My 4th grade class, in lieu of a full-blown play,
offered a selection of songs from Mary Poppins, probably in theaters on
its first re-release in 1971. I had a wonderful light blue Granny Gown that I’d
worn for Easter, and it fit perfectly with the time period. It even won me the
task of handing out programs. The song that sticks most in my mind from that
score is, “Sister Suffragette.” As with all Disney productions, it was a
white-washed version of the actual struggle for women’s rights, leaving out the
arrests and force feedings, but it did become an anthem of sorts for me. Even
at nine, I was very aware of the inequities between the sexes. At the time, I
believed I was in the majority in my community, and especially my middle-class
school in the suburbs. But how far could a nine-year old get out into that
community?
In 1974, “I Am Woman,” came out. It was the first single
record I purchased, “Hear me roar,” sang out Helen Reddy, but I was anything
but a roarer. Always a writer, my public speaking days were far off in the
future. I began to use the prefix “Ms.” early on. That was my small roar. But I
still had crushes on the most unlikely boys, still bought Ringo’s quirky
remake, “You’re Sixteen,” not getting the creep factor then of a thirty-year
old man lusting after teenagers. I experimented
with make-up, clothes when I could afford to, but I had no idea how to work with
my early curves. I wore thick glasses which camouflaged a multitude of make-up
sins, peacock greens, pearly purples muted behind the lenses. I did not know,
and still don’t most days, what being a woman in American was supposed to look
like. I still functioned under the illusion that we had more freedoms here. Now
I’m not even sure what freedom means.
Ruth Bader Ginsberg grew up on another planet from mine.
Brilliant, with an education that only multiplied her natural talents, she saw
clearly what freedoms had been denied to women, and worked her whole career to
change those restrictions. In 1971, when I was warbling on about suffragettes
and kites in my small cafetorium, she was updating laws so that women like me
could have their own credit cards, with their own names on them. When I left
for college in 1980, it was brand-new territory for both me and my family,
supportive yet trying to protect me with vague warnings about how it was still,
“a man’s world.” I went on to explore this new world of college, and married young
without much forethought. I managed to finish my degree in four years, but it
would prove to be of no practical use on the job market. I graduated at 21
still without a driver’s license. I was in no way capable of managing a
classroom.
I had a husband who berated me for ever wearing make-up,
asking who I was, “getting dressed up for.” I kept my poems at work, after he’d
ripped up some at our home. I got two black eyes for my troubles, and had even
changed my name to his for a time, something I swore I wouldn’t do, but
rationalized at the time that it made little difference. It made all the
difference, I know now. I always used, “Ms.” but with my own identity all but
erased, the prefix was powerless.
Ultimately I changed the course of my life, with help from a
few key women. I took back my birth name, supported myself, moved and lived. I’ve
got a rich history of friends, lovers, companions, jobs that would all make wonderful
stories, if I live long enough to tell them. For the last twenty years, I have
been settled with a man whose history nearly equals my own in drama and
missteps. We are quiet observers for the most part. In this internet age, we
travel via You Tube, saving ourselves the trouble of packing. We are adventurous
in the kitchen, plagued no more by faux-vegan roommates or ramen budgets. We
sleep well. He is my companion, but not my whole life. If he decided to go
tomorrow, I would still have something here of my own.
I still strive for the equality of the sexes, and the races
the genders. So much more has come to the surface. The Old Guard clings to the
comforts of a black & white picture of an America that never really
existed. Ozzie & Harriet met when his band needed a girl singer. Annette
passed away after years of MS destroyed her once beautiful body. The President
is a proud racist, and has followers empowered by his unchecked hate. But I
still stand, shoulder to shoulder, with others striving for equality, respect,
opportunity, and security for all of us. Into the fray we go. I am still woman
after all.
