A woman's place

 

Today is a hard day for many reasons.

 As an American woman and as a human being, I have less rights today than I did last Monday. This country sees me as less valuable, less of a citizen and less capable – along with more than 50% of our population. As a Jewish woman, this country has determined that my religious beliefs should be secondary to theirs and that my life – along with the lives of all other women – should be governed by their theocratic beliefs despite this country being founded on the separation of church and state.

An American wielding a gun – a weapon of death – has more rights than I do as a female human being. This was deemed so important that states should not be permitted to make their own laws. A corpse, from whom you cannot remove an organ to save a life without permission – has more rights than an American woman. But a rape survivor will be forced to carry and birth a child and possibly (depending on state), co-parent with her rapist, or God forbid, pay him child support. A victim of molestation will be forced to birth the child of their molester – be it a stranger or family member. A woman, facing an unwanted, unplanned or dangerous pregnancy is forced to birth a child as nothing more than an incubator for the state. There are more than 400K children in foster care in the US; of those, more than 115,000 are available for adoption. This does not include those that may be available for adoption but not in the system. Adoption is not the answer.

The maternal mortality rate in the US is among the highest among developed countries. In 2020, it was determined that the US material mortality rate was more than double the recent rates of most other developed counties. The numbers go up significantly for women of color; their death rate is three time higher than white woman and three times higher than Hispanic woman. However, Hispanic woman are seeing the largest increase in maternal death.[1] Racial inequities play a huge role in pregnancy care – Black women are three to four times more likely to die of pregnancy-related death than non-Hispanic white women. [2]

So, today is a sad day. I, along with every other American woman, have far fewer rights than we did 23 years ago. Twenty-three years ago, Rona died. A horrible and debilitating illness killed her – despite her access to excellent healthcare. And let’s be clear, despite her access to care – she had to fight tooth and nail for every treatment and every procedure. This includes one procedure that required the board approval from the local Catholic hospital because it was considered birth control – even though the hemorrhaging was killing her. Religious ideology was more important and took precedence over her physical well-being. I think of how many others could not – cannot – even access what she fought for on a daily basis.

Twenty-three years ago, she lived in a world where she had more control over her body than her friends, her family have today. She wasn’t overly political – she was deeply rooted in her Judaism and the idea that we are becoming a theocracy would have hurt her to the bone. It would have scared her. It scares the shit out of me.

So, today – on the 23^rd anniversary of her death - 23 years of remembering her whenever I come across our inside jokes, a rerun of I Love Lucy, see hard shell crabs or think of the beach. 23 years of finding myself a bit sadder on one day at the end of June and early November. 17 years of wondering what she would think of Jillian, who bears her Hebrew name. Today, though I miss her – I am grateful she isn’t here to see this. As I am grateful my mother and my grandmother are not here to see this. Intelligent, strong and resilient women who believed strongly in a woman’s right to choose.

Years ago, when the HPV vaccine first came out, I found my mother crying as she was watching the news coverage about the vaccine. When I asked her why, she said, “In my lifetime, I never thought there would be a way to prevent cancer.” She would have readily taken that vaccine and had her daughters do the same. Because healthcare for woman is never a priority.

Even further back, I was talking with my grandmother about her days as a dancer and I remember her telling me how the dance troupes were like a family and for many in the troupe, their own families no longer wanted them. She was a staunch believer in choice and gay rights long before it was a more common topic of conversation. She saw first-hand what happens when people don’t have freedoms.

Just over 50 years ago, my parents divorced. It was not an amicable situation. Despite this, my father had to go with my mother to the bank and give consent for her to get her own credit card and help her get an apartment. Because a divorced woman was not trustworthy enough.

40 years ago this month, I was sexually assaulted. I told almost no one. I wouldn’t have been believed because a woman’s truth weighs less than a man’s actions.

