Day 31

Here it is, friends, the last day of the month. We have arrived at the end of another Women's History Month, and women are no closer to the ideal of equal opportunity than they were when we started. We pat ourselves on the back for giving women a month of their own, instead of just including their history as part of history in general; meanwhile, state upon state continues to pass more restrictions on women's right to choose. We have only 19.6% of our Congress for slightly more than 50% of our population. We can still see ourselves in the movies as long as we are "babes" "hot bodies" or matrons playing supporting roles as the bitchy mother who holds her child back by her meddling...or perhaps, if we want to visualize ourselves in refrigerators, car trunks, or elevators in the form of a corpse that has been tortured in particularly nasty ways before being killed. So to finish up the month, I treat you to an essay as to what it is like to spend an entire month writing about women every single day.

It's been great to have you along for the ride, and I hope you'll join us next year, same time, same station. And peek in occasionally throughout the year; I do plan to continue posting, though not every day.

WRITING WOMEN

Well, I made it. The month is over, and I finished the schedule, just like I promised. So here is my last piece – what was it like to write one piece regarding women every day for Women’s History Month? Am I planning to keep my promise to do it every year until all women everywhere have equal opportunities and rights, and are widely regarded as people? Can I live that long? (The answer to the last question is almost certainly no, as I am not as young as all that…in fact, I’d probably have to be about negative 11 billion to achieve that, the way it looks now, and it’s impossible to be that young, because that means I would have preexisted the sun I depend on for energy and Vitamin D).

Yes, I do plan to continue with my promise, though I can’t promise I won’t suddenly go senile or lose all my wits in the next year; if so, I promise I will have my guardian post something to update you. Until then, I plan to continue occasional postings here throughout the year, with another grand push for next year on Women’s History Month. I am hoping that in that time, I can persuade some other women writers (or men writers who believe women are people) to join me, and pepper the world with ideas, stories, songs, poems, plays, or whatever suits their fancy. Women artists would be welcome, as well.

Now, for the remainder of the questions – what was it like to write every day for a month on the topic of women? Harder than I realized, actually. I am a very prolific writer, and this is not the first time I have committed myself to an every day writing schedule and succeeded. This is the first time I have limited myself to one topic, but hey, I’m a woman, I write, and I believe in women’s rights, so that shouldn’t be so hard, right? I didn’t actually believe it would be easy; no writing stint is ever easy, though I do enjoy the writing. It’s the sense of needing to meet that commitment that can be challenging and daunting, and for some reason often brings me writer’s block. Fortunately, I have a pile of writer’s prompt books that can bring me ideas when I am staring at a blank screen saying “No!”. Unfortunately, many of the ideas they brought me were not in relation to the given topic.

Still, in the end it wasn’t getting ideas that was the most challenging part. It turns out that ideas for writing about women are everywhere…in the workplace, in the home, on television, even in groups containing large numbers of women that are independent, strong, intelligent, and as committed to women’s rights as I am myself, but still manage to fail when women need an ally. I’ve focused several pieces on this last group, because I think they are one of the most important targets. First, they’re already part way there, they just don’t always manage to put themselves in other shoes. Second, they are more likely to respond, because, well, they want to be there, and if they recognize themselves, they might actually turn around and say “how can I help?” to the other person they hadn’t noticed before. Third, well, I actually like most of these women, and might even love a few of them, and I hate to see them moving in a direction of less freedom for women just because they happen to disapprove of the way the woman dresses or who she goes out with or how much she drinks, or because they’ve started to believe the nonsense that somehow this is a difficult world to be a man. Yes, it is, because it’s actually a difficult time to be anybody. But seriously? Why do so many of my otherwise enlightened friends accept this nonsense? So I write to them.

I guess the one thing I didn’t really expect was the emotional toll this month took. I found myself reaching deep inside and dredging up some moments that were…difficult. Abusive. Harassing. Scary. Oppressive. There were quite a lot that I didn’t write about this year, because I found them overwhelming at times. There were evenings I sat at my computer almost in tears, not wanting to write, not wanting to hurt, not wanting to remember how bad it can be when you’re young and female and everyone wants you to fit their own mold, and is willing to adopt abusive tactics to enforce that. I didn’t want to remember being a trophy wife. I didn’t want to remember the years of pain following my divorce. I didn’t want to remember high school, or grade school, or all the work places where I was harassed when I was young, and ignored when I got older. All of a sudden, it seems, I couldn’t help the memories. They flooded in, almost choking me at times.

So I wrote. I wrote about the punchbowl. I wrote about being told I should be flattered when harassed. I wrote about my doll (well, actually, she’s a great memory. She belonged to my grandmother, a strong woman who taught me a lot, and tried her best to teach me how to have confidence in myself when everyone else was trying to teach me the opposite. She failed, but it wasn’t her fault).  I wrote about the struggle with anorexia. I tried not to hurt as I wrote, but sometimes that’s not possible. I tried not to cry as I wrote, but sometimes tears are the only way we can communicate. I tried not to die inside as I wrote, and I think I did achieve that. I have a great husband who gives me fabulous support, and it helps to know the husband, the dog, and the two cats are all rooting for me, waiting for me at the end of the line, hoping I will cross that tape, even though I will not be first. There have been so many marvelous women there before me, so many incredible women who have been relegated to the dustbin of history in spite of their important contributions.

In the end, that is what got me there. The women…not just the ones running in front of me, or alongside of me, or behind me, but the ones I was carrying on my back. The ones who haven’t been born yet, the ones who haven’t yet been told “that’s for boys” or “girls don’t do that”, and hopefully will never have to hear that most nonsensical of all phrases. If I had a daughter, I would have dedicated this month to her; instead, I dedicate this to my son, a wonderful young feminist who has no reason to doubt that the strong, intelligent women he grew up with and near are his equal. He has cheered me on, been there for me, helped me solve problems I didn’t always realize I had, and created others I didn’t want, and through it all, we’ve stuck together on this crazy ride.

So until next year, when Women’s History Month finds me back at my computer, I will keep on writing, keep on voting, keep on marching, and keep on trying to make sure that women have their place at the table before men have managed to eat up all the goodies.