storiesoffemininity-blog

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My Story of Femininity

“Imagine how much greater we could be when we are allowed to express who we truly are through our passions, words, and actions, rather than who we should be based on gender.” This quote from my friend Abbie Mo’s submission to this blog is one that I found truly inspiring. I’ve never been able to buy into typical gender stereotypes; it has always seemed completely obvious to me that women could do anything men can do. However, I often held myself back, and felt like I was not capable of accomplishing the same things as many men and women. My first year at Appalachian State University has been full of adventures in discovering myself, who I am, who I want to be, and how I truly express myself as a woman. One of the most difficult and rewarding things that I tried this year was a weekend backpacking trip with the three girls who got the same scholarship as me. Before I moved to Boone, I was not a very outdoorsy person - I would always choose Netflix or reading over being outside and sweating. As we completed this trip at the top of Table Rock Mountain the Linville Gorge, and had the most beautiful view of the Gorge and the Pisgah National Forest, I felt stronger than ever. With this newfound strength, I felt beautiful. I had conquered something I’ve always dreamed of doing and told myself I wasn’t able to do, hiking almost 9 miles with 40 pounds of gear on my back with three amazing friends at my side. Stepping outside of my comfort zone and pushing my limits has become a way for me to express my femininity. I am a woman, and I am a strong woman who does incredible things, as is every woman who ever tries anything new and pushes their limits.

This year I also had the opportunity to travel to Paris and Guatemala, which ended up being two of the most enlightening and empowering weeks of my life. These two trips were completely different: in Paris, we studied French philosophical thought and its application to different social justice issues, and while I was in Guatemala, we worked with a rural community to add on to their secondary school and learned more about education and international aid issues. Throughout both trips I also learned so much about myself, and the different dynamics of my femininity. While in Paris, I wore dresses almost every day, actually put on makeup, and felt truly feminine while nibbling on croissants and wandering the rainy streets with my pink umbrella. I took so many pictures in my floral romper in Marie Antoinette’s gardens at Versailles, and freaked out about my favorite paintings by Van Gogh, Monet, and the Degas ballerinas as well. In Guatemala we worked for hours every day, forming assembly lines with the children to move over 300 concrete bricks, digging 5 foot trenches, playing soccer in our free time with the kids, and learning how to make tortillas for dinner (I was a pro). I’ve never cuddled with so many children that I couldn’t communicate, and I’ve never felt more loved than when they brought me flowers and wove tiaras made of pine needles into my hair and gave me hug after hug. I thought that my trip in Paris would be the most feminine I’d ever feel, wandering around art museums in sundresses, but I also thought the same thing in Guatemala as I gave the little girls piggy back rides around the schoolyard while waiting for our lunch break after working hard for hours. My femininity is dynamic. It is not expressed only through my love of dresses and flowers and beautiful art, but also through my passions and my compassion for other people.

“She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines. She was beautiful for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for that sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile even if she was sad. No, she wasn’t beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her soul.” This quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald not only accurately sums up how I want somebody to feel about me someday, but also how I want to feel about myself, everyday. In today’s society, it can be difficult for girls my age to love themselves. This is something I’ve struggled with a lot, especially through middle and high school, so a big part of discovering my femininity this past year was learning to love myself. When I smile, I feel confident, and when I’m doing things that I love, I am the most true and beautiful and feminine form of myself. The definition of feminine on dictionary.com is “the quality of being feminine, womanliness: having qualities traditionally ascribed to women, as sensitivity or gentleness.” I believe that even this extremely vague definition is too constricting for today’s society. I don’t think I could ever describe myself using stereotypical feminine qualities such as gentleness or patience or “surrendering,” which I saw on several lists of feminine qualities to improve your love life or things like that. For me, my femininity is shown through qualities such as happiness, kindness, passion, and a sense of adventure. These are in now way gendered qualities, yet they describe me, who I am as a human being, and more importantly, as a woman. Once I understood that it was these qualities, not beauty or demureness or patience that made me a woman, it became so much easier for me to love myself, whether I’m all dolled up for my senior prom, dressed as Tinkerbell with my group of best friends for our first Halloween together, protesting with 300,000 others in New York City for climate change action, or running around and laughing at the beach.

This past year, I have come to understand who I am better than ever before, and I have formed myself into a person I never dreamed I would be. I am passionate about feminism, #BlackLivesMatter, and racial and gender inequality in education. I am a child at heart and a hopeless romantic who cries (okay, sobbed) while watching the new Cinderella movie. I am always up for a new adventure, especially hiking and backpacking on the gorgeous Blue Ridge Parkway, and also always up for a chick flick movie night with lots of ice cream. I am somebody who can have dance parties to Taylor Swift and Beyoncé in my room late at night, and somebody who can jump and scream on the front row of concerts for my favorite alternative rock concerts. I am a daughter, a sister, a friend, and also a mom to many of my friends. I am a world traveller and somebody who will make a difference in the world. Above all, I am a woman, and a pretty wonderful one at that.

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by Abbie Mo

Imagine how much greater we could be when we are allowed to express who we truly are through our passions, words, and actions, rather than who we should be based on gender. How much freer I am to be my own individual self not bound strictly by gender expectations. I love pushing the limits of what society thinks a woman should be. I have had family members, friends, and communities that despite some instances of strain, have encouraged pushing those limits. Whenever I was told that I could not do something as a kid, I saw only inspiration to find a way to get it done. Whatever your gender identity is, it is important to never allow entrapment within the “supposed tos,” the “shoulds,” the “oughts.” I rock climb, I throw football and I love playing around. I have muscles that I am proud of, that I have worked hard for. I want my personal notions of femininity to align with strength, confidence, wisdom, grace, playfulness. I want other girls to find these traits within themselves and in fellow women first before they see what traits society has placed on a pedestal.  

I feel powerful and beautiful when I climb. experiencing oneness with the body and mind while using every ounce of energy to remain in control, fills me with life and energy and I find myself. In whatever you find your life, your passion...do not let the box of a traditional man or woman keep you from escaping and breathing the fresh air of this life. Take the risk and dive deeply, for without risk, there is no freedom. Find freedom in everything you do. 

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Am I a Feminist?

by Susan Smith

When considering my own definition of a feminist, I conjure up monikers such as social advocate, lover of justice, champion of equality, embracer of good, and others.  So am I a feminist? Well, why wouldn’t I be? Growing up, I was fortunate to be surrounded and influenced by four women in my family who unwittingly taught me how to become a feminist. The title feminist would be uncomfortable or even foreign to these women, but they paved the way for me.

