October’s my birth month. It’s my husband Rice’s, too. We often recognize another year’s passing with a special combined celebration. This year, especially, was meant to be “our year,” a time to celebrate one of the best parts about aging: RETIREMENT! Time to slow down. Or travel. We talked about Scotland and Ireland. Maybe in the fall.
Then came 2020. For everyone, not just us.
This October’s been more about rumination than travel. Earlier this month, “my” Bad Girls’ Book Club socially distanced around the fire pit. We’re a mix of Millennials, Gen-Xers, and Boomers, women who are black, white, and brown. This diversity is intentional, although sometimes it reminds me I’m not getting any younger. More often, though, it enriches discussions. Generations tend to see things differently. Our talks enlighten me.
October’s read was Elizabeth Gilbert’s City of Girls, a wonderful story told by a 95-year-old woman looking back on her New York City experiences from the 1940s to the present. It explores themes of love, female sexuality, and promiscuity. We Bad Girls talked about what it must’ve been like to be a single woman living in NYC in the 1940s. All of us winced at the slut-shaming the narrator suffered. A younger member revealed the playing field may be leveling: “Guys who sleep around these days are called f*** boys.” Ah. So are the times a-changing? “No,” a Gen-Xer reminded us. “There’s still a double standard.” And who could argue? A few days after the Bad Girls met, I read a comment on social media. It was allegedly made by a former California state assemblyman. Its content is a reminder that we women may have come a long way, baby..., but we’ve yet to transcend that good old double standard. Here’s the gist: “[Back in 1994...,) the ultimate ‘power broker’ that controlled every aspect of California’s state government was seeing a young girl who was in her late 20’s. He was in his 60’s. She was his mistress and he showered her with gifts and appointed her to a number of State government jobs. [He] launched her political career because she was having sex with him. The idea that she is an “independent” woman who worked her way up the political ladder because she worked hard is baloney. It is common knowledge...that [she] slept her way into powerful political jobs.” Yes, this is a reference to Kamala. And yes, it makes me feel old. Because for years and years, I’ve listened to women of power being shamed by misogynistic comments. Except here’s the glitch. This comment, allegedly started by a man, was re-posted—two times, actually—by a couple of my female FaceBook “friends.” Both started their re-posts by saying: “Very Interesting. I Wonder how many Dems outside California know about all this? ** Lets Pass It Around and Make Sure They Know!”
Here’s the beginning of the comment my female FaceBook “friends” re-posted:
“She is attractive, animated and absurd. She stated that she never had children; yet was a ‘Mother to her husband’s children.’ And she ‘loved being a Mother.’ ...She led her audience to believe that she mothered these kids. I looked her up. She married her husband when the son was in his 3rd year of college and the daughter was in 10th grade and they actually lived with their biological Mother, except for normal visits with their father—so much for Motherhood.”
This part actually gets under my skin even more than the slut-shaming. Because, intentional or not, it belittles blended families. I mean, think about it. The challenges faced by these families are steep enough without this added disparagement. Divorce rates for remarriages with children are at least 50 percent higher. Unless both partners have kids. Then it’s more like 70 percent.
One out of every three Americans is either a step-parent, a step-child, or has some other form of a blended family. That’s 100 million people. Something about human nature pulls us toward loving each other. Toward connecting. Shouldn’t we root for these people?
My mom was widowed three times. I was a step-kid myself, times two. Even with everybody committed to making things work, it wasn’t always one big Brady Bunch picnic. And whether I was in preschool or high school—or even college—I felt the impact, good and bad. I still remember so much about those years. Sometimes the smallest things.
When I was in second grade, I watched—yes, with glee—as my mom raked in repeated prizes at a Mother-Daughter Banquet at church. She won for having the most daughters (five), for having the youngest daughter (a newborn), and having the widest spread in ages among her daughters (zero to eighteen). I overheard another woman at the banquet sniff, “Well, technically, those aren’t really all her daughters.” True, the oldest two were, technically, step-daughters. But it’s a good thing my mother didn’t hear the comment I heard because knowing her, she would have bitch-slapped the sniffling lady but good. Not because Mom was dying to keep all those prizes. Rather because the church basement wasn’t the place to dissect her family into steps, halves, and wholes, especially while celebrating family.
Admittedly, this post has meandered, much like my mind these days. Maybe I should blame it on aging? Except I can’t. The truth is I have sooooo many more thoughts I could share. About life in general, which is somewhat unsettling right now. But also about specific issues, like family. Do we still really think family is mostly a matter of blood? And then there’s the issue of women’s relationships. How long will it take us to realize that girls compete with one another, women empower each other?
These issues are mere starting points. But a piece of birthday cake awaits me. I’ll take that as my cue to move along and propose a toast.
So here’s to book clubs and diverse friendships, to stable families and empowering one another. Here’s to rising up. And lest I forget, here’s to yet another year!
Cheers ~ Jan
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