Following is an essay I wrote earlier in the year. It’s long winded as I tend to be and of a different subject matter than I tend to cover. But thought I’d share it with you while I’m still 45…
I feel so far from what I thought a feminist should be. In any case, surely I am not your average feminist (if ever there was such a thing). I simply do not look the part.
Now isn’t that a funny thought? What does a feminist look like? So you think you know?
Some of us have a preconceived notion based on our own experiences. My experiences started early and started strong. It was the late 60’s or early 70’s. I was a young child. My mother had meetings in the house; women’s meetings, League of Women’s Voters and ERA and PTA and what else I don’t know if I ever knew or asked. But there were powerful memories of powerful women walking with such confidence through my front door with broad smiles, clear eyes, always I remember their eyes, looking down at me with a twinkle and a wink as wonderful as Peter Pan only real and quite large.
I was on the worn and faded Persian rug that defined the dark wood entrance, rolling back like a dog on scratchy wool and dark jewel colors, looking up at these women, my goddesses. I did not believe in Cinderella or want to be a fairy princess. (Peter Pan? Perhaps.) Although I have no idea what they were there to meet about, I was certain then that these women defined power, strength, wisdom, and goodness. They were my role models and heroes. They defined what I would strive to be.
They were women, all women, sturdy and tall and old and wise, or so they seemed from my little-girl-on-the-rug point of view. And I remember looking up at these solid women with those clear eyes that would look me back directly, their short trimmed hair framing broad faces devoid of most makeup except the true red lipstick which was so common back then. They wore thick wool skirts to the middle of the knee, or at least that is what it looked like from down there on the rug. Pantyhose, medium tan nylon that felt smooth and rubbery when I’d reach out to touch them. And sensible shoes. Always sensible shoes. Black or brown and low heels so you knew if you tried to run, they could still catch you. A fact that instilled both fear and safety to the observer.
They were giants from my horizontal perception and at once I felt secure and wanted to be like them.
Funny the things we remember.
That is how my feminist roots were formed.
But look at me now. I am not like they were. I am married and bake bread and am helping to get my son ready for college. Tell me, why do you suppose I thought they did not?
Somehow I still feel so different from them. I do not go to meetings. I run my own small business from home. I have long hair and wear a size one and cowboy boots…. Does this make me less of a feminist than they were?
Of course it is not in my appearance, but in my thoughts. That’s where the problem lays, the problem of uncertainty of the state of my feminism.
Here I am at almost 45 (doesn’t that sound more definitive that 44?) trying to call myself a feminist, but doubting myself. Why? Well, what have I done to prove I am? I don’t have to organize, work together and fight for our rights as they did. Or do I?
I seek to define a feminist so that I can find my own place and hopefully clarify who I am. Don’t we all need to do that to some degree? Of course what I am hoping to find is that I am indeed a feminist. I can be defined. I belong.
To begin with, I ask myself, and I suppose you should ask yourself too, what is the average feminist? I suppose she is something different for each of us, as long as it includes a strong woman with a sense of self. A good deal of which is based upon the impressions we formed as a child, and throughout our lives. Many of us painted a picture of what a feminist looks like, acts like, is.
What is she? Who is she?
I say again: a strong woman with a sense of self. Wavering at times, or so I am learning, as we still are human, and I have yet to meet one who can stand up against it all. But she has the ability to stand tall when need be, when she really needs to, when it really matters. For her children, her partner, her work, her beliefs, her choices, her country, her self.
Is that enough to define what a feminist is? I can define her how I choose, I suppose, since I don’t see many from my generation telling me otherwise. Us forty-somethingers. We are a quiet group. We consider ourselves feminists and benefit from the work of others and reach out just a little bit to pave new roads for those who come after, but the formula is ever changing, as is the definition. Rather than staying focused on the single goal ahead, be it equal rights, equal pay, or opened doors, we simply slide into place at the board or kitchen table (or both) and assume we are welcome, and wonder why we may get sideways glances from the men – and women – seated beside us.
Without those meetings I remember as I child to clarify the image in my own thoughts, I wonder what happened to feminism? Where is it now? It spread out. It became mainstream. That’s good and that’s bad. Good because maybe it means it is everywhere and so common we don’t even notice it is there any more. Bad because we take it for granted now and no longer fight for it. We risk letting it slip away.
So I find myself grasping to ensure I don’t lose what others fought so hard to give me, and wonder if I am doing enough for those who come after. What can I do? Start by thinking, as I am doing here and now. Considering my place. Defining feminism and my place, my role. Start by understanding who I am as a woman and what am I willing to do to retain my rights, my choices, my place.
Now is the time for me to consider this as I approach losing my definition of “mother” next year when my only child heads off for college. Where does that leave me? I seek self definitions. I feel lost without. What words will suit me? Forty-five. Middle aged. Married. I need more. How do I define myself now?
I begin by defining where I am. I am softly settling into my middle years.
Next year I’ll turn forty five. I’m in the middle, I guess. The middle of my life, of the world around me, of the family I’ve raised and the grandchildren I await. My middle years.
I define myself as “in my forties.” Can I say “mid life?” I can, but do not. I’m still too young for that, I think. So where am I?