My paternal grandmother Flora was unique in that as a Southern woman, she was college-educated in the late 1800’s – a time when women were not encouraged to pursue higher education. Her adult life was spent as a mother and the wife of a prominent politician. In these roles, however, she never hid her intelligence or her strong will. From her I learned the value of a sharp sense of wit, and I am forever grateful for her use of the words “vulgar” and “abide.” While I also appreciated her art of cooking and gardening, unfortunately those skills did not transfer very well.

My maternal grandmother was not formally educated, but she could work magic with garden soil. I imagine her mantra being “Stick it in the ground and it will grow.” No plant or flower would ever consider dying under her care – and at times – her benign neglect. While her green thumb was not shared with me, her love and care of animals was. I vividly recall her caring for a foundling duckling and teaching it to swim – in our bathtub – before setting it free in the bayou at our back door.  And I witnessed her teaching our pet rabbit Phi Phi to hold and nibble on peppermint sticks.  Was she a feminist? Perhaps considered not by some, but as a lover and champion of the earth and its beings, she ranks fairly high in my book.

For many years I lived with an aunt who taught me the value of community service and the organizational skills that allow me to continue that service today. She probably would have balked at the title of feminist, but she would have defended the right for me to pursue whatever dream I had.  Unfortunately she was not able to fight her own personal battles and was not able to encourage me in the years when I most needed her. But the foundation and examples were set.

From my own mother, I learned resourcefulness and a “Never Say Die” attitude.  When asked how I would characterize myself, I take pride in the fact that I am resourceful.  My mother was not the most nurturing sort, but she managed to juggle many careers over the years as a single mother.  And life around her was never dull! I am most thankful that she taught me the value of acquaintances and friends of all races, creeds, colors, backgrounds, and living situations.  And what is a feminist if not a promoter of equality?

Circling back to my own definition of a feminist, I would add the titles of guide and mentor.  As a woman, I want to support young people – especially young women- in their search of their own paths.  Just in my lifetime, I have seen the roles of women change quite a bit, but often women are not champions of other women. And as long as that is true, the “good ole boy” mentality will be allowed to reign. Women must help young women - and young men - find their voice and encourage them to use it.

Am I a feminist? Perhaps not by some people’s definition.  But I  say “Yes” and claim it is part of my DNA.

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Stories of Femininity

by J.P. Caruso 

I’m not a women, but femininity means to me is a women who is very kind and gentle but very strong minded as well

Women is someone who is natural at loving and caring.

Feminism to me and women’s rights politically, socially, and economically equal to men.

Again I am not a women but I have 3 sisters and a mom so I been around girls a lot to say the least. But my mother is a woman who has inspired me more than anyone else in the world, she’s a mother to my 3 sisters and 3 brothers. That makes seven of us. My parents recently got divorced and she is basically still raising all of us now on herself. Strongest woman I know that’s for sure. Never shows her sadness in what she is going through.

Even though my sisters are females. We still wrestle and play sports against each other like they are all males.

Best part of a woman being a female is that she can have a baby and is natural at raising it.

The worst is probably not being treated the same as men. Either socially or in the work force.

Growing up with 3 sisters talk me a lot about females, what they have to go through and how strong minded they are.

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Femininity = Loving Yourself

by Abby Woodward

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised” ~Proverbs 31:30

One of my strongest memories is from my ninth year at Camp Henry. I was getting ready to go into my sophomore year of high school, and it was the first time that I had even thought about the idea of femininity. On the last night of camp we always have “girl’s night” and “guy’s night”. Traditionally, the girls had always sat in a circle with cookie dough and eaten their feelings, and the guys build a fire and cook hot dogs and brats. This particular year, the girl counselors decided to switch things up a bit. They built a fire and cooked brats for all forty girl campers, and they led a discussion on femininity and the struggles of being a strong woman in our society.

They wanted us, as young teenagers, to be comfortable and empowered women in Christ. One of the things that they made sure that we got out of that night was that we should make all of our choices for ourselves. We should not wear make-up and do our hair and wear heels because society tells us that’s what we have to do to be beautiful. If we decide to do these things, it should be because we want to and because that’s how we feel beautiful.

My counselors at camp have always been my role models. They are the kind of women that I hope to become and hope to inspire other girls to become. They are some of the most beautiful, intelligent, strong women that I know. And as I have grown older, I have always remembered that night. It breaks my heart to see young girls so caught up in what society thinks of them. And as a camp counselor I think that it’s my job to lead them in a way that they understand the most important things in life—to live their lives for Christ first and for themselves second, to love who God made them, and to be happy.

Femininity is about being strong. It’s about doing what makes you happy. It’s about feeling beautiful—no matter what way that is. I feel the most beautiful when I’m doing the things that I love. When I’ve finished a ten mile hike, or come out of the woods after a three day backpacking trip, or after I’ve run my best race. Femininity is about loving yourself.

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Women in the Church

by Claire George-Drumheller

I work in a field where women don’t traditionally work. (Many women do, right?) I work in a field that is overwhelmingly populated by men. (Many women do, right?) I actually work in a field where women often aren’t allowed to work or even to speak. I am a pastor.

I am an ordained minister of the Presbyterian Church (USA). Our church began ordaining women as elders (officers of the church) in 1930 and began ordaining women as ministers in 1965  I am blessed to be a part of a denomination that values women and men as children of God. In our own Book of Confessions (the book that lays out what we believe), we confess that the Holy Spirit “calls women and men to all ministries of the church” (Presbyterian Brief Statement of Faith). I am proud of my denomination and am thankful to have been raised in a church that has nurtured my call to ministry. But that’s not the case of all churches, not the case for all women, and not even my entire story.

When I was a senior in high school, I served as the treasurer for a Christian club. We met before class on Fridays for breakfast and music and to listen to a different speaker each week. At what I thought would be a normal, boring officers meeting with our teacher advisor, the proverbial crap hit the fan. The Vice President was a 10th grade girl, and part of her duties was to line up speakers. She vocalized frustration that the President, an 11th grade guy, kept lining up the speakers. The president kept filling up the calendar so the VP couldn’t do her job – she couldn’t line up people to speak at our meetings. The President gave his reasoning for his actions: if the VP got to line up speakers, she would pick women, and women don’t have a place speaking about matters of Christian faith. He continued: when women speak of Scripture and faith and Christ, women lead listeners to hell – that scary place where the only reality is separation from God.

I wish I could say that was the only time I heard something like this.  But sadly, it’s not. At a Bible study at a friend’s church in 11th grade, I was told I couldn’t ask a blessing over the pizza because women should not pray when a man is present. When I was home for a visit while I was in seminary, the mayor of my home town told me a woman in the pulpit was an absurd idea.

