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And what if Homer was a woman? 

What if Achilles' wrath and Odysseus' deviousness were from a woman's mind? She would have been literate, even well-read. She would have written in secret, labored all her long life, carefully editing and refining and polishing the two epic poems that would go on and change the world. She would have written under a man's name, and when she died her secret would have died with her. The voice of a woman, lost to sand and time. 

And would it really be such a surprise? Who, but a woman, would paint the Trojans with such sympathy? Who, but a woman, could weave such gruesome violence in delicate verse? Who, but a woman, could bring such sensibility into a calculating war hero? Who, but a woman, could reveal the nuanced Penelope with her mind always elsewhere? Who, but a woman? 

Some might claim only men were literate—but we know that's not true. And others might protest that it doesn't even matter, that we will never know for sure; but it matters to me. Even the mere possibility that Homer was a woman is the difference between writing and not writing, between life and death.

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