Sophie Kipner

Rosie The Riveter

As endless days melted into wartime nights, with the streets more quiet than usual, the women transformed from mothers into breadwinners, trading dresses for shirts. Replacing previously well-coiffed hairstyles, we caught beads of sweat and held strands of hair out of determined eyes. They styled us with We Can Do It: the most becoming style of all. We tasted parts of them, sweet and salty, that few others relished as much as we did. Going into our cotton, their sweat purged archaic ideas of feminine roles and toxic thoughts of inferiority. As the factories grew hotter from the combination of more bodies, labor and machines, the women replenished themselves with thirst-quenching empowerment. Some because they had to, others because they wanted to, but all of them because they could.

Trickles of perspiration that so elegantly collected at the base of the hair and neckline were only a pleasure for us to catch, and a pleasure to witness. A pleasure to partake in something far greater than the rolled up square pieces of cloth we were. Cloth typically used to wipe counters. Catch sneezes. Cover mouths. Now, we had more purpose: we held back bangs while the men were away and found out We Could Do It, too.