In between my friends who have grandchildren, great grandchildren and back pain and contemplate or enjoy retirement and are tired of the cold – and those who have little ones or no children at all, no career or land or marriages under their belt to feel the discomfort of the tightness a little bit of age brings. Just a little bit. I still feel as fit as when I was twenty. Maybe more so. But I no longer want to wear the tight jeans and short skirts. I’m learning to dress like a woman. More simple. More refined. Classier, my mother says. Finally…
Who teaches us these things? Do we have role models that show us how to define “growing up” and “middle aged?” And if so, who would our role models be? Believe me, I don’t strive to look like those ladies who came to meetings in my mother’s house back in 1972.
And yet at times I am left feeling lost. I imagine I am not the only one. I’m starting to think I am part of or the product of a lost generation, or perhaps a mere sub generation. It is hard to define. I do not feel we are defining ourselves.
We are in between the baby boomers now in their fifties and sixties, and the slackers or millennium generation in their twenties and thirties. They have definitions. They can fit in and belong. Stereotypes, I’m sure, but such are generational classifications. They still provide us comfort with an all-purpose understanding, a simplicity of what might otherwise be left constantly ambiguous. Such labels allow us a solid sense for belonging or separating, depending on which we choose.
What defines us in our forties? What is our pigeonhole? We had no wide spread childhood traumas, connecting wars or colliding rebellion. We were neither dirt poor nor spoiled rotten. We listened to southern rock or disco and the five o’clock news and nothing was very radical or exciting but nor did we complain. We were rather quiet. What did we stand for, and what did we fight for? What have we given up as we approach and settle into our middle years?
And where are we now? Betwixt and between. Somewhat solid though I wonder if maybe we are led to believe we never will be.
Interesting to consider.
And as women in this sub generation, we are even more difficult to define. We do not have boundaries, do not share boundaries, are scattered and separate and do not have our center hold. We never thought we needed strength in numbers so we spread ourselves thin. Thin relationships, thin memories, thin ambitions and dreams.
Those before us fought for their place. Those after us assumed their place was solid. We saw both sides and know what both feel like just a little bit – the insecurity and confrontation and the expectations and assumptions.
My sub generation didn’t have to fight for it. We were handed it, fresh and new and exciting. We took it for granted. Sat back and enjoyed it. We were allowed to choose what we wanted to do with it. Most of us, the daughters of the women who fought to give us the choice, chose to be mothers and wives and maybe take a career or leave it when our children or husbands needed us. And I still don’t know if this is not perhaps the stronger choice a woman can make, or the weakest.
I am lost. I seek to find my place. In desperation, I softly moan and hope to be heard. Heaven forbid I stand up and scream out. But what I say is the same. It is a cry to my feminist roots.
Are we still sisters?
Is feminism still alive and well or is my generation letting it slip away?
What about those that follow me/us? The young ones. It is done for them. The women are equal, aren’t they? Or are they? It appears they have nothing left to fight for, and so they don’t. Perhaps their struggles now are not based on the male/female rift, but on the economy, work ethic, education, a continually expanding urban and global work force.
I suppose we all have our challenges. What I once felt I would have to fight for perhaps has already been fought. That battle won. Now I have others to fight, if I dare be so bold. And now I should pay my due respects.
So here’s to that giant of a woman when I was a little girl on the rug. That one with the sensible shoes and cropped hair and very bold, bright Peter Pan eyes. Thank you. I may not look like you, but today, I feel like you.
15 thoughts on “Defining 45 and Feminism”
Beautifully written. I love being 45 – there is something special about being wise enough not to make the same old mistakes, but young enough to make brand new ones.
Feminism is a word that conjures up something different for us all, but isn’t that really the point? We have choices and don’t have to be either/or. We just have to recognize and appreciate those that paved the road behind us and raise a generation that knows more about potential than limitations. Those pictures are just downright beautiful and inspiring.
I have lots of thinks involving labels and trying to fit self into them instead of attempting to describe all of the aspects of self. Being a fluid vessel does make it seem difficult to provide a concise statement of exactly what one is most of the time, without some aspect or other of ‘me’ feeling or being left out. I’ll have some tea and come back and read and ponder a few more times and see what other thinks express.
You raise a good point, Elisa. We seem to need self definition. OK, so I do at least, and I think it is not uncommon. We feel safer if we can find out place and see where/how we fit in. But you are right – we are always changing. The “fluid vessel” as you say. So must our definition of self, forever change.
Interesting, probing well written article. I have long been a feminist … who has never liked women. At this late stage in the game I am being confronted with that rather significant dislike and making some changes. This feminist is fairly tough and aggressive but does dress femininely. For me feminism is about equal rights, plain and simple.
Oh really wonderful photos!
Gives those of us, who are still trying to figure out where we fit in, a lot to think about!
I can so identify, as I’ve been writing & re-writing what all of this means in my blog– in fact, I think it’s what propelled me to blog. I find solace that finding myself or re-finding myself in this next chapter of my life will be an exhilarating journey propelling me out of the middle of everything.