27 years ago, I was part of the leadership of a large nonprofit. While working on the annual budget, a male director had the balls to suggest one of his male employees get a bigger raise than the single woman on his team because said employee and his wife were expecting their third child. Historically, I was quiet during these meetings but quite an array of words flew out of my mouth. To the credit of our female executive director, his idea was quickly shut down, but he continued to believe it was a valid request. Because our society gives men greater value than a woman in the workplace.

18 years ago, I found myself pregnant and unmarried. I was told by more than one person that having the baby would be a mistake, she would be “screwed up” with no father, that I should abort. And, I thought about it – for how long doesn’t matter. I had a choice I am forever grateful for – I chose to continue the pregnancy and become a mother on my own terms. I was damned for choosing to continue the pregnancy and damned for not. Because in our society, a woman choosing single motherhood must not know her own mind and could not do this on her own.

10 years ago, I sought out the advice of my Rabbi after the death of my daughter’s friend. After repeatedly declining his offer to speak with my daughter (she didn’t want to talk to him,) he told me that he felt my child needed a male role model in her life to talk to and guide her. His repugnant behavior drove me away from that synagogue and almost away from Judaism. Because society believes a woman alone cannot adequately provide guidance and support for her child.

9 years ago, my daughter was threatened at school. A boy threatened to, “shoot her in the face with a rifle.” Many phone calls, visits from the police and meetings at school later – someone actually said, “Oh, he wasn’t serious. Maybe he likes her.” Because assuring me that my daughter would be safe in school was less important than protecting a boy who they felt made an idle threat. (Note: bullying and repeated retaliatory threats continued and we left the school.)

This is not the world Rona and I talked about when we were young. This is not the world my mother and grandmother fought for or wanted for their children and grandchildren.

I’m afraid for my friends. I’m afraid for their children. For their spouses. For their partners. Stripping away human rights should not be so easy. In a democratic society, we should not be allowed to use religious ideology as the basis for legislation. What rights are next? Which of my friends is most vulnerable right now? Which members of my community will I next stand with and stand up for? Because even as a woman with fewer rights, there are others that are even more vulnerable.

Two weeks ago, I completed an interview and will begin volunteering with the escort program at Planned Parenthood.

Three days ago, I watched my daughter sign three petitions and sign up to volunteer with campus group that advocates for reproductive freedom and another that supports survivors of sexual assault.

In just over four months, I will watch my daughter cast her first vote. She turns 18 on election day. She has educated herself on issues. She is not afraid to speak up or speak out. She is strong. She is smart. 

But, we cannot leave this fight to our daughters and granddaughters. To our sons and grandsons. Friends, we must leave this world with more rights for more people – not less. With greater freedoms and more safety. With more hope and less despair.

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[1] https://www.usnews.com/news/health-news/articles/2022-02-23/u-s-maternal-mortality-rate-surged-in-2020

[2] https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7377107/

Searching for myself

I’m on a search to find myself – I don’t know where I’ve gone. I think this was such a gradual process that I didn’t notice it happening. I just know that I hardly recognize myself in the mirror. I know I’m not alone in this search – I know plenty of people who feel a bit in limbo of who they are, how they fit and where they are going.

New or soon-to-be emptynesters. Job searchers. Relocators. Caregivers without a charge to care for. Pet parents without a furry friend. Newly single. Long time single but really feeling it these days. You name it and there are likely so many people you know who may be searching. The search is different for everyone, from length of time to destination to a sense of achievement.

Seventeen years ago, I remember feeling equally lost. Life was in a state of flux. I was unemployed but working a contract position. I had ended a ridiculously unhealthy relationship a year or so before and was halfheartedly dating. I was living in a questionable neighborhood. I had no idea which way to go and then discovered I was pregnant. Aha…that was a direction. Or was it a distraction? A really big, life-changing and long-term distraction.

