Sweeping through the isolated Northwest region of Vietnam, contouring along the lush, green slopes of the majestic Hoàng Liên Sơn mountain range, the mystical Đà River weaves like a silken strip of raven hair, her wavy locks embellished by deadly jagged rocks and dainty mountain wildflowers.  

Her fertile water nourishes the lives of the livings and gently carries the spirits of the dead to their eternal resting place, while her turbulent currents **shrieks as if demanding debts from unsuspecting travelers.    

On a dewey 1920 morning, navigating her furious streams was a fragile wooden boat transporting a group of merchants and their livelihoods on their weekly trips upstream to the highlands. 

On this boat, the only one who could read, a young girl of sixteen, with hair as long as the raven river and heart as fierce as her ferocious waves, entertained the boat mates by reading to them the classic books of Vietnamese poetry and literature, and soon, she memorized them by heart  and could dissect their complexity with the profound insights that exceeded those of college professors.

Years later, she would employ her untrained ingeniousness to tutor her sons through their own academic success. Though she received no formal education, a privilege reserved for the male members of her family, she accomplished what most scholars can only aspire to do. This young girl, the original storyteller on the Đà river, was my great-grandmother

Happy women's history month to the women who made history with acclaimed recognition, but also to the women who made history in dignified silence. There are far more of them than you think.