The more a daughter knows the details of her mother’s life-without flinching or whining-the stronger the daughter. Wistful silences demonstrate unfinished business. Stories about food show a strong connection. If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully. Had I been asked to speak of it, I would have begun with the story of the generation that raised me, which is the only place to begin. Nothing remained except a few mangled details about those weeks in Shechem. No one recalled my skill as a midwife, or the songs I sang, or the bread I baked for my insatiable brothers.

Maybe you heard it in the music of my name: the first vowel high and clear, as when a mother calls to her child at dusk the second sound soft, for whispering secrets on pillows. Maybe you guessed that there was more to me than the voiceless cipher in the text. It’s a wonder that any mother ever called a daughter Dinah again. Near the beginning of your holy book, there is a passage that seems to say I was raped and continues with the bloody tale of how my honor was avenged. On those rare occasions when I was remembered, it was as a victim. That is why I became a footnote, my story a brief detour between the well-known history of my father, Jacob, and the celebrated chronicle of Joseph, my brother. The chain connecting mother to daughter was broken and the word passed to the keeping of men, who had no way of knowing. We have been lost to each other for so long.

The red tent author diamant