We are just days away from election day in the US, and our national anxiety is spiraling out of control. I am trying to remember, to remind myself, that in Dr. Martin Luther King's words, "the moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice" and that we are in the long part right now. That doesn't mean we won't get there, but right now, we're in the struggle part, not the justice part. It would be easy to lose sight of hope because when in the midst of the struggle, justice seems so far removed... but now is not the time to give up.
Ever since I've been old enough to form opinions, I have a political perspective. I started off by just parroting my parents' views, by asking questions about what "we" thought, and accepting what I was told at face value. This is a somewhat peaceful way to exist: there was no angst, no worry, no doubt. I had faith that my parents knew what was best, and so I would agree with them always.
It will come as no shock to anyone who has ever been a teenager that this fell apart.
One time (for it was a process), it fell apart in English class in high school. My teacher assigned Judy Brady's "I want a wife" essay, and I thought, "MY MOTHER NEEDS A WIFE!" I grew up in a household where my father spent his mornings moaning "How can I get dressed if I don't have socks? (MOM'S NAME) WHERE ARE MY SOCKS?" because she laid out his clothes every day for him to get dressed; never mind that his drawer was full of socks only two feet away from the bed, and he was a grown man perfectly capable of opening that drawer. I grew up in a household where, to the best of my recollection, my father only cooked one meal in my entire childhood (it was horrible: the recipe called for a tablespoon of capers, but he used the whole bottle of them plus their juice; my mother told us that we were grounded if we said one negative thing about it).
When I read Brady's essay and we explored the ideas in class, my world burst open. My peers found it funny and silly, because their families weren't so backwards thinking. It dawned on me that not every marriage was like my parents' marriage, and that there were other ways for me, a woman, to live.
I ran home, excitedly pulled the essay out of my backpack, and said, "MOM! Look! You need a wife!" I was one hundred percent convinced that when she read it, she would have an epiphany about her sexist marriage (I was pretty sure she didn't like the "WHERE ARE MY SOCKS?!" conversation every day either, and convinced as well that she didn't put out the socks as she was supposed to because it was her small rebellion). I thought about my mother rising up to face my father, saying "You're a grown man. Open the drawer yourself!" and I thought "My mother is free to become a writer, as she dreamed!" and that, her mind blown by Brady, everything would be different.
Ahhh, youth. I was a fool.
My mother was offended, not amused or inspired. She defended her marriage; she defended her life. She told me how lucky she was to have my father, how they took care of each other. (She sometimes cried at his treatment of her, and she often complained about him to me, but at the sight of the Brady essay she forgot those things.)
***
Being raised by people who think that "feminist" is a dirty word has certainly informed me that not everyone will agree with my politics, and it has also informed me about how much work we have to do to get to womens equality. (Where, oh where, is the E.R.A.?!) I can hardly believe that I'm 51 years old in modern America, and women are still grasping at "firsts" and at full admission to society. When Brock Turner is let off with a scolding, when Brett Kavanagh is believed over Christine Blasey Ford, when women represent so few at the highest levels of government and business, when "the canon" is filled with white men, and when the gender pay gap prevails... I know why I must be feminist. And when my parents scoff at such "stupid" and "illogical" viewpoints, I know that we've got a long way to go.
It's wearying.
I'm weary.
How can it be that I'm 51 years old, that I read Brady's essay in when I was still sweet 16, and that so much of it is still true? In the COVID pandemic, women have started falling apart as they work their full time jobs from home, yet somehow are expected to continue with childcare, cooking, and cleaning so their husbands can work?
When presidential nominee Trump was recorded with the infamous "grab 'em by the pussy" talk, I thought, "Okay, that's it - he's done. Every woman in America will be as disgusted as I am."
Wrong again, but this time I can't blame youth. And it's women just like me who have supported him: white, middle aged women are one of his strongest demographics. Don't they realize that what he said wasn't funny, it was dangerous? Don't they realize that rape culture isn't just a phrase, it is the reality for 1 in 4 women? Aren't they...disgusted?