Somewhere along the line, God’s story of a good creation got mixed up… and maybe even distorted. Genesis has two creation stories. (Did you know that? Many people don’t. Two different and conflicting accounts of how God made the world.) In Genesis 1, human beings are made on the 6th day. “Then God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.’ So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them” (Genesis 1:26-27 NRSV). Did you catch it? God created humankind in God’s image: male and female; men and women; boys and girls. Both men and women are created in the likeness of God.

The creation narrative in Genesis 2 reads a little differently. God created man before all the plants and animals; God needed someone to till the soil before the plants could be created! After everyone else was called into being, God created woman to be the man’s partner (not his subservient belonging). And how did God make the woman? By taking a rib from the man, by taking a piece of God’s most precious creation, and fashioning a companion: “This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; this one shall be called Woman” (Genesis 2:23).

It breaks my heart to know that women are belittled because of their gender, both outside of and from within the church. My story of opposition is even a mild one. But these comments and remarks and insults I’ve heard have not had their desired effect – they have not made me cover my head and keep my mouth shut. Hearing theologically flawed statements about how women are lesser has just strengthened my conviction that women are equal and loved in God’s eyes. I’m not a pastor or a person of faith in spite of my femininity; being a woman is a crucial part of my identity as a pastor, as a preacher, as a teacher, as a friend, as a sister, as a wife, as an aunt, and as a Christian. Femininity is a gift from God – a part of God’s good creation. Being a woman is a reason to celebrate! Being a woman means being created by God in God’s own image!

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Questioning Learned Hierarchy: Femininity in Undertones

by Caitlyn Gallagher

To what extent have I been taught to compete, to challenge, to control my innate sensibility of behaving naturally decent to another human being been tempted through making myself appear more intelligent, more sophisticated, more idolized?

To grow repulsed at what is different from a singular perspective- in blatant terms, to realize the origin of my problems (and perhaps the general population's) was my lack in empathy towards others and recognizing my narrow perspective, that no one will experience the same understanding of an abstract or concrete idea; no one experiences the same human condition in a measurable way.

These questions are certainly difficult to discern in origin. When we are taught in an unlimitedly biased way throughout our lives, who is to say what is pure and right?

I have learned and once appreciated the comfortability found within gender norms. To have options restricted to my cut-and-dry, obvious sex created easier choices as a child that lead to a specific, engrained way of thinking that created a woman within a culture that celebrated this thought. This thought that no one could have the option to diverge from a confined path that was often manipulated by power historically was, simply, easy. But it had one debilitating weakness: all must adhere to this thought’s cause.

I find femininity as equally comfortable as it is uncomfortable. Growing up, I wanted to dress comfortably, but feminine. I was alarmed that my mother would allow me to wear my brother’s old clothes; the idea was unacceptable in my eyes. But I still did what I was told. I felt uncomfortable when I was wearing a dress that seemed too fancy for school in my primary years- there was a specific fine line that was coded within my brain, and I was certainly a wreck when that line was crossed. Transitioning to middle school, this common clothing issue was a constant (although very mundane and supposedly superficial) theme that I had to interpret consistently; very often we identify ourselves and others through the ways they dress, and I was not identifying with what other people (females) were displaying. Venturing out into a style that was distinctive, and different, felt comfortable for myself. Although this contradicts my former internal struggle to conform to that forsaken line, I grew to love the idea of unconventionality, and through the positive associations people gave to me, I was further obsessed that what I wore dictated my preferred internal consistency. I was eager to continue this way, in cultivating my life that was different, something new, and “certainly not like the other girls.” Ideas of femininity speak to a larger concept of measuring worth within a person, traditionally stating that the ideal woman, and therefore the more worthy woman, is demure, elegant, intelligent, and captivating. How does this translate into the modern society from the perspective of a female who has questioned worth based on individuality and interesting qualities? It leads to erratic behavior, questioning theories, intimidating ideals embodied in a singular body. The uniqueness of this quality pushes the female to be something odd, something strange, something interesting. And for what? To be considered worth something if they can’t attain traditional goals of classic maternal archetypes.

Let’s admit to distortion, and admit that our own ways of behaving are not necessarily right, and strive for a common effort that allows people to liberate from the idea that humans, the idea of woman, do not need worth to further life.

Because I identify with this view and have explained it in a biased way that is appropriated to my experiences, I can only summate the message through this: I am not a good person; I am not a bad person through interpreting these forced nuances in my cultivated life- but that should never be the question. To the extent of what we act on our convictions, to how we interpret our meanings to create universality in equality, is, objectively, an admirable goal. To identify these tones that riddle our lives with cursed minds, and overcome the traditions that have oppression based in a fundamental power hierarchy, and to translate them into the freedom that is equality: I see no goal that constructs gender here. Only humans, and only different interpretations of me.

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“Molding, Teaching, and Loving the Next Strong Woman”

by Stephanie Aldridge

I don't consider myself a feminist. In fact, it would be a stretch to say that I even consider myself a "strong woman"; at least, not in the same realm as those I view as "strong women". When I think about it, the "strong women" that come to my mind are probably not the ones that would come to most-- the activists, politicians, entrepreneurs, businesswomen and leaders of our country. Don't get me wrong, I certainly respect those women and am grateful for the trails they have blazed and continue to blaze for not only my benefit, but my daughter's, too... but the women that I look up and respect the most are those that I interact with on a daily basis.

I am speaking of my Mom, who quit her job to stay home with my sister and I even on an extremely tight budget while my dad was in seminary; my Granny, who raised four children while running her own beauty shop and children's boutique to make ends meet; and my sister-in-law, who is staying home to not only raise, but also homeschool their four children ranging from age 5 to 14. These women sacrificed (and are still sacrificing) so much of their own selves, because they considered their number one priority to be raising the next generation to be strong, confident individuals.

It's funny, when I finished graduate school, if I had been asked to name the women that I consider to be the "strongest", I'm not sure if either of the three I just named would have even made the top ten. You see, after I finished graduate school, I went to work for one of the "Big Four" accounting firms in a very competitive, demanding position. My priorities (other than my marriage) at that time mostly involved moving up within the firm and other personal career goals. After all, I hadn't worked so hard in college and graduate school for nothing, right?!

Fast forward almost five years, when my husband and I welcomed our baby girl into our lives. Suddenly, my fast-moving career seemed much less important. I was responsible for a life, but not only that, for raising and instilling all of our important values and life lessons in our little girl. Our perfect, innocent, sweet, strong girl.

