The F-Word

It’s almost a daily occurrence; a friend posts a meme about equal rights on their Facebook wall and it begins.  The comments:“The problem is that there's a whole group that's says things like "all men are rapists", and "any sex initiated by a white heterosexual male is rape" are common.  Usually those are followed by the “I don’t consider myself a feminist, I like men, I do think women should have equal rights though,” protestations.  “That makes you a feminist,” I argue.  “But I’m not,” is their reply.  Of course they would protest, why shouldn’t they?  Why would anyone want to be seen as a member of a group with so much hate associated with it.

Feminism has become synonymous with misandry and despite the best efforts of women and men everywhere, it’s a definition that can’t be shaken.  “You bitches just need to be laid.”   The oh-so compelling, “You’re too ugly to get a man, that’s why you hate us” argument.  It pops up everywhere there is a person with an internet connection.  “You’re a lesbian, aren’t you?” It has exploded and so has the myth, polarization is now the norm.  “I’m a traditional woman, who loves men.  Women belong in the home, when women left the home the country and its values fell apart.”   It’s about respect,  “It’s great that you get to stay home with your kids,  but don’t you deserve a say in how your house is run and where your money goes?”  It’s about having a voice.  “Of course, I don’t let my husband make all the choices,” is the answer, “but I’m not a feminist, I love my husband.”

“And I love my boyfriend, my father, my brother, my nephews, my grandpa,” I offer, trying to prove that I am somehow relatable, but there is an undeniable fact.  “I also love my mother, my sisters, my niece, my grandma, my girlfriends and most of all, me”  I love the fact that my mother was able to stay at home for most of my childhood.  I love that my grandmother was the first person in her family to go to college and graduate.  I love that my sisters have jobs, in addition to the role of motherhood, that make them feel empowered and valued.  I love that my niece can grow up to be an engineer or a teacher, a doctor or a nurse, childfree or a mother.  I love that I live in a generation where, in spite of continued push back, I have choice to be or do what I want.  I like having respect, a voice, and a choice.  That’s why I’m a feminist.

It’s really not a dirty word.

The Gift of the Moon

The light in my room comes on, it doesn’t matter much to me;  I’m nearly seven and it’s past my bedtime so any excuse to stay awake is a worthy one.  I blink in the abrupt flood of light, my eyes adjust and I see the shape of my dad standing in my doorway.  He’s holding my bulky, nylon skiing jacket in one hand. 

“Get dressed,” he says softly, not wanting to wake my little sister in the next room. “I want to show you something.”

I should be asleep, so naturally I move much faster than I do when he or my mom wake me up for school in the morning.  If dad is waking me up, it must be good.  I pull my jeans on over my pajamas.  They are the scratchy sort, made of the same waffle like material as my long johns are.   I ignore the scratchiness, because whatever Daddy has planned must be out of this world.  I put on my socks and slip my feet into my sneakers without untying the laces; it takes too long to tie them back up again.  Why can’t I have Velcro like a normal kid?

Daddy is waiting for me on the couch; he hands my coat to me.  I carefully extract my mittens and blue stocking cap from the left sleeve.  Mom and Dad always make me wear a stocking cap, even if it’s one of the itchy, ugly royal blue ones with the white pom-pom and Dad’s company logo woven into the band.  Normally I would protest, ask for us to find my pretty hat, or something.  But tonight, we might be going on an adventure, so I’ll not argue.  When I’m suitably attired, Dad puts on his coat and gloves and together we embark into the cold, clear, starry night.

We climb into the blue Chevy, no warmer than the night outside, Dad doesn’t say much as he starts up the car.

“It will get warm soon,” is about the extent of it, as he watches to make sure I buckle my seatbelt.  Daddy has never been much for talking.  That’s alright in my estimation; I can talk enough for the both of us, which must have been the case because the car ride seems short.  We park in a lot, I don’t see anything of any interest, but Daddy seems sure of himself as he helps me out of the car.  He holds my hand as we cross the parking lot.  I’m not sure of where we are, but Daddy walks slowly so my short legs can keep up, he knows where we are and I trust him.  In the distance are some figures, standing around tripods, holding flashlights with red covers.  They are pointing upwards, to the heavens.  I look up too, wondering to what they are pointing.  The moon is big, white, and full tonight; as we approach I can see that they are adjusting a large telescope on one of the tripods.  I know it’s a telescope, because I’ve seen one just like it in my science book. 

