Examples of maternal bonds and female community in Ayah’s culture bookend “Lullaby,” and the loss of such community has profoundly affected Ayah’s life. Early on, Ayah fondly recalls the way her mother and grandmother taught her to weave warm blankets. In another flashback, Ayah’s mother is the first person she goes to for help when giving birth, and her mother in turn “went to call the old woman to help them.” Based on these recollections, it becomes clear that Ayah grew up in a close-knit community where women passed specialized knowledge and skills to one another as a rite of passage. This kind of kinship and community is completely absent in Ayah’s life in the present. Chato, the only family member who is still present in Ayah’s life, consistently fails to stand up for her. Even after 40 years of marriage, Ayah often feels like Chato is a stranger.
Ella, Ayah’s only living daughter, was taken from her at a very young age and barely recognizes her mother during her rare visits. The white woman who looks after Ella has no desire to understand Ayah’s life or customs and makes no effort to return Ayah’s children to her. Though Ayah mourns for all her lost children, these memories of Ella read as particularly painful, as Ayah will never be able to connect with her daughter the way her mother and grandmother did with her. Thinking of Ella near the story’s end, she remembers the titular lullaby, again passed down by the women in her family. She has lost her chance to sing it to Ella, who is now a different person, separated from the community she was born into. By juxtaposing the community Ayah has with the community she has lost, Silko implies that the loss of this maternal kinship spells the end not only of Ayah’s individual family but also of her culture as a whole, with no one left to hear or carry on the lullaby.
Maternal Kinship and Community ThemeTracker
Maternal Kinship and Community Quotes in Lullaby
Lullaby Quotes
She did not want to think about Jimmie. So she thought about the weaving and the way her mother had done it. On the tall wooden loom set into the sand under a tamarack tree for shade. She could see it clearly. She had been only a little girl when her grandma gave her the wooden combs to pull the twigs and burrs from the raw, freshly washed wool.
She felt peaceful remembering. She didn’t feel cold any more. Jimmie’s blanket seemed warmer than it had ever been. And she could remember the morning he was born. She could remember whispering to her mother, who was sleeping on the other side of the hogan, to tell her it was time now. […] The morning was already warm even before dawn and Ayah smelled the bee flowers blooming and the young willow growing at the springs.
The sky cleared. Ayah saw that there was nothing between her and the stars. The light was crystalline. There was no shimmer, no distortion through earth haze. She breathed the clarity of the night sky; she smelled the purity of the half moon and the stars.
She tucked the blanket around him, remembering how it was when Ella had been with her; and she felt the rush so big inside her heart for the babies. And she sang the only song she knew to sing for babies. She could not remember if she had ever sung it to her children, but she knew that her grandmother had sung it and her mother hand sung it:
The earth is your mother,
she holds you,
The sky is your father,
he protects you.
[…]
We are together always
There was never a time
when this
was not so.