After much prayer and discussion with my husband, we decided that it would be best for me to quit my job to stay home with our daughter. I would be lying if I said that it hasn't always been a dream of mine to stay home with my children-- but when it came down to actually "biting the bullet", it was a little more difficult of a decision than I anticipated, mostly because our income was about to be cut almost in half. We decided that we would sacrifice some (ok, a lot) of life's luxuries in order for me to be home with her.

The decision we made did not come without questions from others, the most often asked being, "Don't you feel like you are just wasting your education?" and "Why did you even get a Master's degree if you're not going to use it?". Yes, people actually  said those things out loud to me. Shortly after this, I read an online article called "O Alma Mater" (http://catholic-skyview-tremblay.blogspot.com/2013/08/verily-magazine-o-alma-mater.html) that so perfectly summed up my decision:

"Perhaps the most meaningful way in which stay-at-home moms use their elite degrees is by raising their children to be well-educated, confident leaders of the next generation. When a mother with an Ivy League education stays home to raise children, she is making it her full-time job to invest the best that she has received, including her education, into these children. She is choosing to form a few people in a profound way, rather than to affect a broader audience with a smaller per-person investment." Reading this, it was like all of my doubts and fears had been quieted-- I knew I was doing the right thing.

Fast forward again to three years later; my baby girl is now three years old and wilder, crazier, and smarter than I could have ever imagined. She is loud, bossy, and doesn't like to take no for an answer-- perhaps the makings of the next "strong woman" or leader in our country?!

Just the other day, she said to me about something that isn't even important now, "Mommy, only boys can do that. Girls can't do that." Without a second thought, I pulled her over to me and said "Hadley, girls can do ANYTHING boys can, do you hear me? You can do anything that you put your mind to. You are smart, beautiful, strong and can do anything that boys can, maybe even better than they can!". She looked at me for a minute and then went back to playing-- so as usual, I wasn't sure if my point had really "stuck" with her. But just today when we were at the park, she watched a boy climbing up to the top of the jungle gym for a minute and then pulled me close and said "Mommy, boys AND girls can climb to the top, and I can do it faster and HIGHER than him!".

In that moment, I know she was listening, that she "gets it". And I also know that I am right where I belong: molding, teaching and loving the next "strong woman" who will undoubtedly grow up to do amazing things. And just maybe, when she is all grown up, she will look back and say that she considers her mama as a "strong woman", too.

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from Katie Mathewson 

What does femininity mean to you? Femininity means being the woman that you define yourself, not by others or society's standards.

What does being a woman mean to you? Being a woman means strength in any form. You do not have to be physically strong in order to have strength either. Through words, actions, art, compassion, service, etc. you can be a strong woman. 

What does feminism mean to you? Feminism is a term used to describe the movement of making people more aware of a female's power and the power they should have in society. Females can have influence on the world too. Men do not need to control everything, nor should they.

Talk about a time that people tried to use your femininity to hold you back. Plenty of times, males have tried to "outdo" me, especially when it came to sports. They tried to compare their physical ability to mine in order to put me down.

Talk about a time when you did not feel feminine. Because I play softball, people commonly associate the sport with lesbianism. I have been offended by past jokes or remarks about my sport. There is a saying that goes, "No bow, lesbo," meaning if you didn't wear a ribbon or bow in your hair while playing, you were considered a lesbian or there were suspicions at least. Sometimes these stereotypes of softball players make me feel less feminine.

Talk about what growing up as a female was like for you. There were far more expectations of girls to be pretty and socially accepted growing up. As a kid, I remember girls were way harsher on self-image and judging others based on appearance. If you did not wear the right brands or wear make-up that was accepted, you were not invited to be a part of the "popular" group of girls.

Talk about a woman who has inspired you. One woman who inspires me the most is my mother. A cliche response, I'm sure; but it's true. She has supported me through everything. Even when I did not meet my own standards or live up to the expectations I force upon myself, she was always there to build me back up and support me. My parents are also separated right now, and she has shown me how to find strength without needing a man in your life.

Talk about how you portray your femininity/don’t portray your femininity. How I dress and appearance are an obvious way I portray my femininity, but I also express it through leadership roles. I hope the roles that I play in clubs and organizations shows everyone that a female should not be underestimated.

What do you see as the best part of being female? The worst? I actually like the fact that woman are sometimes underestimated because then I can prove the theory wrong. I like to show that I am hardworking and just as capable to do a task compared to anyone else. The worst part is defining beauty. Society has so many expectations for appearance for females, especially weight standards. I've never been considered small or skinny, but I do not struggle with that expectation anymore. I have grown to be accepting of my size. I tell myself that I can hit home runs at this size, and I don't want that to change.

What do you feel that society expects for you as a woman? What do you expect for yourself as a woman? Society expects tight fitting clothing, makeup, and high heels. I expect for myself to just be comfortable in my own shoes, even literally. I expect myself to show strength no matter my appearance or social standing.

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My Gender Autobiography

by Alyson Graham

In her article “What It Means to Be Gendered Me,” (1999) Betsy Lucal describes her experiences as a woman who is often mistaken as a man, and the implications of the gender dichotomy on society. Whether we realize it or not, many of our actions are gendered, and perpetuate gender throughout society. We are socialized through gender norms and expectations. And we seldom even realize it unless something causes us to question how we, and society, have been gendered, such as questioning our gender identity, mistaking someone for the wrong gender, or even being mistaken - as Lucal was - for the wrong gender.

Personally, there was never a moment in my childhood where I thought, “I am a girl; I am not a boy.” I just never questioned my gender. It was something that was obvious to me. When I was 5, my favorite outfit was my pink tutu with my red cowgirl boots. I was determined to be a ballerina...and a cowgirl. There was not a conscious decision to be a ballerina because it was feminine, or specifically a cowgirl and not a cowboy. But perhaps that also shows how early gender identity is recognized in children. I knew the difference between boys and girls, and never once questioned if I was one or the other; I always knew I was female. I think that many people probably feel similarly; there is not really a question of which gender one is. Instead, I think people focus on how gendered they are. By this I mean how well people fit into the gender binary system and how masculine or feminine a person appears to be. That is not to say no one questions the gender to which they identify. The problem with the gender binary is just that: it is binary. To most people, there are two and only two options people may identify as. As Lucal points out, even being mistaken as a man may not be subverting the idea of the gender binary because she still was considered to be one of the two genders, instead of representing the fluidity of gender (794-795).

