I woke up this morning with words on my mind and have settled in with a massive cup of coffee, a big goofy 80-lb dog at my feet, and a happily slumbering BF who is seemingly unstirred by my click-clacking on the computer. A symphony of snores and hums and early-morning musings from the outdoors are all around me, the loudest source coming from the four-legged princess at my feet who provides a wide range of musical gifts in her sleep, and seems to believe she fits quite comfortably in the bed with us (although she doesn’t, really…but shhh….don’t tell her). The muted television is darting shiny lights and colors across the mostly dark bedroom and I find myself feeling strangely content and happy. My little bubble of happiness within the compounds of this queen-sized bed. Which is a great way to wake up today. Especially since it’s my birthday.
I’m 28 years old today. A lot has changed in just the last few months and certainly in the last few years. Among these changes, a new relationship and some new changes at work on the horizon. Today, however, I’m thankful to wake up to a new year. 28 is both a wonderful year and a scary one, too. Two years closer to “thirty-something” and eight-years further away from “twenty-something”, and I’m still wondering why the hell no one talks about how stupid-hard and perplexing and challenging and wonderful and awesome and terrible these years are for us. How utterly insane these years can make you feel. It seems like another lifetime ago I was turning 18, living in the mountains of North Carolina, and trying to understand the journey ahead of me. Thinking I had come through the worst of it, trying to make decisions about college and boys and “what’s next”. What issues I cared about and what things I felt the need to be passionate about. Recycling. Poor people. And chick-fil-a. Check. Check. And check. Flash-forward to now and I barely feel as though I've begun to scratch the surface of what this life is about for me.
And there are days when, despite my self-awareness that I’m not really that old, I start to feel pretty cantankerous and geriatric (working with Baltimore City schoolchildren and college students simultaneously everyday can do this to you, no matter your age). And not to mention really out of date. Not only does MTV baffle me now (what happened to the music!?) but I can’t seem to win for losing with technology. As I was recently reminded by my BF’s son, “You don’t have games OR songs on your cell phone?? You must be SAD!” And I thought I was a part of the technologically-savvy generation. I guess I was doodling in my notebook during those classes in elementary school (yeah, a paper notebook…you know, the kind with a spiral?). Plus I drink water between my glasses of wine. I guess age has taught me something.
For the last few mornings I’ve been awake too early. Perhaps it’s my own body’s response to my own private new year’s day celebration or perhaps the bubbling anxiety that seems to be more and more present on my mind and tongue: “What am I doing with my life and where am I going? Am I happy? Am I fulfilled? When should I have babies?” The questions we all ask ourselves as we creep into adulthood and fall into silent and beautiful patterns with ourselves and our loved ones. And, “did I feed the dog last night?"
Some mornings I wake up so early, and with so much purpose, that I wonder—what is my body really trying to tell me? There’s a reason I’m not sleeping. Maybe something is wrong. Maybe I did forget to feed the dog last night and she’s having dreams of different ways to “accidentally” knock me off. I nervously admit that she drags me towards the steps with a tad too much vigor some mornings.
I’ve always found it mildly flattering that my birthday just happens to coincide with International Women’s Day. Which is ironic because I’ve spent the bulk of my 28 years on this earth negotiating just exactly what my womanhood is about and where I, as a woman, fit into the world with my ovaries and womb and big, thick hips.
And I’ll freely admit that I’ve spent a lot of years avoiding the word “feminist”. I was insistent that I didn’t believe myself to be a feminist and that I couldn’t identify at all with the movement. I associated the word with angry teeth-grinding man-haters who took any opportunity possible to mock women with children or women who didn’t work outside of the home. And men who identified as feminists? Yeah, no thank you. I thought these women (and men) felt the need to demonize domesticity as if it were the enemy. Domesticity was the anti-Christ of feminism and represented everything that prevented the women’s movement from marching forward.
I believed (and believe) in the power of women. I thought I had some radical idea to save domesticity (like the endangered species or the trees). That somehow we were at risk of losing our femininity when we became a part of the "women's movement". I believe strongly that women have an important role to play: we are healers and nurturers and providers of life and nourishment. I believe that we’re supposed to have thick hips and natural curves because we’re supposed to give birth and provide warmth and safety to our children and families. And while many argue that this kind of attitude is SO turn of the century, I guess I don’t find this behavior archaic—I find this behavior critical for survival. And I didn’t hear the feminists sharing these values with me (which was mainly because I wasn’t really listening).
Particularly in college, where I found myself deep in a liberal-feminist-recycle-mania, I felt a need to defend the women out there who clung to domesticity for safety. I felt the need to cling to that domesticity, too. I felt like I needed to offer support to the women who let their partners open the pickle jar and pick up the heavy things. Who didn’t want careers but instead wanted babies and mini-vans and houses with finished basements. Growing up in the south, I found familial structures like these, even though they didn’t necessarily reflect the home I grew up in as a kid, as a source of comfort. Like a country song. Or buttered toast.
