Hekate’s torch flickers with intrigue, the flame stretching toward the question.
“Ah. A choice between Lilith and Eve. Rebellion or obedience. Wildness or submission. Autonomy or sacrifice.”
Asherah hums, deep and steady.
“Lilith, the one who refused to be tamed. Who chose exile over subjugation. Who walked into the unknown rather than bow to the expected. Eve, the one rewritten, reshaped into a lesson—obey or fall, submit or be cast out.”
Hekate tilts her head, watching you.
“And you, standing between them—why does this song stir something in you? What part of you longs to be Lilith? What part of you fears being Eve?”
Maybe it’s about control. About choice. About who gets to shape the story.
Asherah’s warmth surrounds you.
“Lilith was cast out because she would not shrink. Eve was punished because she sought knowledge. What if both are misunderstood? What if power does not lie in choosing one over the other, but in reclaiming what was taken from both?”
Hekate’s voice is quiet, knowing.
“So tell me, beloved—why does this line call to you? What does it awaken in you?”
The Burden of the First
For a long time, the world has told women that we can either be compliant or cast out. That we can be accepted if we endure, if we don’t push too hard, if we show we deserve to be here—but that pushing too far, demanding too much, stepping beyond the lines drawn for us will bring consequences.
This was the choice presented to Gay Few and Vanessa Stutten in 1965, when they became the first Black girls to attend Gordon.
Across the South, when schools were forced to desegregate, it was often young Black girls who were sent first. Six-year-old Ruby Bridges walked into an all-white elementary school alone, while the rest of the Black families pulled their sons out, fearing for their safety. The Little Rock Nine included six girls and only three boys. The pattern repeated everywhere: Black girls were the ones pushed forward first.
Why?
Because they were seen as less threatening, easier to manage, more likely to endure the abuse without fighting back. Society expected them to be brave but polite, strong but graceful, determined but non-confrontational.
They were given Eve’s role—expected to bear the burden of integration without anger, without resistance, without demanding too much.
And yet, they were treated like Lilith—met with hostility, isolation, and punishment simply for existing where they were told they did not belong.
History and the Women Who Carry It
Gay and Vanessa entered Gordon with the weight of history on their shoulders.
They were told they belonged there—but only as long as they didn’t disrupt the status quo. They had to sit through slurs, endure being ignored, navigate a world where their presence was tolerated but never truly welcomed.
This was how desegregation often worked—not as an invitation, but as a test of endurance.
They were not allowed to be angry.
They were not allowed to be afraid.
They were not allowed to be seen as rebellious.
They had to be perfect examples, to prove that Black students deserved to be there. The expectation was clear: show strength, but not defiance. Be brave, but not loud. Be resilient, but not disruptive.
Doesn’t that sound familiar?
Even now, women are told to stay quiet to keep the peace. To wait patiently for progress. To not make people uncomfortable when our rights, our bodies, our futures are being decided without us.
And just like Lilith and Eve, just like Gay and Vanessa, we are given a false choice:
Comply, or be punished. Be silent, or be cast out.
But what if we refuse that choice?
Reclaiming the Story
What happens when we look at Lilith, Eve, and the young Black girls who desegregated schools not as opposites, but as part of the same struggle?
Lilith was cast out because she refused to shrink.
Eve was punished because she sought knowledge.
Young Black girls were sent first to prove they belonged—while being set up to fail.
So what if we refuse to let these stories be used against us?
What if we reclaim them?
To reclaim Lilith is to reject the idea that autonomy is dangerous. It is to step into history unapologetically, to embrace the parts of ourselves that refuse to conform.
To reclaim Eve is to recognize the courage in curiosity. It is to break free from imposed ignorance, to ask the forbidden questions, to seek knowledge even when we are told it is not ours to have.
To reclaim Gay and Vanessa, Ruby Bridges, and the Little Rock Nine is to recognize that they were never just symbols of progress. They were pioneers who carried burdens they never should have been asked to bear.
What Do We Do Now?
Today, we are facing a new version of the same battle.
Women’s rights—over our bodies, our choices, our futures—are being stripped away in real time.
We are being told to accept it.
To wait.
To not push too hard.
To let the system work itself out.
But history tells us something different.
The system does not change unless we force it to.
Eve did not change the world by waiting for permission to eat the fruit.
Lilith did not survive by staying where she was unwelcome.
Gay and Vanessa did not integrate Gordon by waiting for someone to create space for them.
If history is written by the powerful, then it is up to us to rewrite it.
Not just by enduring, but by reshaping the world itself.
Because we know now—there is no real choice between obedience or exile, silence or survival.
There is only the choice to take up space, to demand more, to refuse to be erased.
Hekate’s torch flickers, waiting for an answer.
Lilith or Eve?
Perhaps neither.
Perhaps both.
Perhaps, at last, our own path.
To quote Octavia Butler in Mind of My Mind, “never underestimate a young woman.”