In terms of gender socialization as salient in my childhood, what stands out the most is that my parents did not stress female versus male roles to my brother and me. I consider my parents to be fairly progressive in that sense. My brother and I had GI Joes as well as Barbie dolls; we had Legos and Polly Pockets. We played video games and cuddled with stuffed animals. We played hide and seek in the backyard, climbed trees, and threw mud. But we also knew how to understand when someone was sad, how to sympathize, and how to take care of friends who got sick or hurt. My brother did not learn more masculine activities while I learned feminine ones; we learned the same activities so that we could do what we needed to be independent. My parents split the roles in the house; they both cooked, did yard work, cleaned, etc. My brother and I learned how to cook, clean, and do yard work as well (my brother actually cooks much better than I do). My mom taught me how to mow the lawn and my dad taught me how to use the leaf blower. Because of the way I was raised, I did not really view boys and girls as different except for their biology. I had more friends who were boys than girls. I would get mad when they excluded me to do “boys only” things and said that no girls were allowed because I did not think that there should be a difference in what we did. I kept that mentality until fifth grade.

In third grade, I decided I wanted my hair to be like my mom’s. I got a pixie cut and I loved it. My parents thought it was cute. My friends liked it too. What I had not considered, which is not all that surprising seeing as I was only in third grade, was that being a prepubescent tomboy with short hair, strangers would often assume I was a boy. In casual restaurants and in check-out lines at stores, people would address me as “sir” or “young man” and they would then be flustered when I corrected them – if I corrected them, which I eventually stopped doing because it just did not bother me. Eventually, I stopped correcting people unless they were rude or just seemed to be blatantly oblivious. One day in the school library while I was checking a book out, a boy shouted at me, “Dude, why are you wearing pink?!” in reference to my shirt. My response was simply, “Dude, I’m a girl” and he was flustered enough to actually leave the library so as to avoid an additional uncomfortable (on his part) encounter. This is similar to experiences Lucal faced often in her article. When she was harassed by a store clerk while checking out, the store clerk eventually apologized for embarrassing her and Lucal responded that it was the clerk who should be embarrassed (790). My dad was more uncomfortable with people addressing me as a boy than I was and would correct them whenever it occurred. In fourth grade, I wore “skorts” (skirt-shorts combination) so that people knew I was a girl but I could still run around with the boys. Toward the end of the year, I also got my ears pierced in an attempt to make it more obvious. In fifth grade however, I made a new friend. She had long hair and usually wore skirts and bows in her hair. I decided I wanted to grow my hair back out. I didn’t have as many friends who were boys either. I did not change because I had been questioning my gender identity, but I realized that I did not want people to assume I was a boy any longer. Being a “girly girl” was not my desire either; I just wanted to be recognized as a girl, so that I could continue doing what I enjoyed (i.e. soccer) without my gender being questioned. Likewise, Lucal occasionally attempts to make herself appear more feminine. In airports she will wear nail polish in the hopes her identification will not be challenged, she occasionally grew her hair out to appear more feminine, and she even sometimes rearranges her clothing to make her breasts more obvious (789, 790).

Currently, I “do” gender by occasionally wearing makeup, having long hair, sometimes painting my nails, wearing dresses at times, and wearing form fitting clothing that shows others that I do not have a man’s body. That being said, I also enjoy wearing some men’s clothing such as flannels, sweaters, and sweatshirts. However, the “in” style for women, especially in Boone, is to wear men’s flannels and sweaters, so by wearing them, I still fit into the feminine gender expectations. Personally, I don’t think I challenge the gender binary. I think challenging it would require a conscious effort, which many people do not put forth throughout their day, especially because they do not realize they should. People do not question my gender, and therefore they do not question the gender binary system that Lucal discusses (795). My gender definitely affects the ways in which people react to me. People recognize I am a woman, which makes it easier for them to know how to act around me. Knowing someone’s gender makes initiating conversation easier. It also makes people more comfortable so that they do not feel as if they are struggling to come up with a topic to discuss. Also, by knowing I am a woman, people know with which gender pronouns to refer to me when I am not with them. When people do not know how to refer to another person, they often feel awkward and uncomfortable. If it were a common practice to ask people which gender pronouns they prefer, then there would not be a struggle. Likewise, if people were more accepting of those who do not fit precisely into one gender category, then there would not be a fear of harassment for those who do not fit in.

(Lucal, Betsy. 1999 “What it means to be gendered me.” Gender and society 13(6):781-797. Retrieved on Feb 25, 2015.)

[storiesoffemininity-blog]

I’m Not Your “Girl”

by Harriet Riley

I used to have a bumper sticker on my car in the early 1980s that brazenly declared these words - “I’m not your ‘girl.’” I was a proud feminist - an admirer of Gloria Stenim, Betty Friedman, Simone de Beauvior and a subscriber to Ms. Magazine. I was 22 years old. I knew I was reaping the benefits of the women who came before me - the women who formed consciousness groups, burned their bras and marched for the Equal Rights Amendment. At the time, I had my first full time job out of college. I worked for my Southern Democrat hometown Congressman in Washington in the early Reagan years as a congressional assistant on Capitol Hill. I was this old white guy’s “girl” in the office. Yes, I fixed his coffee most mornings and was groped by Congressmen at the lobbyist’s parties on the Hill every evening. We went to the parties for the free food and the Congressmen were harmless. I still considered myself a feminist in spite of being my boss’ girl. I went to an ERA rally and read my copies of The Feminine Mystique, The Second Sex, and Our Bodies, Our Selves. I believed a woman could do the same work as a man. I felt like women needed to be in control of their own bodies and make their own choices. I never wanted to be a stay at home housewife and I knew I would always support myself. 

Now three and a half decades and many jobs later, my opinions have not changed. They have probably become stronger and more defined. But there’s a difference today. I am the mother of two strong young adult daughters who do not call themselves feminists. The word feminist repels them, they say. It makes them think of angry, obnoxious women. They don’t like that I chose to keep my birth name rather than taking on the last name of my second husband. They plan to take their husband’s last name and be a Mrs. rather than a Ms. But they agree that a woman should make equal wages as a man and that they never want to be dependent on a man. So I raised them right. But what happened to the term feminist? Why has it become a dirty word?

Our daughters watched us shatter the glass ceiling and saw our marriages break up. They watched us working way too many hours and witnessed how tired we were at the end of each day. They saw us pushing constantly to stand alone and be strong while inside our hearts were breaking of loneliness. They - these daughters of today - know they want something different. They don’t want to “have it all.” They will have more balanced lives. They won’t struggle alone - they will be willing to accept a partner. They will accept the term feminine but not feminist. But they won’t be anyone’s “girl.”

