My Fear

I am not angry at the outcome of the 2016 presidential election; rather, I am frightened.

I am frightened because in 1972, when I asked the high school principal for permission to take auto shop--not because I wanted to be the only female in an all-male class, but because I was truly interested in the workings of engines--he refused permission. His reason: I might get my dress greasy. Sadly, at the time, I accepted his verdict.

In the late 1970’s, I wrote an article for a journalism class on women in the petrochemical plants in south Louisiana.  My father worked at Dow Chemical, so I got access to women who were breaking into this traditionally male domain at a time when women were still pushed into more traditional career paths such as teacher and nurse.

I am frightened because in 1975, I found myself pregnant outside of wedlock. Roe v Wade had recently been decided. Our first impulse was abortion. After consideration, we decided to have that child. While I am grateful every day that I had that child, I cannot imagine forcing a woman to bear a child under any circumstances.

I am frightened because in the late 1970’s, a church-going woman told me that infidelity in husbands was excusable because that’s the way men are. They cannot help themselves.

I am frightened because of all of the times over the course of my life when men made passes at me, expecting that of course I was attracted to them and should be quite happy to accommodate them sexually, regardless of my relationship status. At one point in the early 1980’s, I actually moved from an apartment because it was the easiest way to deal with a neighbor who was sexually harassing me.

I am frightened because when I entered a master’s program in the early 1980’s, a well-meaning man advised me to drop out because men do not like educated women. I met his suggestion with indignation. However, he was right. In the mid-2000’s, while part of the on-line dating scene, several men verified this sad truth for me.

I am frightened because of the discrimination I faced in the workplace as a petite white woman who for years looked younger than her years.

I am frightened because my story is not unique among my female friends or American among women. Most of them have their own narratives of being marginalized, demeaned, and objectified.

What frightens me is that president-elect Donald Trump is the man who denied permission for me to participate in a class non-traditional to females. He is the man who pushed women into occupations appropriate for women, who fought against and is still fighting against reproductive rights. He is the man who sexually harassed me into moving, who encouraged me to stay uneducated, who enforced the glass ceiling. He is not my president, and I will fight the good fight to protect the gains that women have achieved.

Charming

NOTE: I initially drafted this piece in 1996 when my basset Hermia was a puppy. The ninth anniversary of her trip to the Rainbow Bridge occurs soon, so I decided to pull out the essay and polish it up.

In the late 1960’s when I was about 12 years old, my parents sent my younger sister and me to Charm School at Sears (before it moved to the mall). At that time in the South—I grew up in Baton Rouge—it was important for young girls to learn how to comport themselves properly in order to prepare them for the marriage market, that is catch a husband.

We learned to walk like ladies, stand like ladies, sit like ladies, groom ourselves likes ladies, and other such pertinent “strategies” to make ourselves attractive to potential husbands. At the end of this training, we had a graduation of sorts, a fashion show where we got to model an outfit of our choice from Sears. In addition, we could purchase at a discount one outfit of our choice, whether we modeled it or not.

I have always loved pajamas. To my parents’ dismay, I decided I wanted to model pajamas. I had chosen a pink nylon sleeveless knee-length nightie with a matching robe. My parents and the Charm School Instructor begged and pleaded with me to model street clothes. My parents assured me that they would buy me the pajamas with the Sears discount. I was unmoved and modelled the pajamas. To my parents’ credit, they did not pull rank and force me to model street clothes, but let me have my own way. They even bought me the pajamas!

I remembered this episode when I enrolled the eight-month-old Hermia in an obedience school—fortunately not at Sears!--which I referred to as “Puppy Charm School.” (By the way, obedience school instructors wince when they find a basset hound in their class. Bassets are not stupid but stubborn. Even with the reward of food, bassets are loathe to do something they don’t really want to do.) The doggy pupils practiced tasks such as sitting, staying, heeling, and coming when called in order to make them better citizens of the human world, just as my sister and I learned to walk, stand, sit, and groom ourselves like ladies to a different end.

The last session of Puppy Charm School consisted of a “graduation,” similar to our graduation from Sears Charm School. As the canines went through their paces for their admiring humans, I imagined my Hermia sitting, staying, heeling, and coming when called while wearing pink pajamas!

LAGNIAPPE: My husband, who is also my editor, would say that I am as stubborn as a basset, which I will take as a compliment, even though he did not intend it that way! :-)

Living With My Inner Beach

As promised in “Finding My Inner Beach,” here is the sequel, “Living With My Inner Beach.” As I write, I contemplate the past seven weeks of an extended stay on Folly Beach, facing the prospect of heading back north to mountains and lakes in a week.

The Power

This year, the power of the water and beach has struck me more forcefully than previously. From our condo, I look out upon the Atlantic Ocean. On calm, clear days, I see the diamonds dancing on the surface, knowing the strength that lurks beneath the beauty. On windy days, I see the power churning the surface, see the surf swell and break. The foamy crests spill at different points, coming together like falling dominoes tipped at different points in the line. Sometimes, the waves curl like Elvis’s lip.

An excerpt from my diary: “Today as I walked the beach at sunset, I noticed I was focusing on the waves and not looking at the ocean as a whole—like the saying, ‘You can’t see the forest for the trees,’ I couldn’t see the ocean for the waves.”

On one beach walk, I came across a sizeable dead bird. As it was low tide, I knew the water would come in and sweep the body out to sea—carry out the carrion. The event gave me a new understanding of the cleansing power of the tide.

After sunny days, the people and dogs leave the beach looking like the ocean surface on calm days, full of small footprint ripples. Then, the wind sweeps through, scouring the churned sand to a smooth surface again. Sometimes, people write messages in the sand, usually love notes. During one beach walk, I found a maze drawn in the sand with “Family” written in the middle.

The Shells

I made a resolution this year only to bring in shells that potentially have a function. Of course, I broke that resolution, but not too badly. I am including a picture of shells gathered this year and their functions. My favorite one is the toothpick holder. However, other uses include holders for a kitchen scrubby, potpourri, candles, change, used tea bags and rings. Shells can also serve as a rest for chopsticks and pens and pencils and as a soap dish.

The People

Both from the condo and while walking on the beach, I have seen a wide variety of people. On one morning walk, I noticed a woman and a young girl with a bicycle near the water’s edge. The woman would hold on to the back of the bike while the girl pedaled. When the woman would let go, the girl would lose her balance and stop. What an odd place to teach a child to ride a bicycle, but as my grandsons noted, if the girl fell on the sand, it wouldn’t hurt as much as if she fell on a sidewalk.

Watching dogs walk their people has been fascinating. Dogs of all sorts walk people of all sorts. Of course, larger dogs need fewer steps to move forward than smaller dogs. Frequently, the little legs of the smaller dogs seem to move as if the dogs are cartoon characters stuck on a slippery surface.

On one sunset walk, a young fisherman—probably in his 20’s—approached me and asked if I had found any sharks’ teeth. The fumes of alcohol emanating from him almost gave me a secondary drunk. He informed me he was hoping to catch a shark. I wished him luck and scurried on my way.

Returning from another sunset walk, I passed three Rasta-type guys with a dog and a half-gallon of Fireball. They took turns chugging from the bottle and offering “free Fireball” to anyone who passed, especially attractive young women. They didn’t ask me! I was relieved to be able to walk past them while they were distracted by other beachgoers.

On a more sober note, on one late-day beach walk, I noticed someone playing a guitar. She had no one gathered around her listening, but was sitting, singing and playing to herself and to the cosmos. It seemed to be a celebration of the beach, a private concert for the beach and for her soul.