By Dalia J. Llera Ed.D., Dolita Cathcart Ph.D., Eleanor Roffman Ed.D.

Conflict, terrorism and discrimination impact the lives of ladies and their households around the globe. it is usually as much as ladies to create and re-create secure houses inside themselves, households and groups. Crossing Borders, Making houses: tales of Resilient ladies is a set of narratives that illustrate the resilience, get to the bottom of and energy of girls. The members are a racially and ethnically different crew of overseas and native-born ladies who've crossed literal and figurative borders of their fight for empowerment, social justice and peace. a massive a part of every one woman’s tale is the dedication to creating optimistic switch in neighborhood and international groups. The women’s resilience and their dedication to social justice serves as concept to readers in all places.

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He and his dad had been in constant debate with the railroad company to keep up their side of the fence that stretched over the flat space between the butte of the river and the pasture of the Duffy Place. They’d called the company and had been told it would be fixed time and time again. My grandfather had patched it the best he could, stringing extra barbed wire and weaving the holes with thick limbs. He even tied pie pans to the weak spots to scare off the curious steers. But it had not worked, and now, with the river swimming with cattle OUR SACRIFICIAL CALVES 25 remains, my father saw his dreams sinking in the dark river as well.

He smiled and told my mother he’d just eat something out of the machines at the factory, as he fired the truck up again, a cue that we were to get out. I watched his truck disappear over a hill in the lane, the motor rapping, and the tiny trophy at my hip. I’ve often wondered what went through his head that afternoon, driving from the farm to the factory, the notion that his son had won something for a commodity he conserved with the utmost frugality. I do recall what I was thinking. As I sat alone in my room, clutching my little trophy and rereading the sections I’d written, my mother downstairs cooking up a big supper, I felt, for the first time in my life, a calling, the sense that I’d been put together for some specific reason, some work that wouldn’t involve just my weak body.

The old man came back with a shovel and a gunnysack. I was so tired I thought I could climb into the shallow grave with the baby calf and sleep forever, but there was something so familiar about my feelings. It was a story my father had told me about cattle. · · · In the fall of 1965, three years before I was born, Dan and Doris Crandell were not yet thirty. They lived with their three children, Derrick, Darren, and Dina, on a cash-rented farm called the Duffy Place. The couple had not yet managed to grab the slithering tail of their dream of farm ownership, but they were feeling hopeful.

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