“Oh, it’s a good night for gazing,” one of the telescope guys says to another, “not a cloud in the sky.”  I can see them smile at me in the dim red light as we approach.

“Have you come to take a look?”  The man asks me, adjusting the tripod to account for my stature.  He already knows the answer to his question.  I nod, uncharacteristically silent.  “Put your eye right there.”  I do as the man instructs, my shyness melts away as I blurt my opinion for all to hear. 

“But, it’s BLURRY!” 

Daddy laughs at my indignation, his warm, infectious mirth filling the cold starry night.  The telescope men can’t help but join him, his laugh has always been contagious.   The man who had lowered the telescope for me checks the eye piece.  “So it is,” he replies as he makes an adjustment.  “Try again,” he offers, stepping back.

I balance carefully, trying not to touch the eyepiece with my face, not wanting to disturb the telescope’s perfect equilibrium.  I close one eye and peer up to see what the telescope holds on the other end and I see what Daddy wanted to show me.  I see the seas and mountains, the bright white surface and the dark craters.  I look across the eyepiece at the smiling face of my father;  he has given me the moon.

Sensible Shoes

I always favor sensible shoes, it makes sense, you know? Everyday I walk to work, where I stand as straight as a caryatid for hours at the circulation desk, climb ladders, patrol the rows of cases checking for troublemakers, until I walk back home once more.  I live alone now, since Ma passed on, alone save for Falstaff the fat orange cat that once sat on the back stoop begging for scraps.  When it got cold this time last year, I brought him inside and he hasn’t left.  He isn’t much, but he’s mine and he’s waiting for me when I get home at night which is more than I had before he came along.

Every morning the clatter of milk bottles on my stoop wakes me.  I roll over and push Falstaff off the bed.  I chose a dress every bit as sensible as my shoes, it was my mother’s but I’ve cut it down to fit me; I’m thrifty like that.  I hook my thick stockings to my garters, which are every bit as utilitarian as the rest of the things I own.  I sit on the edge of my bed as I slip my feet into my brown oxfords with the thick square heel, and carefully tie them.  Sensible, everything about me is sensible.

I put on my grey wool coat and black scarf, pick up my big, black umbrella and my one  brown leather handbag and walk out the door, my sensible heels click down the stone stairs of the front stoop.  I walk past rows of houses, cars, and the newsstand on the corner.  The headlines aren’t particularly good, Britain has been battered by bombs for years now, they are calling it “the blitz”.  People are saying we should go over and help them, I don’t know if I agree.  We bailed them out last time and we didn’t get much for our trouble.

That war took so much from us; sons, brothers, husbands, fathers, and fiancees.  The ones that came back can scarcely be called lucky; a generation of shattered and broken men, but perhaps they are lucky after all.  Their wives and sweethearts toil to rebuild, but at least they have that luxury.  Some of us weren’t smiled on by fortune or God, if there is one.  Now, if the hawks have their way, we will be back in the mud and the blood of the trenches and another generation of men will come home shattered and another generation of girls will be left alone with nothing but overfed cats to keep them company.

I wasn’t always sensible, you know?  I was once lively and impractical; frivolous even.  My dresses weren’t cotton hand-me downs that my mother used to wear, they were bright and gay.  My shoes were anything but clunky square heels; once I had a pair of red leather ones with cut outs and French heels, can you imagine?  I try not to imagine, it just depresses me further, no one ever looks at my feet anymore.  Joe used to say how could he see the red of my shoes when my eyes were sparkling so.  They don’t sparkle anymore; the bloom has quite gone off the rose, as they say.  How can your eyes sparkle when your heart died amongst barriers of barbed wire, in a cold muddy gash cut in the French country side?  I lost everything for a gain of a few feet of dirt near Verdun.  Patriotic duty is what they called it.

I unlock the library door and walk to the circulation desk.  I remove my coat and hang it on the coat rack along with my handbag and umbrella.  My eyes travel to where a pile of books from close yesterday still sit; they will need to be re-shelved.  I place them on a cart and turn back to my desk.  My calendar is sitting there, yesterday's page still on the top.  I pull yesterday from the dwindling pile and shiver from my head to my sensible shoes.  This winter has been cold and December the sixth is proving the coldest day yet.  Here’s hoping that 42 proves more fortuitous than 41.