100 When I Was Growing Up Prompt#13 Feminist
My first wave of feminism washed over me when I was six. It was the early 1960s, and my older brother and his friend Mark, like many baby boomers (mostly) boys their age, were fascinated with playing war. Armed with toy guns, metal canteens in green canvas bags, and mess kits, they would head into the field to play war. (Interestingly, their obsession with playing war would end soon enough when the Vietnam War began, and they became eligible for the draft.)
One day I found myself trudging along with them to the backfield. My mother must have forced them to take me along. After setting up camp, they began handing out jobs. Mark was going to be the scout. My brother Kevin would be guarding the camp against intruders, and I was to be the camp cook.
I was determined to be the scout. However, they refused my many requests and handed me the cooking kit as they informed me that boys were scouts and soldiers and girls cooked. I got so upset that I hit them with the metal pans. This incident earned me the nickname Pots & Pans Annie.
I think the roles of girls and boys in our family were more fluid than many. Growing up on a farm, my brothers and sisters were all expected to take an equal part in the chores. Shoveling manure was an equal opportunity job.
My parents valued education. My father returned to college to get his teaching degree after the farm failed. He went to the same college where my grandmother graduated as class valedictorian and a serious suffragette.
Because of this, I was taken aback by a conversation when I was in the eighth grade. My dad told me it was important for a girl to at least go to school to become a secretary or a hairdresser. In this way, if her husband died, she could support her family.
Before this, I had never entertained the thought of choosing a career based on the expectation that I would not only marry but that my husband would die.
Even my grandmother got to teach for a decade before she was forced to leave her job when she married my grandfather. I felt like I was being told to lower my expectations and not choose a career based on interest or passion.
Fast-forward to the next generation and my son Seth’s kindergarten class. Seth came home from school one day and told me that the class was to have a snowflake queen contest that week. He explained that the girls in the class were going to dress up as snowflakes and walk down a white “runway” while the boys judged them and voted for the prettiest snowflake. He was upset that he would have to choose between his friends.
I called one of the kindergarten board members and expressed my concerns. After they talked to the teacher, she begrudgingly changed the event to something less sexist.
I like that my five-year-old son was aware that the snowflake queen contest was objectifying his classmates. From my vantage point, I have enjoyed observing how the generations have changed.
Fast forward again to the next generation. This winter, I went to my granddaughter Harper’s fourth-grade basketball state championship. The competition took place in a building with four courts and was packed with girls and their families.
These girls were scrappers, piling on top of each other, fighting to get that loose ball. Today’s game is different from how it was played in the 1960s. Then, only the three girls, the shooters, were allowed to play in the forward court. On the opposite side of the court, a group of three girls were the only individuals permitted to protect the basket against the opposing team.
Team sports were also different for girls during my son’s generation. There were the athletic girls who played on the boy’s teams because girl teams didn’t exist. Thank you, Title IX.
Sexism may not be as glaringly obvious as it was when I was growing up, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still exist. The gender pay gap in the United States isn’t projected to close until 2059. By then, the scrappy girls on my granddaughter’s basketball team will be 47 years old. Let’s keep scrapping!
With Love & Energy by the Pond,
Laurel