My mini-me is 16 (be still my heart as she prepares to fly from the nest.) Defining myself as “mother” has been the most challenging, fulfilling, and exhausting version of myself. I have learned so much, no doubt that this on-the-job training wasn’t always successful and I’m reasonably sure my kid will need therapy. But, as long as she’s a decent human (and I know this definition may vary), who is happy, kind, curious, strong and grounded….basically, as long as she’s not an asshole then I will feel moderately successful.

But who was I along this journey? I was caregiver, nurse (though I lost all medical credibility when we became friends with real doctors and nurses), teacher, psychologist, chauffer, referee, social director, travel planner, cheerleader, chef and more. I was the sole means of support, the handyman, the banker, the negotiator, and the chief decision maker. With all those hats, I have never had time to think about who I was when not tethered to a child. Even many of my friendships were developed because of those roles.

Now don’t get me wrong – some of those friendships are the glue that held me together and I really treasure them. I also know that most of my mom friends completely understand what I’m talking about here. Who are we without our kids? What kind of friends are we? Are we still friends? Let’s face it, we know some of those friendships are more tenuous than others – though this may be more common when the kids were younger.

A few months ago – though still in the thick of the quarantine environment – a friend asked how I was doing. I was struggling that day and I told her I was having a crisis of faith. It was the first time I had said that and to be honest, that is what I have attributed to this sense of limbo. We talked about for a bit. She had been attending her church virtually and admired her commitment to her observation and connection. I felt less than no desire to do so with my synagogue. I have usually hosted large holiday gatherings, especially for the Jewish holidays and that role was non-existent this past year. I just figured the sense of isolation from quarantine, preventing me fulfilling these roles had left me feeling untethered to my faith and my circle of celebrants. So last month, as Passover rolled around, I decided to host a small, outdoor gathering. Many of us were vaccinated. We made COVID adjustments – we sat outside, we did a lunch instead of dinner (unsure of weather), and I used all disposable plates and utensils (my mother was rolling over in her grave.) It felt almost “normal” and I was thrilled to have my home or rather, my patio, full of my familiar friends. I felt a bit more like myself but still had that sense of limbo. Then a birthday celebration came around – a happy hour on a patio was in order. I’ll admit being completely socially awkward in the majority of social situations – I never know what to say and while I seem quite social and extroverted, I usually feel weird, uncomfortable, and shy. For the last 16 years, these gatherings generally included small kids which proved a great distraction to having to adult with other grownups. There I was at a happy hour. The kids drove across the street to the mall. I knew some people, met a few people. Everyone was very nice and I chatted with those I knew and those I just met. While it was so nice to get out, I still felt that weird limbo. I don’t think my limbo comes from quarantine.

 For years, I chalked much of this awkwardness up to being a single mom. Most of my other mom friends are married or partnered so while we could all commiserate on topics of parenting, I simply couldn’t relate to much of the chatter centered around those types of relationships. While this has never been an issue for me, it is something to consider when I think about who I am. Pretty sure it doesn’t come from being a single mom either.

As mini-me spreads her wings (people – she just got her first real job!) and I watch her take those first tentative steps, I know it is my time to do the same thing. Time to find myself again and try and remember who I am. While I will now always be Mom and all that that entails, I have a chance to try and find that girl, that woman – who was more confident, a little crazy and reckless, more adventurous and far more brave than the middle-aged mom I see in the mirror.

 I had been thinking of doing a thing but kept telling myself no. I was too old, too uncool. But I really wanted to do it. It’s a small thing by thing standards but a thing nonetheless. I needed a partner in crime. I texted E; she was totally game to not only support me with my thing but do a thing of her own. Mini-me, not to be left out, wanted to do a thing, too. I led the charge. I researched, priced, and scheduled our things. I was nervous all day yesterday. I was going to do a thing – I felt a kind of nervous excitement I haven’t felt in years. I texted E. Could I live up to this thing? She assured me I could but she is far cooler than I am. Off we went to do our thing. Me, a rather dumpy, kinda fat middle-aged woman, a beautiful tall drink of water who is far hipper than me and our 16-year old chaperone.