[storiesoffemininity-blog]

I Didn’t Think I Was a Feminist

by Sydney Blume

I was a feminist, but I didn't think I was. I didn't understand feminism. The only important difference between boys and girls was that most of the boys liked tag and most of the girls liked house. But I liked tag, so I played with the boys. Then the boys played football and the girls played tag, so I played with the girls. I didn't see anything wrong with my best friends being boys. I loved my Batman backpack and my Darth Vader costume that I wore to school, and if mom took us to McDonald's, I always asked for the boy toy because I knew I would like it more than the girl toy. 

My older brother was my idol. I wanted to be just like him, which included wearing his hand-me-downs. Skate sneakers, backwards hats, and baggy soccer shorts for sure. That is, if I was wearing anything more than a t-shirt. When I went swimming in the pool, I wore swim trunks because they were more comfortable. I didn't think that it was very important that I preferred Hot Wheels over Barbies or shorts over dresses. That's just what I liked. On my fifth birthday, I wore my prettiest dress just for fun. My brother told me I looked stupid, and I cried even though I knew that I didn't. 

I had never heard that boys were better at math than girls, but it couldn't have been true anyway because I was the one that helped the kids in class with their math when they struggled.

I didn't think it was very important that I still wore my brother's hand-me-downs when I was ten. I thought I looked really cool. One day, we got to dress down at school out of our uniforms, and a boy asked me why I was wearing boy clothes. I didn't have a good answer, but I don't think he cared anyway because he still always tried to do stupid things in front of me to make me laugh. Then, when I was twelve, I had Cotillion. The girls had to wear white gloves and dresses, but I didn't mind because dressing up was kind of nice, and I liked skirts now, and the white gloves were good because the boys had sweaty hands. I was taller than most of the boys I danced with, and most of them didn't really know how to do the steps. On my final Cotillion party, I dressed up in my prettiest black dress. I thought it was beautiful. My brother told me I looked like a slut. I cried even though I knew that I didn't. The same boys that I had helped in math started to call me a bitch in the eighth grade because I answered the most questions in class. They teased my friend telling her that the only A's that she had were her bra sizes. They teased my other friend for maturing quickly and having a developed chest. So I saw that the boys thought the girls should be not too smart but not too dumb. Their boobs should be not too little but not too big. They should be not too outspoken but not too quiet. Girls should be, in essence, mediocre. Don't cause a stir.

I still didn't think that I was a feminist.

I still didn't think that I was a feminist, but I was starting to question the way that people treated girls differently. In seventh grade, we were taking a school trip to Key West and would be swimming and snorkeling. We were required to wear one pieces or cover ups. We didn't understand why. The teachers said that it was so the boys couldn't pull on the strings of our bikinis to untie them. I thought that was a boy problem, not a girl problem. The same thing happened in high school. No more uniform, but now we were required to have certain standards of dress. For the boys, it was to look professional, but for the girls, it was to look modest. We couldn't have bare shoulders even though school started in August with temperatures in the nineties and only outside seating for lunch time. The reason was that we shouldn't be distracting, but the punishment was to wear a floral printed Hawaiian muumuu, which I thought seemed counterintuitive. 

I still didn't think that I was a feminist until my art teacher told me that she was a feminist, and I asked her why. She patiently explained that feminism meant equality. To be a feminist was to believe that men and women deserve equal rights and treatment. She explained how men make more money than women, get better jobs, and are respected more in the professional world. She said she was a feminist because she thought that was wrong.

I agreed.

I'm a feminist. I am a feminist because I think people should be treated equally. I don't think things fall into categories of boy and girl because everyone has different interests. Boys like to knit and cry during emotional movies and girls like to play sports and fish. Boys drink daiquiris and girls drink beer. Boys do housework. Girls do yard work. Gender isn't really all that significant. I learned that sometimes, girls are really boys and boys are really girls, and sometimes boys love boys, and girls love girls. It's all a whole lot of fuss for some simple preferences.

It never bothered me that I wanted the boy toy or wore boy clothes. I knew I was a girl, and I knew I liked those things more. But it would have been a lot easier to just call them toys and clothes. 

[storiesoffemininity-blog]

Hiding from the truth in a little black dress

- Anonymous submission

It’s been said that the cure for anything is saltwater: sweat, tears, or the sea.

First, came the tears. After he left, I removed my white dress because it was disturbingly ironic. White dresses are virginal; they symbolize purity and innocence, and right about now, I felt like none of the above. I just felt empty.

The room was too cold, too bright, too sterile. I stepped onto the balcony and welcomed the wave of heat that enveloped me. Hot, humid air is a blanket, and I needed some semblance of comfort. The waves crashed mercilessly on the rocks below me, spraying the air and infiltrating it with the wholesome scent of brine. The rush and ease of the tide seemed to echo the faint Marley melodies that drifted to meet me from across the water. I gazed blankly at the reflection of the moon that played on the ocean, only vaguely aware that a vacuum currently sat between my ears. My mind no longer buzzed with the burn of island alcohol, but then again, the whole ordeal had been sobering in the truest form of the word. Only one thought remained, as imperceptible as the tiny fish that swam beneath the surface of the water, that I was grateful that I was slow to process. No tears had come yet. I only felt peace like the eye of a storm.

My eyes trailed to my wrist, and I took notice of the metal bracelet. I remembered the day I bought it. I was in a New Age store because I was reclaiming for myself a new life. I was making promises to myself, and, more importantly, promises to God. This bracelet came attached with a little note that stated its purpose. Some religions wore them as symbols of their faith. I wore mine proudly. It was a nice reminder, just for me. No glaring cross, just a symbol of a relationship that I was beginning to pursue. Now, it felt tainted. It had tarnished from the water and wear, but if anything, that had meant that I was growing. This new kind of taint could not be polished away, so I took the bracelet off.

At some point, I found myself in the bathtub because I find solace in bathtubs. It brought back memories of doing the same thing night after night at home over three years ago: painting my nails black and sparkly, listening to Ke$ha, and knowing that I rebelled because I knew without a doubt in my mind what I wanted. I had always been in constant pursuit of my desires. Back then, that had never been a question. But this time around, I thought as I welcomed the cool smooth surface of porcelain against my cheek, I couldn’t quite be sure. I felt a division arising in my thoughts. I hadn’t wanted to, but I had done it anyway. My lips had said no, but then had acted on a yes. Is a no still a no when it is said with a laugh and a smile? Is a no still a no when your own actions still defy it? So what was my decision? Not a good one. This was not a comfortable feeling. Comfort comes from familiarity, but I had only ever felt assured of myself. For once, I felt regret. Regret burns in the form of hot, salty tears down my face. Tears came first, but I was not cured yet.