But they forgave. They have been so soaked in the world of misogyny that they don't even realize their own pain, they accept it as just the way things are.
And so here we are.
Some days, it seems unmanageable, unbearable, untenable, and un****ingbelievable.
But then I remember.
I remember that when my grandmother was born, she couldn't vote because of her gender...and now she can vote.
I remember that when I was born, I couldn't get my own mortgage because of my gender.
I remember that when I was born, there were different job listings for men and women in the classifieds.
I remember that we've had progress with the gender pay gap, though it's nowhere near where I want it to be (equal - the goal is to be equal).
And then I remember Abigail Adams.
***
As her husband helped to form The Declaration of Indpendence, declaring that "all men are created equal," she wrote to him to "remember the ladies" - and we know, of course, that he did not.
That letter was written in 1776, and it is a reasonable and cogent argument as to why women's rights mattered, too, but despite their loving relationship, and despite the anger at tyrants who stole natural rights from people, Abigail Adams died without seeing progress.
Women's suffrage is said to have begun in earnest in 1840, with Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott. Stanton died in 1902, 18 years before women received the right to vote; Mott died in 1880, a full 40 years before women received the right to vote. The women who laid the foundation for women's rights in America were dead and gone before they ever saw the benefit of those rights.
I know that I'm just a baby in the women's rights journey. I know that the women before me fought harder, against worse odds. Shirley Chisholm argued for the Equal Rights Amendment in 1970, when I was still a baby; she died without seeing it ratified, and still we wait.
***
I'm frustrated, and weary, and disappointed. At about 51% of the population, women are considered a minority interest, and in the workplace and in our own homes, we have to fight to be heard, to not have to work twice as hard. For women of color, it's significantly worse: the gender pay gap is worse, employment statistics are worse; discrimination is worse. Much worse.
It is cause for anger, fear, and frustration.
But it's not cause to give up.
***
My grandma had no control over her own life, because she had no access to education as a girl, and because society told her that she had to do what her husband told her to do. She gained the right to vote, but she never saw people who looked like her hold public office.
It's different for me. I had to fight hard (against my parents' wishes for me) to get an education, but I did get that education, and as a result I have a rewarding career. Both of my congressmen are women; my representative is a woman. I have voted for a female U.S. President, and I've voted for a female U.S. Vice President. My name is the only name on the deed to my car, and on my mortgage, and on my credit card. When I went to college, my granny was proud of me. She saw how different my life was from hers, and she cheered for me. I missed her funeral because I had to take a final exam (I was able to show up for the gathering afterwards), and I know she understood, even though it broke my heart. I had to fight to get the life never offered to her.
***
As election 2020 nears, and we find out who holds the fate of not just our nation but of our day to day lives, it's hard for me not to spin out of control with fear and nausea. Will my daughter be granted autonomy over her own body? Will my rights ever be declared? Will men feel authorized to grab 'em by the pussy, or will they know that they will be held accountable?
Women's rights are far from the only thing on the ballot, and far from the only thing I care about, but they're what I'm thinking of today.
I'm thinking of Abigail Adams, and how she knew that she deserved more, but she never lived to see her rights come to fruition. I'm thinking about Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott, and how they never got to cast a vote. I'm thinking how hopeless they must have felt on their deathbeds, wondering why all of their hard work had not paid off, why their dreams did not come true.
And yet, their work was not fruitless.
Here I am, centuries later, and I have the right to demand more than the rights that I am given, even when I have so many more rights than they did. I have the right to be angry that I am not declared and equal, and I have the right to vote for a woman as Vice President.
Progress is so slow that it hurts, but it is progress.
Today, as I wonder if America will vote to encourage racial, gender, and sexual equality, or to deny rights to others, I take comfort in knowing that even when we can't see progress happening, even when it seems like progress is impossibly slow, it is inevitable that progress WILL happen.
We will make it. I hope it's soon - on Tuesday - that the next steps of progress are made, but today I comfort myself with the knowledge that progress WILL happen, sooner or later.
I voted for "sooner."
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