Sitting there on the table, my toe tapping, muttering, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” the needle went it. It burned more than hurt. My eyes were squeezed shut the entire time. When it was done, E told me it looked like it had been there the whole time. Any reservations I had were gone – even Mini me told me it looked good. E went next with a different thing and we ended with Mini-me, who did the same thing as E. Both so happy with the outcome. Less than an hour later, the things were done. We walked out with a bit more spring in our step.

That needle did more than pierce my nostril. I feel like it woke me up. A renewed sense of doing new things and having fewer regrets. I bought a couple of Groupons for some creative stuff I want to try. I want to take that knife work class at Sur la Table. I’m going to stop coloring my hair (well, we will see how that goes.) I’m going to meet my friend for happy hour next time she asks. I’m buying new underpants. I may touch up my tattoo.

I feel more like myself than I have in years. 

 

PS - And just to confirm that I'm still awkward as fuck, here I am after I had to "soak" my nose is salt water. I'm shocked I didn't drown myself.

Different sides of the aisle - it's a bigger issue than it used to be

Not all of my friends are the same. We like different music, different foods, different clothes, different hobbies, different parenting styles and different ideas about vacation and camping.

T can’t imagine a closet without a solid selection of classic white blouses; she made me buy one once and it sat in my closet for years – with the tags still on it. She is always pulled together, can wear high heels all day and I can pick out a dress for her a hot minute. I am…..not like that but she can pick stuff out for me and she is the best gift giver ever – she always knows what I like. We are wildly different.

Some of my friends (okay, many of my friends) are big readers and we recommend books all the time; others have no interest. Some friends swear The Secret History by Donna Tartt is one of the best books ever, though reading it was painful for me. I can watch The Food Network like porn while D likely pays extra for ninety bazillion ESPN options. We are wildly different and that’s all good.

We are different religions. I stood up for L at her full Catholic mass wedding (in a dress with a giant bow on my ass and a crinoline) and she helped honor mini-me when she became a Bat Mitzvah. I have celebrated Easter with friends who then join me at the table for Passover.

Historically, I have had friends on both sides of the aisle. In fact, T and I had many a conversation about our different perspectives (perspectives are far more aligned these days.) We listened, we learned. With many friends – we wanted similar things but the method of getting there varied. Today, the political differences are so difficult.

I have many friends that just want the election to be over so they are no longer inundated with ads, signs, commercials, and calls  - it’s been overwhelming and exhausting. I get that. They just want people to go back to being friends and neighbors with different political views. It’s a lovely sentiment and one given from an extreme place of privilege. In today’s climate, people feel unsafe. They feel threatened. Their rights are threatened. They are afraid for their children. They are afraid to be in their house of worship, hold hands with their spouse or loved one or send their children out without them.

I recently mentioned to a friend that I don’t often wear my Star of David (Jewish star) necklace these days. I live in a very conservative area where tempers are short, the bullies travel in packs, the public shaming on social media is swift and unrelenting and the hateful rhetoric has been given a national (and international) platform that is supported by the administration. What a privilege for me to be able to take off that necklace and hide the identity that so many people hate – just so I feel a wee bit safer. My black and brown friends don’t have that privilege. My friends in the LGBTQIA+ community don’t have that privilege. My Muslim friends don’t have that privilege.

So, before you wax poetic about today’s politics just being a difference opinion, remember that just because something isn’t a problem for you – doesn’t mean it isn’t a problem. Just because you’re not afraid for your life, doesn’t mean your friends and neighbors aren’t. Just because you are free to practice your religion or love without fear, doesn’t mean everyone can. Just because your interactions with law enforcement have ended peacefully, don’t assume the same behavior from someone with black or brown skin will have the same experience. The day after the election may be back to business for you – but it also represents something very different for so many other people.

