I think I may be in a whimsical mood tonight. I decided to deal in allegory, using a familiar appliance to examine some of the lessons women are taught, and some of the ones we learn whether we want to or not.

MY REFRIGERATOR

Do you ever feel like your life resembles a refrigerator? One you haven’t cleaned out in a while, all sorts of stuff, some good and some bad, lost in the back? My life usually feels like that, at least lately. There is a lot of stuff just shoved to the back of my life, half forgotten, some of it wrapped with care, some of it shoved in without much thought. So, what is in your refrigerator? I’ll tell you what’s in mine…at least some of it. There are some things I can’t identify, and some things I don’t know are there, because I still haven’t gotten around to cleaning it out.

I opened something the other day, and accidentally spilled the remnants of a whole lifetime of obedience training. I was born female; that meant I was to be good. I was to be sweet. I was to be nurturing. I was never to think of myself, and should plan for a lifetime of caring for others, especially a husband and two to seven children. I don’t actually believe that…but some of that syrupy mess is still there. It’s crystallized now, and totally inedible…but I never found it particularly palatable anyway.

Somewhere in the back, way, way back, behind a lot of memories, is a moldy green something. I don’t go dig it out because it revolts me to look at. But today, I will take it out just for you. Oh, look. This is the messages I received from mother and teachers alike…girls can’t do math. This one has a lot of holes in it, probably drilled into it every time I made an A on a math test…which was the norm. Oh, look, there’s the lumpy portion added by my Algebra teacher, a man who was chummy and helpful to the boys in class, but never called on us girls, and made it obvious he didn’t think we belonged there.

This one is packaged as a twofer, though. Another moldy green lump of all the discouraging messages I received telling me girls couldn’t do science. At some level, I knew I could, because I did well in those classes and understood what I was learning. So why is it still in my mental refrigerator? Because some things we don’t accept intellectually remain festering in that place that believes what other people tell us, especially what parents and teachers tell us. It has even more holes than the math one, and is nearly decayed. I suspect that’s because I have a Ph.D. in science, and spend my days teaching science, thinking science, doing science.

There are some newer, not yet moldy pieces on this one, though. These have been added recently, every time a colleague talks over me, interrupts me, or answers a question asked to me about my field, which is not his. Some of the new bits are added every time a student asks a male colleague to verify what I said, or calls me by my first name, or by Mrs., while giving respectful titles to my male counterparts. Some of these pieces I added myself, every time I doubt I can do science, every time I feel like a fake or lack confidence in myself even when I’ve been doing it for years.

Wow. Look at that! I had no idea this was still in there. I thought that container was just mystery meat, but I actually recognize it. This represents the me that wore dresses, high heels, and got my hair permed because my husband wanted me to look beautiful. The me who let his personality consume mine, until I nearly disappeared. The me who was a trophy wife without my permission or even my knowledge. There isn’t much left in here; I haven’t done that in years, though I do still sometimes allow my personality to be hidden by another, stronger personality. I think I’ll pitch this one out for good; my ex put it in there, and he has no right to clutter up my refrigerator.

This bowl contains a broken biological clock. Look, I had a kid, okay? But I would still be a complete woman without that, and I am sick of hearing how selfish and stupid I was for only having one. Really? Look, I’m not the nurturing sort, I don’t really like kids that much, and I think in spite of that, I did a pretty good job taking care of the child I gave birth to. He is an adult now. My failure to reproduce at a rate that satisfied my mother, my friends, my coworkers, people on the internet who have never met me but think they should have a say in my reproductive life…well, it isn’t a failure at all. It was right for me, even if not for everyone.

Here is a dish that is still rather fresh. This is disappointment. As a girl, I had so many dreams. For a while, I actually believed I could live them, but my life was not one of large opportunities. I had to play the hand I was dealt, as the saying goes, and asking for new cards was frowned on. But…I asked for new cards anyway, and some of them were quite good. Okay, so I didn’t get a royal flush, but then, most of us don’t. I found I was able to bluff, and while I didn’t win the big pot, I ended up at the end of the evening with a net gain. Still, the disappointment is there and still fresh enough to use. I think I’ll hold on to it; sometimes disappointment can be useful. It helps us strive to accomplish what we dream.

There are lots of other things in here, but I think I’ll save those for another night. We can poke into the bowl containing sexual harassment at work. Or the can that contains a few teaspoons of euphoria. Maybe there’s something wrapped in that newspaper that is not fish. Someday I’ll look at it and see if it’s worth keeping. Meanwhile, I think I’ll throw the misogynistic experiences and the condescension down the garbage disposal. I don’t think I’ll be needing those.