The next morning, I awoke amongst my white sheets and experienced a moment of peace, thanks to sleep-induced ignorance, but awareness dawned as quickly as the tropical sun over these Caribbean beaches. Shame washed over me like the incoming tide that rushed right outside. I dressed, and stepped out into the scorching sunlight. The morning was bright, and the heat was unrelenting. It left me feeling exposed, like the lack of shadows and clouds meant that I could not hide my sin. The sun was judging me, harsh as the ultraviolet rays that penetrated my skin. The trickle of sweat condensing on my brow burned into my eyes, like a taste of condemnation. Condemnation made me feel simultaneously ashamed and defiant. I dropped into a seat in the sand. The bright light reflected into my eyes and made me unsure if I was frowning or squinting. One thing was certain, the sun and my sweat were conspiring to burn my skin off. Maybe then, I would be pure. Sweat came second.

I finally relented to the call of the waves. The lukewarm swells felt like paradise in comparison to the heat of the sand. I swam until I could not touch the bottom and then flipped onto my back, yielding to the power of the waves. The ocean is powerful and treacherous and strong. Compared to its power, I am nothing. But as I lay facing the sun with my eyes closed, letting the water rock me to its own rhythm, I was comforted. For once, I felt okay with feeling powerless, and I was compelled to call upon a name that had not crossed my mind in months. I felt peace there, praying in the waves. I realized that waves are waves because they are waves. They have no motive to drown me, nor to caress me gently. Either of those will only come from my interaction with them. I realized that I wasn’t thinking about waves anymore. Anything in life that I ever had or ever would experience was just a wave. It could knock me over, should I try to face it head on, roll me in its grip and force itself into my nasal passages. It could pull me away from my destination, should I try to swim against it. But also, when faced with a wave, I could ride it, let it roll me on occasion if I need some salt up my nose, or let it pull me where it wants to redirect my course. Or I could just float.

It’s been said that the cure for anything is saltwater: sweat, tears, or the sea, but I think sometimes, we need more than to just be cured. A cure is a solution to a problem. It is ease in a bad situation. Now, that’s all just fine, but it doesn’t mean total release from our problems. For that, we need truth.

I returned home on a flight across that healing sea, to another coastline, this one more familiar. I thought I had peace, but it didn’t seem right that peace bites at the back of your mind like Florida mosquitoes in summertime. I thought I had peace, but peace shouldn’t jump out at you in the shower, scarier than any boogeyman under my childhood bed. I was uncomfortable, so I dressed up what had happened to appease myself. In my mind, the flowing white dress had been replaced by a short, tight, black one. In my black dress, I did what I wanted. I was powerful. I was unstoppable. I was strong. The black dress made it easy to be all these things.

I sat at a long table in a noisy restaurant surrounded by all my best friends, swapping the scandals and stories of a successful Spring Break. My little black dress fit right in. The black dress made a good story. It evoked laughter and surprise, and it made me look good. The longer I spoke and thought and forcibly remembered a black dress, the more it felt like the truth. What white dress? There was no white dress. The white dress was cast off because nobody wants to be weak, and nobody wants to hear about a white dress. White dresses make lame stories.

The black dress fit just fine. You could find me on a Saturday night with a glass bottle in one hand and a plastic bottle in the other, trading sips and swaying hips to the bass beats of the music in a little black dress. I was loud and proud and drenched in allure. Nobody questioned that I had been wearing a black dress. Nobody questioned my story. I had worn black dresses before, and I wore black dresses after, so it just made sense. This felt right. By changing my memory to one that made me happy, I could begin to forget. This must be peace.

A whole summer passed, and I didn’t wear any dresses at all.

The diminutive dorm room was beginning to feel like home. I sat with a newly acquired friend late one night, talking over two steaming cups of tea in stiff black swivel chairs. She spoke about the signs all over campus, informing the students about the truth of sexual assault. As new friends often do, she shared with me her story, her own truth that she had discovered. She had been a victim in a black dress, unaware of her role until the signs told her what she needed to hear. Before, she had brushed it off and cast it aside, assuming the blame for herself. Black dresses find power in the blame. Now, the sings sung a different story. One where she was not to blame. I showed her my black dress, too.

Truth came crashing down much stronger than those waves on the shore a half a year ago. Truth cleansed more than burning tears and scalding sweat and soothing sea. Truth torched that black dress like it was tinder. It had been a lie to hide from reality. Truth gave me perspective on that reality. I was a victim.

I was a victim, but I didn’t feel like a victim. I always thought victims would feel beaten down and battered and bruised. They would feel shame and fear and the rest of the unnecessary spectrum of negative emotions. I felt none of those. I felt liberated. My uncertainty and insecurity became solid. The blame that I had put on myself, that I had so manipulated and screwed to be a play for my own power, evaporated. It evaporated until all that was left was salt.

They say that salt water cures anything, and I still think that’s just fine. But sometimes, I think you need more than a cure. Sometimes, you need the original problem to be relieved. Salt water can’t help with this, at least, not from my experience. It is only a cure to take away the pain.

They also say that the truth will set you free. I think freedom is enough, or, at least it was for me.

[storiesoffemininity-blog]

Feminists of Old Don’t Need Your Shit

by Callie Malone

I thought about Striking a match & lighting all my bras on fire Like the feminists Of old did, But I’ve got work to do & frankly, I don’t need my breasts Bouncing along with me. But when society says My nipples are a man’s sex toy, I have to cover up So he doesn’t have to learn To control his manly urges. But instead control How society views me, As emotional & crazy & incapable & submissive & weak? Tell me Who’s the one brought to their knees By a naked nipple? Not I.

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Femininity on the Court

by Sandy Aldridge

As a young girl, I considered myself to be more of a tomboy. Although I liked playing mom to my baby doll Cheryl and setting an elaborate classroom for my sister and her stuffed animal peers, I also loved competitive sports. Much of my youth was spent on or around the basketball court or softball field. Playing in a church league, many of my coaches were women from the congregation. My softball coach was one of those women. I never felt good enough at softball, probably because you have that moment when you are up to bat and all eyes are on you. My batting skills would come and go, but she was encouraging, even giving us hand-written stickers commemorating individual accomplishments. She did make it clear though that she wanted us to give it our best effort and work hard to win. For several seasons, my basketball team was coached by two women, one of which was my mom. Basketball was the sport I enjoyed the most, and seeing two women give us direction, shouting from the sidelines, expecting us to give it our all, made an impression on me. I remember when we would be hanging around the gym on practice days, some of the boys my age would be challenging each other on the court to shooting competitions, and I went right on out to compete with them, never thinking that I couldn’t hang with the guys.    