As a Jew, I am astonished this kind of divisive rhetoric is coming from a government – the American government. It reeks of our past and I’m horrified at hearing the same dismissal of the administration’s behavior and divisive rhetoric. And before you tell me that I’m misunderstanding – you don’t get to decide what’s offensive or hurtful to minority groups. That is also a privilege. But as a Jew, when I’m around friends or at a gathering with people who vote very differently than I do, I often wonder, “Will you hide me or my daughter?”, “Will you defend me in the face of the unspeakable evil that spews forth from the administration or its supporters?” I am afraid. I know that fear will morph into something else if I need to defend myself – or one of my friends – or a total stranger. I will not stand idly by. Will you?

I don’t expect my friends to all have the same political opinion and I have no issue with that. But we are talking about things bigger than politics right now. We are talking about things more important than the stock market. This is an issue of human rights, of human decency, of a moral (NOT RELIGIOUS) compass that is so off kilter that people are dying, people are separated from their families, children are orphaned, and Americans are living in fear. This is about the calls for and in support of white supremacy and violence. This is an issue about a level of hypocrisy and privilege being extended to the administration the likes of which have not been seen and would NEVER be extended to a person of color (Imagine the outrage if Obama said even one of the inflammatory things the current administration has said.) This is about an administration that has no interest in representing all Americans – but only those that support those same inhumane views.

I love my country. I love being an American and I believe this country has truly amazing things to offer its citizens and those hoping and trying to be citizens. I resent the division and hate being spewed forth and I resent that one party has tried to co-opt patriotism for their own use and tell me that because I disagree, I am not a good American and should just leave. The beauty of this country is the separation of Church and State, freedom of religion and the idea - if not the practice - that all men (and women) are created equal.

So, while I am sure I will always have friends that sit on both sides of the aisle, I can’t pretend things haven’t changed. I have lost friends because of this administration. I have seen friends struggle with familial relationships and I’ve seen people leave jobs because of it. Yes, I have had conversations – civil conversations to try and understand. But, at the end of the day, the racism, xenophobia, sexism, anti-Semitism, white supremacy, complete disregard for science, data, facts and rules – simply don’t matter enough to those individuals.

It’s not about a difference in policy perspective – it’s about a difference in humanity.

My white privilege

I rarely post anything political. Frankly, I don’t think that a social media post will change anyone’s mind and far too many people confuse fact with opinion or are simply posting with the intention to inflame, provoke and spread inaccurate information (that sadly, they may find funny.) However, equality, justice, racism and anti-racism are not political. This is about human rights and basic human decency. This is about using my voice to elevate someone else’s. This is about acknowledging and working through my discomfort to help and support someone else.

My heart is heavy. When overwhelmed with emotions, my tendency is to retreat – be silent. I have to process things and find the right words. I can’t seem to do that. My words seem hollow.

I grew up in an area that wasn’t quite the north and not quite the south. An area that may have been slightly more open minded than the traditional South but still heavily influenced by all things Southern. My very youngest years included Evelyn. She came over almost daily. She cooked and cleaned and took care of us. She made us dinner before my parents ate. She gave me a bath and tied my hair up in rags to create the perfect curls my mother wanted. She taught me to sing “Catch a Falling Star” and “How Much Is that Doggy in the Window.” I remember her playing with me, singing with me and taking care of me. And at night, Evelyn would leave our big house and take a bus to another part of town – to her own family. This was just the way it was. I was very little – I knew no different. This was my white privilege.  

When my daughter was quite young, we were talking about a good friend of our family but she couldn’t remember as we have more than one friend with that name – so I finally described her as Black and my daughter looked at me like I was crazy. What did I mean she was Black? So I dug up a picture of Kim and sat my 4-year old down and we talked about race. How impressed I was with myself that I was raising a colorblind child who saw the human-ness in someone before their race! This is how it should be I thought. I thought wrong. This was my white privilege.

