It’s in Your Hands!
November 28, 1998
Crossing the threshold into the ballroom, my awareness floods with the realization that I am entering a new dimension of my life. The energy in the room crackles with the recommitment to making a difference! Women move toward and around me, heading to the breakout sessions for this conference celebrating the 25th anniversary of Connecticut’s Permanent Commission on the Status of Women.
Moving toward the podium to greet my new colleague, Barbara DeBaptiste, chairwoman of the commission—who had insisted I “Be there!”—I am struck by her enormous presence. She engages my woman-spirit with her embodiment of the archetypal Black Madonna—strength and vulnerability all in one. I am pulled to her like iron filings to a U-shaped magnet, and she embraces me with her magnanimous grin. In a flash of awareness, I recognize that she is a reflection of me, of all of us—a powerful energetic aspect it is now time to unbridle.
The topics haven’t changed over the years since the “revolution” began—Women’s Health Care , How to Start Your Own Business, Financial Planning, Workplace Equity—but the content and the audience have. No longer predominantly young, naïve, middle-class, heterosexual white women in their 20s and 30s. Now the rooms are filled with a large percentage of midlife women—of all colors, sexual preference, and economic strata—all women who have ventured out into the harsh realities far from our old coffee klatches around the proverbial kitchen table. Unlike the raging fervor of the earlier years of the movement, now there is a deeper resolve and greater understanding of what we are striving for—for each other and generations to come.
Closing the conference, Marcia Ann Gillespie, editor of Ms. Magazine, asked us, “How’s your life different from your mother’s?” Captured by her question, I reflect on the comparison of my mother’s life at age of 54 versus my own and the path that took me (and us) to this point in history.
At my age, my mother was caught in a downward debilitating spiral of depression fueled by a lack of purpose in her life. Beyond her supporting role to her husband and raising her four children, there was nothing. Although yearning for a bite of her husband’s worldliness, she was stuck with dishes in the sink and searching for the best price for the weekly groceries. No matter how hard Mom would plead, Dad would never condone her working outside the home. (God forbid—What would that say about him as the man of the house?!) With only a high school diploma and no marketable skills, this outspoken daring young woman athlete of the 1930s and ’40s gave up her voice, disappearing into the “proper role” for a woman of the 1950s and early ’60s.
“No supporting role for me,” I declared as I graduated college with a BS in biology, human development, and education. Married upon graduation to my college boyfriend, who fit my parent’s profile of a good catch, I was going to do things differently than my Mom. (Yeah, right!) I worked hard and received many accolades as an avant-garde educator. But I too had fallen into the supporting role as my new husband pursued his PhD. It wasn’t until the very early ’70s, when as a young American corporate wife and mother of a baby girl living overseas in London, did I realize that I had in fact followed in my mother’s footsteps.
It was hard enough being the only mummy who let her baby daughter wear overalls and get really good and dirty. I was no doubt labeled the “irresponsible American mum” among my cohorts—nannies with their English prams and perfectly clean little girls in frilly dresses and Mary Jane’s. Although I loved being a mom—a Super Mom to boot—I yearned to be “in the world” again.
Ripping through this sterile moment in time when all seemed to be standing still for me came the preview issue of Ms. Magazine. What a relief! I wasn’t alone! What I felt was normal and natural! I couldn’t wait to get “home” to the States so I could step out of role.
That issue of Ms. Magazine—and those to follow—changed the course of my life and the life of my dear little ones. Everything I did from then on carried the passion ignited that day I first found comfort and self-reflection in the pages of the irreverent periodical.
Now decades later, my life in no way resembles that of my mom’s—I’ve been a leader of women, an entrepreneur, a visionary intrapreneur in the formidable male bastions of corporate America, and a transformational coach to those in power positions. The dues I paid to be “free and equal” were mighty—including the loss of legal custody of my two young children in the backlash of the late ’70s. Although the victories and worldly successes have been bittersweet, I’d walk the same path to break the ancestral legacy of the women before me.
Yet, if I could go back in time, I’d change one fundamental thing—where we placed the responsibility for our woes and lackluster lives. Instead of blaming men or wanting to be just like them (I can remember wearing colorful bow ties and pin-striped suits to work), I’d value our differences and retain my true femininity. Rather than forcing myself to choose between either/or roles, I’d embrace both/and. That is truly being a woman of choice.
Coming out of reverie, I hear the call to step up to the challenge once more—“Be the best kind of woman . . . truthful, bold, and willing to take chances.” Am I ready to give again? Haven’t we given enough?
Clearly over the last 25 to 30 years, we have earned more money, changed the face of the workplace, filled the pipelines into academia, planned the number of children we have, and gained more control over our lives. That’s the good news. The not so good news is that we have lost our true feminine essence in the process. Instead of us transforming the world we live in, it transformed us. Now amidst the most virulent backlash since the 1940s, we must come to center and reclaim the best of our mothers’ kitchen table wisdom. Combined with our savvy know-how, this innate wisdom will empower us to preserve choice and to forge new inroads for our daughters and granddaughters to come.
Stoking those long quiet embers of passionate activism, her Crone-like closing words, “It’s in your hands,” ignites coals that had begun to cool down and die out.
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