And what I know now is that what I was clinging to wasn’t so much the hetero-normative domestic bliss of the 1950’s, but an idea that we all have a role to play in raising our children and our neighbor’s children and our neighbor’s neighbor’s children and that a woman's work is truly beautiful. And I’ve learned, with age, as with most things, that I was largely wrong with my assumptions about feminists. To have thought that these values didn’t have a home in the word “feminist” was myopic and naïve.
I look around at a world in crisis, especially for women. As I get older, I’ve become more aware of the overwhelming pressures we put on ourselves to be a certain kind of woman—to be successful, to be thin, to be pretty, to be likeable—pressures that perhaps are greater than any pressure we get in the classroom, the board room, or the senate floor. The way we interpret the world as women is just as scary as the way the world has been interpreted for us.
I’ve become keenly aware of the harshness of public spaces—the way we all worry about how we’re dressed and how we share a communal fear of being violated, to the point that we no longer trust strangers to be good people, when offered a choice.
I’ve been working with kids for as long as I can remember. Sadly, I can no longer keep track of the number of children I’ve met who were missing mothers (and fathers, too, but that’s another post for another time)—either physically or emotionally—and I can’t stomach what it does to a child.
But I also have spent months of my life in places around the world where women are treated quite differently than they are here. My friends and family in Ghana have taught me so many things about what it means to be a woman—the roles and responsibilities that come with being of this gender, and the joys of this gender, too. I know everyone wants to hear that in developing West African countries, women are hidden and abused, but I have to argue something quite the opposite. While, yes, the freedom of women (and men, too) in places like this looks very different from our man-made American ideals on the subject, women are celebrated and revered for their sheer womanhood. Women rule the roost (although their husband don’t always know it).
As I sit here in the quiet of the early morning, I can freely admit that I love being a woman. I love my curves. And though you may not believe me (or want to know about it), I’ve come to respect my monthly menstruation; a biological reminder of my true femininity and my purpose as a woman. I love wearing high-heels and feeling pretty. I love wearing dresses in the summertime and when I know I’m having an awesome hair day. And I love that I know my kitchen inside and out (and could take on any potluck dinner request with no fear). I’m a baby whisperer. It concerns the BF to no end how loudly my womb can talk; how naturally I take to mothering and how organically babies just seem to land on my hip (and how little I protest).
But I also love my work. I love being respected for my intelligence and my abilities. I actually prefer to work hard and like being recognized when I know I’ve really contributed something important to a project or a plan. And I’ve learned that in this place we live, you can’t always have both worlds. You can’t always blend the two so organically. And why? Because we still have a lot of work to do. Which I might not have said ten years ago.
Yesterday, an article was featured in the Huffington Post, “The Trouble with Bright Girls”. The article explores what it means to be a girl and what it means to be a smart girl and how this impacts your life as a woman. Near the end, the author asks: “How often have you found yourself avoiding challenges and playing it safe, sticking to goals you knew would be easy for you to reach? Are there things you decided long ago that you could never be good at? Skills you believed you would never possess?” I found myself silenced at these questions. Because the answer for me is yes. I was a bright girl and I am a bright woman and sometimes these things can be crippling, in the face of the culture we live in right now.
So on this International Women’s Day, and my birthday, I ask you to challenge yourself. Ask for more. Stop playing it safe. Stop forcing yourself to be something (or someone) you’re not. Stop listening to Dr. Oz and Dr. Phil and all the morning shows about diets and surgeries and exercise and do the things that make you happy (not the things a doctor on television said would make you happy). Choose hobbies and careers that fulfill you. Don’t be so afraid to eat butter or bread (believe me no one really cares if you gain five pounds…you’re the only one who noticed).
Don’t be so afraid to take big, giant steps. Listen more. Be present in your life. Choose to be alive. Laugh more. Enjoy your children. Be willing to love yourself. And your big hips (or small hips, or no hips, or giant hips). Celebrate yourself.
"In Her Own Words: In Celebration of International Women's Day 2011" was created to share and celebrate the experiences of women from many walks of life. All day Tuesday, March 8th Any Other Wedding and One Cat Per Person will feature posts written by a collective of intelligent, passionate and opinionated women bloggers from the United States and the United Kingdom. We encourage you to comment and create dialouge as well as visit their respective blogs. The conversation starts here, but it does not need to end here. Be sure to stop by Any Other Wedding and One Cat Per Person throughout the day to read all of the posts in the series. For more information about International Women's Day, visit www.internationalwomensday.com
Banner: Joshua Gomby
