar. I hid my feather away in my coat. They told me I had no strength, no reason to be proud. Just imagine how disappointing this would be for my family, they said. A feather? How stupid.
Tears burned in my eyes. I was just a kid. I didn’t know what any of this meant, and I did not realize my true spark just yet.
All I knew was that I was angry. Angrier than I had ever been before, burning and erupting from my tightened chest. Mad at myself, mad at the world, I threw the first punch. The only one I've ever thrown.
We toppled to the ground. She reached her hand into my chest, where I assumed she meant to stab me, but she didn’t. I flinched away, expecting to see blood pouring out a wound, but all I saw was my feather in her hands. I gasped, a pitiful cry escaping me as well as a tearful protest.
I watched as she ran away, cackling. She broke it in two, and then two again. If her friends were not holding me back I would have hurt her, I knew it. My feather was in several scattered pieces, and the wind carried them aloft. I was let go only to chase after the mottled debris in vain. I watched as it all flew away. And then I watched no more, my eyes too full of tears to see clearly. I shook and cried the rest of the day. My chest ached horribly, but that didn’t stop me from crying more.
My parents were called, and they wept for me too. My mother brought her broadsword, something she hardly did unless she needed it. Today it was to defend my honor and demand retribution for this horrid action. A weapon is a gift to be cherished, and any who threaten that need to be punished, no matter what form that weapon takes.
My father was simply sad that he never got to see it. His bow was slung awkwardly on his shoulders, as it usually was, contrasting the magnificent weapon of my mother’s. I would come to see later that my mother was disappointed in my gift, but she didn’t let herself show it right then.
I lived the next few years defenseless save for my fists, teeth, and mind. Anyone who dared to harm me felt my wrath, they would learn never to threaten someone who had nothing to lose. As much as I gnashed and sneered, I always missed my mark. I never wanted to lash out, but I felt as if I had no choice.
That tactic only worked some of the time. My mother convinced me to take her broadsword when I was twelve. It would make her family thrilled, but I was still mistreated nonetheless. I could never wield such a grand blade, sometimes I could scarcely carry it, much less wield it. It was never meant for my arms.
The weight of this sword lay heavy on my shoulders and my heart as I grew older. What saved me was the fact that once in a while I dealt a heavy, skillful blow, but those moments were few and far between. My mother still believed I could do it, but it felt wrong. The flawless weapon felt more like shackles on my feet.
Once, in eighth grade, I left the sword at home. I told my classmates that my weapon had returned, this time two daggers. Common for a woman. I had bought them from a second-hand store. They believed it, or at least some of them did, and I had peace for a while.
The sword lay under my bed, and one day, my mother found it. She was enraged that I did not appreciate her gift. I tried to explain that her weapon was too heavy, it was not meant for me. Stubborn as we both were, we never agreed. She thought one day I would be strong enough to take her sword, but I was convinced that my weapon would reappear. And why would you wait for a feather? She would ask me. Because at least it would be mine.
I didn't care that it was a feather, I just wanted to have something to hold, like I did all those years ago at my desk, a free reading book in my other hand.
I was not the only child to wield a parent’s weapon. Losing a gift like that does happen to forgetful children, as does theft to those unaware. But my mother’s sword was too much for me. I wanted to tell her I was tired of the stares, of the embarrassment. I just wanted my own strength to be the one I brandished, if I had one at all.
Alas, not all life was pain. I joined sports to gain friends and perhaps finally find my strength. I loved the rhythm and the chance to improve my skills. I was always jagged and funny-looking, I was slow to grow into my tall, strong form.
Some friends told me they lost their weapons too, and it was alright to fake strength. One beloved friend, with a carved bow, was trusted enough to know my secret as well. That not only was my weapon lost, but it was a feather, of all things. She promised to guard me, not because she got anything in return, but because she wanted to. Others taught me their skills, lent me their strengths. I handled bows, shields, swords, even scimitars, a rapier from my aunt, and a cutlass once, but never saw a feather.
All my life I searched for those who had feathers. I found none.
One boy, who carried a simple sword, caught my eye in particular. We had a habit of sparring. He was one to convince others that his blade was longer than it truly was. I saw through him, and I thought I felt a part of myself. I trusted him with my secret. What's worse, I loved him.
He saw that I was unarmed, with merely a facade of daggers to distract from my glaring weaknesses. I thought I could trust him, and I was wrong. The boy cut me deeper than anyone had before.
I bled and bled, the red mass spread to the carpet. And I had let him do it due to my own failure to recognize his true shortcomings. I should have foreseen it. Foolish girl, my mother said, foolish to love without a means to defend yourself, what did you think would happen? He is a boy, of all things. Born to destroy.
I stopped carrying daggers then. I let everyone break me if they wanted to. At this point, hardly anyone cared. I was a ghost within my home, my school. When I saw the boy that hurt me so deep, I shied away in fear. A part of me still loved him. A part of me so weak, so helpless.
My mother wanted me to carry the broadsword again, but I refused. I told her that I was not her, and her weapon was not mine. I could never be her, fight and win as she had, and there was nothing wrong with that.
We continued to argue, often about petty things. I always ended up crying, emotional and too choked up to speak. I hated arguing with those I loved. I never wanted to fight, but ever since my feather was taken, I've felt that I must defend myself. My mother gripped her grand blade and told me my weapon would never come because I was too full of weakness, of failure, of flaw. It hurt because she was right.
She raised her blade against me that day, demanding that I toughen up and defend myself.
I was tired of this.
Tired of feeling useless, tired of starting behind the pack, I raised my arms to meet her steel, waiting for the splitting of flesh and spray of blood.
Metal clanged against metal, and I was stunned by the feeling of cold material in my hands. I opened my eyes.
What I held was a staff, pointed and sharp at one end, and the shaft wrapped with a thin leather to help with grip. The broadsword, still resting against my staff, was slowly retracted. My mother stood there in shock and in shame.
At the end of my staff that ended bluntly, there remained a strange symbol. As I looked closer, I recognized my feather. It was engraved, still soft and brown, into my staff.
Now, whenever I point the end of my staff to another, I am reminded of the soft feather and the little girl who couldn’t defend herself.
It's the unique marking to distinguish my weapon. My mother had a mountain range on her hilt, and my father a clasped hand.
My eyes stung, it had been so long since I had felt the presence of my weapon, my strength.
I was told my heart was too soft to wield anything substantial, but in my hands lay proof that my heart was too full of love to be truly defenseless. There is courage in remaining kind and soft in a world full of hate.