Thanks for sharing! So well-written :)
To me, Gin, a feminist is a woman who lives true to her nature, both as an individual and as a female, without allowing herself to be shackled by the norms placed upon women by society. A feminist transcends the superficial (for instance what clothes are worn – that’s an individual preference) in order to challenge societal constructs as to what she “should” be.
Personally, speaking as a man – the thoughtful kind with enough anima to appreciate the feminine perspective – I have enormous respect for a self-aware woman asserting positively who and what she is. That woman’s strength does not diminish mine, for we are two sides of a human coin, and together we can become powerful in a way that neither could alone. But also her qualities, when I reflect upon them maturely, can stop me from falling into the trap of arrogance.
Wow! So eloquent and well-expressed. Yes, I can see I was wise to connect with you! You are a very liberated male. Congrats on granting yourself that freedom.
I really like what you said. My husband thinks in the same manner!
I LOVED that last photo. Very moving.
Gin, I could have been one of those women at your mother’s meetings, but I believed more in getting out there and DOING it. I wasn’t loud about it, but very determined. When men asked me if I was a woman libber, I replied, “I hope I am beyond such a label. I’m a person libber.”
Meanwhile I was the first woman to be transferred across Canada in a progressive Canadian financial institution. My major role was to make certain that career doors were open to any qualified woman who wanted to move ahead. We, in Canada, didn’t want our Gov’t to set quotas. We wanted to be in careers on our own merit; not because of hand holding.
I was under a microscope as the first woman to join men in business travel. I had to tell hotel clerks to NOT shout out my room number to signal a bell hop. Not only could I carry my own luggage, but I did not want to be fodder for the creeps waiting to bang on my door. It was a time of men testing, poking, kicking at and putting down our efforts. We quietly banded together and hoped those after us would keep the momentum.
In my opinion, we Canadians did it much more quietly than our American sisters. However, isn’t that typical of Canadians? It can be seen as weakness, but, in fact, it was strategy and sheer iron will.
I love what White Horse Pilgrim says. The challenge to be respected as a equal STILL exists, Gin, but it is different now. It’s more subtle. It’s more intrinsic. It’s more difficult to put your finger on at times.
Labels don’t matter unless you need one. Being true to who you really are – that’s the important fact. You seem to be doing exactly what one needs to be done at 45…who am I and what next? I haven’t had a close woman friend who was able to skip that vital introspection. Empty nest syndrome sucks, they tell me. But they have all came through with so much grace and with so much to offer.
Many claim that we Western women are the ones now pegged to bring us through this global confusion and chaos. We are the ones who have the love, compassion, wisdom, intelligence and courage to live and act from the heart.
Amy, I was sitting down to finish my day here enjoying the intelligent and interesting responses that have come in so far, when yours arrived, and I am enthralled all over again. First, yes, oh yes, Julian (White Horse Pilgrim), you do have a way with words turning them to shining jewels when others may be throwing rocks. I also wonder how many are as comfortable and confident in their own nature to be able to be balanced by (the other side of the coin metaphor your painted was perfectly stated) an equally strong and solid partner, male or female? Bravo, and yes, may the next generation learn from our greatness and weaknesses.
I suppose if there is one thing “feminism” stands for to me is strength. Unique and individual men and women, labels aside… Amy, the history you have come through, created, passed on… That is strength. (My son, btw, chose his university in Canada… and adores the land and people)
The thing about labels is identification, and often self identification is a touchy subject. Think: safety. We wish to be unique and above/beyond labels, but there is also great comfort in allowing ourselves a place in a picture already painted.
So… we cling to labels at times to know ourselves. Is that a weakness, cheating, or a phase we go through, a process? One we can remain in (who among us does not learn and grow?), or one from which we find a solid ground to stand tall and spread our winds and fly to the next level…
Many more thoughts, ideas and questions… enough from this big mouth for today. I look forward to hearing from others. My tub is full, for real, what a simple pleasure takes me away, one I will enjoy as we head to our cabin without running water for the week, but more on that later. For now, I look forward to continuing this conversation and learning from your experiences, wisdom and stories.
inspiring post, yet again. Just thought I’d mention that this Baby Boomer thing is sometimes statistical balderdash, if that helps. At 54, soon to be 55, I fit in there, but, I promise, I belong to a generation between the boomers and Generation X, one that looks both ways but which is accepted by neither, a kind of Cassandra generation, memory keepers, who look to the young of today to pass on their memories. It’s kind of scary, to hold so much, to see both ways, and to know that those memories kind of rest on these shoulders, for better or worse (no doubt both). Today, I’m just darned glad to share that weight with you. And, 45! A wonderful age. Why, at 45 I was still raising my daughters! Now they have flown. I’m sure glad that you mentioned that men can be feminists, too. As a man who devoted 20 years to raising his daughters while his wife pursued her career, well, it’s beautiful music.
Harold, Not sure if you’ll see this message or how to follow up further with you, but wanted to tell you how much I have appreciated and enjoyed getting to know you just a little bit through your bright and warm and insightful comments. I look forward to more, and finding a new friend. I don’t know if that’s how “blogging” is supposed to be, but that’s the best part for me.