When I was in junior high school, I snuck outside behind the locker rooms during a school dance to smoke some weed. A cop caught me with a pipe in my hand. He shook his head, took the joint and told me to go back to the dance. Even as he saw the bigger stash I had in my pocket. This was my white privilege.

After I graduated high school, some friends and I were driving to the beach. The music was loud, I’m certain the car was full of smoke (cigarette and otherwise) and we had a six pack of beer that we got by flashing a Heineken truck on Route 50. The windows were covered with super-elastic-bubble-plastic bubbles. I got pulled over. Four underage girls with questionable behavior and liquor in the car were let go with a warning. This was our white privilege.  

As a young professional, I had a great job with a shitty boss. A boss who verbally crossed a line more than once. After I was fired, after I hired an attorney and after I was deposed – they believed me. This was my white privilege.

As a single mother by choice, I entered parenthood on my own. A bit defiant and a lot scared, I forged ahead in the path of many a mom before me. More than once, I was given kudos for parenting on my own with many acknowledging how hard it must be and they didn’t know how I did it. More than once, a day care provider, car repair, service folks would give me discounts if I played the single mom card. This was my white privilege.

Just last week, my daughter quit her first job. She had been working for almost a year and had been talking about quitting for more than a month but decided to wait until school started. Then, her boss posted something on social media and we saw it. It was racist and the comments that followed that post showed neither remorse nor understanding for a newer and more empathetic point of view. It was her line in the sand and I let her draw it. She quit a paying job without another. That was her white privilege (and yes, I talked about this with her.)

I am almost 56 years old. I have experienced my fair share of misogyny. When I worked in retail, I had a customer offer me a detailed definition of my name, been called a cunt and received countless comments about my boobs. As a member of the executive team at a nonprofit, I’ve sat in a boardroom and listened to a colleague tell us that male member of his staff was more deserving of a raise than an unmarried woman because he needed to support his growing family (uh, that didn’t work.) As a single mother, I had a boss ask me if I could just leave my child with a neighbor when I was unable to take a last minute business trip. In each of these instances, I was able to push back or get support knowing that I would be okay. This was also my white privilege.

As a mother, I’ve had plenty of talks with my daughter about safety. About keeping herself safe. About making safe decisions. But, never, have I had to tell my child to fear being pulled over by the police or not to wear her hoodie. I have never had to tell to not stand up for herself or not to push back against an injustice. And, this too, is my white privilege.

I don’t share this with pride. I share this as an admission and acknowledgement of the work I have to do. I have benefitted from white privilege my entire life. This doesn’t mean that I didn’t encounter hardship or experience grief. It means that the color of my skin does not add to those hardships. It means I am afforded belief, admission, kudos and access to things that people of color – women of color – may not.

Though I have not nor will I be able to experience the type of fear, trepidation, judgement and injustice that people of color experience – that will not stop me from trying to understand, to learn and to empathize with a society that places greater value on white lives than black or brown lives. I do not get to be colorblind – as that tells people of color that I do not see their distinction, their culture, their unique contributions, value, and the injustices they face because of their skin color. I do not get to be colorblind to the systemic racism that permeates our lives simply because it has not affected me personally.

My late father used to say that my siblings and I were so close that you could cut one of us and all of us would bleed. That is how I feel about racism. People of color have been fighting long enough – they have marched and shouted, protested and pleaded, fought for and fought back. They’ve been cut enough. I will bleed for them now.

If you are interested in learning more about becoming anti-racist, I recommend the following:

White Fragility by Robin Diangelo

Me and white supremacy by Layla Saad

Following @Nifakaniga, @garychambersjr and @caroranwill on Instagram

Following Emmanuel Acho, Ally Project PHX on Facebook

If you’re in the Phoenix area and are interested in encouraging our young people to vote, follow Tomorrow We Vote on both Instagram and Facebook

#BlackLivesMatter