On the Modern Woman
I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about my sex.
Yesterday morning, I got up, blue light wedging its way into my house in its soft exuberance. I made coffee (cream, sugar, sugar) and half a toasted bagel with sharp cheddar cheese, and shuffled my way to the couch, and turned on the television, and the news, news, news. All afternoon, while I shredded old credit card statements, and vacuumed the unintentional paper confetti trail, and washed and folded my sheets, and scrubbed my shower tile—news, news, news.
The women were all there, it seemed. Standing shoulder to shoulder, pink hats aglow, red spirits ignited. And where was I? I laugh about it to myself today, because I was at home, thriving in the private sphere, doing housework. Ok, so I get some small joy from a tidy home, I wear an apron at one of my jobs, I like pink. I didn’t feel like a modern woman yesterday. I’m not exactly sure what a modern woman looks like anymore.
Except that I think she feels oppressed because she yells a lot. I am a modern woman: I believe in working hard, and providing for myself, and having a purpose that is not rooted in my connection with any male on the planet. I have an opinion (lots, actually) and I dress for myself. But I still enjoy cooking, and gentleness, and propriety, and hospitality. And discretion. Lots of discretion.
Which, I am afraid, was left at home yesterday for many of the women standing (not marching) in Washington. I think it is rather telling that there were so many people yesterday that they didn’t even have room to march anywhere, so they just stood idle for hours and hours floating in the hot air of injustice. Is that progress? Making a stand, I fully support. Having an opinion, I fully support. Even if the soapbox is not a soapbox I would stand on with you, I admire you for standing on it. But, the anger was very strong. It was peaceful, sure. Peaceful anger is a strange kind. It draws people in. It is a delicious cake.
Today I am thinking about Abigail. We love Abigail, don’t we? She had a crap husband, a terrible, difficult hand in the card game of life. Here comes King David enraged to her property. She had every right to protest, and yet, she did not meet the riot shields with anger and her face wrapped in a scarf to take the mace on account of her injustice. She did not call up all her girlfriends to come stand with her and recite vague and abstract poems and songs to express how they feel. She formed a plan, used her intelligence, gathered the best of herself, and made an appeal. And instead of standing idly in the street, she made a case that was heard and acquiesced to. There was no blame given for why she was mistreated, but solutions presented on how to alleviate the situation. Abigail was shown favor because she was favorable.
Yesterday, eating avocado toast in my pajamas, watching the television, I felt different than all of the women I saw ranting about injustice. I acknowledge the injustice they all feel. I feel some of it too. There should be equality in the workplace. There should be healthcare that supports the needs of women. But I want to take their faces in my woman hands and ask them what they are doing to convince anyone to change? Where is your intelligence, where is your dignity, where are your degrees, where are your ideas, where (I ask loudest of all) are your children? And when authority does arrive at your gate, how will you meet him? (Let’s be honest—it’s still a him. It’s still a man’s world). Will you go out as an oppressed, frustrated, agenda-ridden woman? Will you go out with intelligence, ideas, solutions, kindness, dignity, standing as an equal to be treated as such?
Squeaky wheels get oil, but only so they stop making noise. They want to silence women who whine. Instead, I want to be a modern woman who is such an irreplaceable gear in the workings of my society, they give me regular attention, to prevent my failure. I want to be a modern woman who moves things forward, not one who stands idly by and yells a list of her fears into the great, unconquerable sky.