Digging up Hatshepsut

In the tenth grade I entered the school Humanities program. It was a combined art history/social/english program for keeners. The program taught content that was not studied in the general streams, which I found intriguing. Though admittedly, the biggest draw was that at the end of the program the class went to Italy for 10 days in May.

I worked the maximum allowable hours for a 15 year old and saved every dime for the trip. Working as a page at the Calgary Public Library I earned $4.25 per hour. I had saved enough to pay the deposit in January, but I realized I would still be short for the final payment in April. It took me weeks to build up the nerve to ask my father for a loan. He said that since neither of my older sisters went, he wouldn’t do this for me.

Having nowhere else to turn, I reluctantly asked Aunt Joan. Single, childless and well-paid - if anyone could lend me the money, it would be her. She agreed to repayment with no interest within the calendar year. I paid the 50% deposit.

In March, we started reading our Canadian literature novel. I had enjoyed every novel we dug into – from Tess of the D’Urbervilles to Ethan Frome. I also adored my Humanities English teacher. He was like Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society. Every class he inspired me, as he waved his arms and got excited about words and images, reading us passages aloud in his thick, Irish accent. He had even more enthusiasm as he introduced us to Child of the Morning, historical fiction by Alberta author Pauline Gedge. 

Child of the Morning told the largely unknown story of Hatshepsut, Egypt's second confirmed female Pharaoh. Written a year before my birth, the story chronicles Hatshepsut's reign, from age 15 to her death. She is the Pharaoh that was nearly written out of history by her successor, her stepson and nephew, Thutmose III. I was hungry for more.

I spent my work breaks searching. I was a young archaeologist on a dig through mounds of literature. The more I found, the more I searched. I spent hours pouring over dusty books, inhaling the smell of old texts, drinking in the facts, uncovering theories.

Hatshepsut was thought to be a regent for her stepson (nephew) Thutmose III, right up until the 1930’s, when an expedition near Thebes found a pottery jar, found in burial chambers, referred to Hatshepsut as pharaoh – not just a queen. Thutmose III tried desperately to erase his stepmother/aunt after her death.

Her images were removed, her accomplishments were no longer hers, her name was scratched out. No one could help her.

But still, so many questions remained. Was Gedge’s book accurate? What was her life like? What happened after her death? Did she want to accept the role she was born into? What was it like being back-stabbed by family?

When the final payment was due in April, I phoned Aunt Joan to ask for a cheque. After leaving three messages, she finally answered the phone. Her voice was aloof and cold. She said she never actually agreed to lend me the money, but she would if she could come on the trip as a nurse.

I asked my father again if he would loan me the money. He refused. I asked my English teacher if there was any way at all that they could accommodate her. Of course, it was beyond too late. I couldn’t even get part of the deposit back.

I was duped. Tricked. Lied to. I was never going to make it to Italy. No one could help me.

Last week, I texted my family a link to a new discovery in Egypt from Archaeology Network News. It’s nothing new – they expect these texts from me. My teenage daughter was sitting in the kitchen and yelled, “Mom, when are you going to stop trying to dig up Hatshepsut?”

She was 15 when she took power. Who really was she?

I was 15 when I found her. Who really was I?

"Never."