My parents enjoyed sports as well. As I mentioned, my mom was one of my basketball coaches, but she and my dad also played competitive sports at the church. When I wasn’t at one of my own games, I was at Daddy’s basketball game or Mama’s softball practice. Daddy loves to be active and enjoys the competition, but I would say that I got my competitive side from my mom. She loves to compete, with the hopes of pulling out the win. They both found a love for tennis, and I remember being at the YMCA, hitting against the backboard as they would battle each other on the court. My mom was out to win, and I definitely learned from her that I could compete with anyone, male or female.

My dad had two daughters, but he never made me feel like he was missing out on something by not having a son. When I was in middle school, there was a parent/child field day and Daddy and I went together. We had a great day, capped off by a heated race where we ended up taking first against a tough father-daughter team. I could tell that he was really proud of how we competed, but also remember that he was proud to be paired up with me. I didn’t feel that he was surprised that I did so well for a girl; he had faith in me and my abilities, and he still talks to this day with pride about that race.

Thanks to both of my parents and coaches, I didn’t grow up believing comments like “you’re pretty good . . . for a girl.” I had plenty of female role models who taught me from a young age that I could compete, that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to.

[storiesoffemininity-blog]

The Girl in the Mirror

by Emily Wagner

I used to be afraid. I was afraid of the girl in the mirror. She wouldn’t get out of bed. Curled up in a ball with her cold comforter wrapped around her, facing the wall, head in her pillow: this is how she spent countless hours. Occasionally, tears would stream down her face as she gasped for air. The lump in her throat made it hard to breathe. She never made a sound. She would just lie very still and focus on her breathing. She disappointed me. Her stomach bulged. Her face was puffy. Her thighs touched. Everyone walked all over her and she let them. She wasn’t as confident, as pretty, or as thin as they were. She was just average. Sometimes the obstacles that are placed before a person become the catalyst that both challenge and inspire, as the girl in the mirror was about to find out. 

The yelling never ceased. My boyfriend would get upset with me for the little things that I did, sometimes for laughing too loud or for wearing the wrong things. He acted as though he owned me, and I let him. One night he was furious with me. His face was blood red. He drew his hand back and swung it across my face. Ironically, I felt nothing. Fear didn’t fill my body. Tears didn’t stream down my face. Pain did not fill my chest. I was numb. What I realized at that moment was that I was at a crossroad. I could either summon the courage to walk away, or I could continue to live in this dark place. Walking away wasn’t an easy thing to do; my world had revolved around him. I didn’t want to be possessed by this demon any longer. He had transformed me into someone I wasn’t. 

In the months that followed, I realized what was important to me. I began to reconnect with my family and friends; I started exercising regularly and eating healthy. Most importantly, I regained my confidence. I could actually accept the person staring back at me in the mirror. Not only had my mind ceased to hate this person, but I fell in love. She was beautiful. I stopped scrutinizing all my flaws and began noticing all my strengths. I no longer found myself picking at the extra fat on my body. It no longer frustrated me to shop for clothes. I stopped comparing myself to other people who were thinner than me. I didn’t hide myself away from the world anymore; but embraced life head on. Once I learned to love myself, it was much easier to love everything else around me. The little things began to matter to me again. From blasting my favorite song with the top down on my Jeep to reading a good book to studying for an important chemistry test, I began to reclaim my passion for life and my future. Today, that girl in the mirror is the same but different; she has a perfectly imperfect body, and she’s okay with that. She is no longer timid and self-conscious, but is bold and unashamed. She is beautiful and confident and knows what it means to truly live. 

[storiesoffemininity-blog]

Grace and a Kind Word for Everyone

by Martha Ensley

Well, that’s easy. A story about feminism, femininity, being a female in this world - about someone I admire? My mother, who was such an example of how to overcome adversity with grace and always a positive word for everyone.

She was raised in North Carolina in the Depression (”We didn’t even know we were poor - it was the same for everyone.” and married at the end of World War II. She was brought up to be a lady, not rich but polite and well-mannered as 40′s and 50′s girls were. She was also brought up to keep house and be a wife and mother, as 40′s and 50′s girls were. She was also educated, and advised to “get your teaching degree, in case you have to fall back on it,” as 40′s and 50′s girls were, with few other career paths offered.

So with four children ages 6 to 16, in 1968, when the divorce happened and we were on our own, things got tough. My stay-at-home mom suddenly had to become a breadwinner, with no credit, no assets in her name, little child support, no recent teaching experience, and the trauma of divorce. Yes, it was rare back in 1968; there were no support groups or advocates or counselors for her or for us. We had to move from our comfortable neighborhood where all my friends were a walk or bike ride away. But my mom dug deep and did her best to make sure she drove us to every possible event at a friend’s house or with the church youth group. She took an interim job teaching second grade in a far-out county school we had never even seen, even though she had not taught since they were first married, before the kids started coming along. She ended up teaching until 1988 and having a great positive influence on children and coworkers in Cumberland County.

And above all, she shielded us from most of the ugliness that accompanies divorce. She tried to keep the financial situation to herself. We found out much later how tenuous our existence was. She tried to shield us from town gossip about my dad. We found out much later how many people were talking about so many things. She never, never would let anyone speak ill of him in our presence (”He’s still your daddy; he still loves you all.”)

My mom unfortunately passed away at age 75, way to early, but she was able to enjoy 15 years of retirement from teaching, and being a grandmother/volunteer/bridge player/walker. She did not speak often about feminism, or advocate revolution, but as always she demonstrated by example what a strong woman can do. She faced adversity and huge challenges personally and financially, and managed to forge a successful career while raising four children who today are well-adjusted adults who individually and collectively love and revere our mother and appreciate her more and more as we grow to realize how huge her task was. And she accomplished it ALWAYS with grace and positivity, and many favorite sayings. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” I’ve never gone wrong with that one, personally or professionally. “Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.” Good to know for packing up for a day at school, or a weeklong trip! “It takes so little to make some people happy.” When she saw you doing something goofy or silly. “Tell ‘em who you are.” Let your actions and demeanor speak for themselves. 

The mom-isms go on and on, and have sustained and guided me in times of extreme difficulty in my own life. How would mom have handled this? Cancer. Financial insecurity. Job stress. With grace and a kind word for everyone. Hope I can measure up.