Me and (dare I say?) the "F-word"

One of my first gender memories occurred when I was about 7 years old. My parents had college friends that lived in Heber City and ran a small hotel. As I remember, Red and Petra were their names. I was intrigued by them. As a red-head myself, I couldn't imagine someone naming their red-headed kid Red; Petra was from Germany and sported a strong accent and hair-do that looked something akin to a bird's nest perched on top of her head. Sometimes I just stared at it, trying to imagine what might be living in there.

Red and Petra had a son a year older than me. I can't remember his name, but I do remember that we had the same birthday and that when we discovered this, he announced loudly and proudly that if we got married, I would have to make two birthday cakes....every year. I was young, but I remember feeling indignant about the comment--obviously promlatic since I still remember it. Perhaps I was upset by the idea that I would need to make my own cake on my own birthday, but the way I remember it I was upset by the idea that baking would be my job. A woman's job,

I felt similar feelings several times as I grew up. In fact, when I got married and was counseled, among other things, to submit to my husband, I remember confidently thinking that did not apply to me and quickly rejecting the idea. I'm sure Mitch has wished on more than one occasion that submit were a skill I possessed.

I finally came across a framework for these feelings when I innocently enrolled in a "feminism" course while I was in graduate school. I spent a semester studying feminism and feminist texts from an intellectual and historical perspective. Mitch took the class vicariously (whether he wanted to or not). I shared with him most of what I learned and felt over the course of the semester. He was a good sport, always willing to listen and offer support.  At the end of the semester, he pronounced that he felt so "liberated" as a result of this course. I was immediately defensive.  In fact, I lectured him in a loud voice that this course was about centuries of oppression towards women and that I couldn't believe he was somehow making it about him. So like a man, I remember thinking.

After I calmed down and realized I needed to mend hurt feelings, I asked him what he meant by that comment. He told me in all seriousness that he had never felt like he had a choice as to his future. As a man, he felt like he was required to get a requisite education so that he could secure a job to provide for his family. End of story. He boldly stated that he now felt like he had an option: he could stay home and raise the kids if he chose to. 

I knew at that moment that what I had been offended by so many years before was the idea of equality and choice. I had thought it wasn't fair that I had to make both cakes. And as I have matured in my thinking, I have also realized that while many inequities over the centuries have been directed towards women, those inequities also pigeonhole men. It certainly isn't fair to men that we provide gender constructs so rigid that many men feel like they have no choice about their futures.

All we really want in regards to gender issues, I believe, is choice and then subsequent respect for those choices. Choice over who we are, what we become, what will be required of us, and respect for our decisions as we do our best to live them out (consequences and all). We owe that to each other. Most importantly, we owe that to ourselves.

Written 25 October 1016

I Need a Beach!

I'm lying on the beach listening to the waves, soaking up heat, watching surfers battle their competition with occasional success, enjoying families as they play and bond and laugh. As I burrow my toes deep enough into the sand to feel coolness, I soak it all in and breathe. I am truly relaxed.

I find myself thinking everyone needs a beach, that, in fact, every state should have its own beach within a short and easy drive--at least the state that I live in.  I grumble to myself that a ten-hour drive should not be requisite to this feeling.

But I immediately talk myself out of such nonsense. I don't live in Southern California for a reason. Not everything about the locale elicits these same feelings of fondness. I am not a fan of traffic, the sheer numbers of people overwhelm me, the high crime rate and high natural disaster rate (I know this from the media) alarm me. Those things stress me out. When I visit Southern California, it is actually only on the beach that I feel relaxed, and even then not always. Sometimes the trained lifeguard that is me feels obsessive about the wave or the current or the negligent parent.

And then, as I think this through further, I realize there are plenty of places at home that provide a similar kind of relaxation: a canyon drive, that spot on the couch with a book or an iPad or a remote in my hand, an unscripted conversation and long walk with a friend.

As I lounge on the beach in my relaxed and contemplative state, I am left to conclude that it isn't necessarily the location that is truly important. The essential awareness is knowing ourselves well enough to orchestrate relaxation when we need it.  Simply knowing you need a beach is sometimes the equivalent of finding one.

Written 11 October 2015

Language Barriers

I am watching my sister teach a machine quilting class to seven Russian women, none of whom speak English. Likewise, she speaks no Russian. There is an interpreter, but even with her attempts to relay language there is chaos.

The women know the basics of the machine--sort of. Even while she sets up, though, there are many questions and multiple camera phones capture her every move.

She has no choice but to resort to pantomime. I detect some frustration, but only because I know her so well. The women just see a smile and patience.

While watching, I am also reading an email from my son, Seth. He has been in Korea one week after studying the language intensively for 9 weeks. It was not enough. He can understand very little and communicate even less. I sense in his emails a bit of frustration, although he doesn't admit it. I just know him.

I am reminded of the many times I have traveled and struggled communicating. Even now, I'm sitting in the quilt shop contemplating (writing about) my sister's struggle rather than venturing out in the city to encounter my own communication problems. I will tomorrow and the women will be very impressed by my independence and adventuresome spirit, but today I am postponing my own communication difficulties: how do I get to this place? How do I get back to my hotel? How much? Where am I? Which train?

Usually, a lack of communication is frustrating. Sometimes, though, it is enlightening. Funny how it stretches us. Even with the language difference and cultural difference, this group of women is laughing, smiling, learning, quilting, and growing. They are understanding...at least something. They are asking her to pose for pictures; they are nodding assent; they too are pantomiming. Communication, although fragmented and slow, is happening.

Language barriers naturally complicate communication, but sometimes we struggle communicating even when we speak the same language. Misunderstandings are more nuanced. We respond to tone, we are impacted by what is not said; we worry about intention and innuendo and feelings (usually our own).

Interestingly, much of this doesn't happen when there is a language barrier. We celebrate even the simplest communication. As I watch the quilting women "talk" and celebrate their success, I am struck by the idea that we ought to replicate this celebration even when speaking the same language. Perhaps if we celebrated communication, miscommunication would diminish. Perhaps if we paid more attention to when we got it right, rather than when we got it wrong, we would get more right. Perhaps we should take more joy in the simplicity of communication rather than getting bogged down by the complexity of language. Perhaps.

I will celebrate our success in effectively negotiating a price for these fashionable items!

Written 22 September 2015