Suffragette Salad?

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Suffragette Salad?

I used what was part bathroon, part hallway then sat down in a chair there. The door opened a bit later and in walked a young woman from Mauritius. She’d just arrived. Her mother and a young man who was like a brother to her walked in with her. She was so excited to be there, to learn, to finally become a pastor. 

By the time I talked with her, the room had filled up with many more women. One asked if I knew how to draw. As we talked, I realized how awful my outfit was–long sleeved long maroon knit top, long maroon knit flowy skirt, black leggings. I left for a moment to remove the skirt. 

Frump-free, I returned to what was now a  Seminary classroom filled with women. It’s not that there were no other available rooms; I think my dream was just being efficient, not oddly marginalizing.

Just before I woke up, we were having potluck and a fellow classmate offered me what she called a “Suffragette Salad.” All it contained was chopped Romaine lettuce. 
The end. 

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