I know if I don’t capture the feelings now, I still might be able to later — but they will never feel as they do now.
Today. My last day of work. That elevator — the sound made me want to cry.
A hot day, not too different from today. 23 years ago.
5th Floor, Building 2 — right outside my door was the elevator bank. Mary Susie Conti — the woman I was replacing — was loading up my head with all that I needed to learn.
I was paying rapt attention, but every so often I sussed out the environment. It felt so different to be in an office in the middle of the day instead of home with my two small children, who were now 45 minutes away in a new daycare. Every time I thought of them, my heart hurt just a bit, and I had to intentionally put it out of my mind.
The feel of the air with the open window (at a time when we were allowed to open windows — now I can’t imagine), the humidity in the office, and the sound of the elevator’s electronic voice blathering all day:
“Fifth Floor Going Down… Fifth Floor Going Up.”
Over the next few days and weeks, I slightly startled the 50 or so times a day I heard that electronic voice announcing the floor it landed on and which direction it was going.
Eventually, it became background noise and I didn’t hear it at all. But when I did tune in, no matter the day or time of year, I was transported back to being 26 years old and learning my new job from Mary Susie Conti.
For the past 8+ years, I haven’t come into the office much. I was on a reasonable accommodation and working from home long before COVID. But I have to say — it always felt like home when I did go in.
I honestly believe one of the reasons I got the job is because of that “home”-like feeling.
When I interviewed for that first job, I went through a series of interviews back to back. Martha Shea was the first person who interviewed me.
Right off the bat, she made it known that if I didn’t pass her muster, the two doctors I would soon interview with would take her consideration into account.
She also made sure to tell me she was prior military and instantly started off by asking about my own military experience.
I was slightly intimidated, but something about her already felt familiar. She was my kind of people — I could tell.
I don’t even know how I wasn’t prepared for the question: “Why do you want to work here?”
I mean — for heaven’s sake — if a person can’t answer that, they shouldn’t get the job!
Martha asked me that question and my truly unprepared, but terribly raw response — when I looked around — was:
“Because it feels like home.”
Martha cracked a genuine smile and asked me why.
I looked around, asking myself the same thing to understand why I had that feeling.
I saw the government-issued 3-month calendar, where you save paper with the months on both sides. The chairs. The carpet. The signage. The halls. The overhead pages. Men with military regalia ambling down the hall. The feeling I always got crossing from a state line onto federal property.
So that is what I said. I first pointed to the calendar on the wall, then the chairs. I mentioned something that was broken in a corner and talked about how it all felt familiar.
I didn’t think about puffing everyone up with “helping veterans,” giving back, stories of grandfathers who fought in wars — or all the other things I subsequently heard over the years when I eventually became the interviewer.
My answer was candid and from the heart.
If my interview were a cartoon, Martha would have started off in a knight’s costume — complete with armor — to intimidate me. Then it would have fallen off, and you would have seen her heart literally melting.
She proudly walked me down the hall to the person who would eventually become my first supervisor at the VA.
With a hand on my shoulder, she introduced me in a way that made it clear she liked me and wanted to take me under her wing.
I already felt protected — and that I was with my people.
Today, I drove into for the last time.
The sunrise down the street from me. A new dawn to a brand new type of day for me.
I saw people parking, taking out their bags and lunches, putting on badges. These people were donned in suits, scrubs, lab coats — and everything in between.
I vividly remembered those early days of parking in that same lot. The uniforms, cars and smells were so unfamiliar at the time. Now they are all second nature. All these years I have been taking the same steps into the same building and heading to the elevators —
“1st Floor, going up.”
Today, I ran into one of my coworkers walking into the building.
We got on the elevator together, and I heard that same electronic voice, unchanged in all these years.
I asked him about his two young girls. He filled me in and then asked how old my children were now.
28 and 26. My youngest is now as old as I was when I first started working there.
I worked there for their entire lives. In some ways, I missed their lives because of that place.
I don’t know who I am without it.
Some people would say I worked there a lifetime (23 years).
Others, who have 40, 45 years in the government, would still consider me a newbie.
It’s all relative. But for me — between the military and the Department of Veterans Affairs — it’s been my whole life.
I had jobs in different buildings and offices. Not too many were close to an elevator bank.
Today, as I left, it was:
“7th Floor, going down.”
It felt like:
“Esterina, now going down and out — into the wider world.”
I sat in the parking lot for a long time. I read the cards I was given, sitting in my car with the air conditioning blasting.
I felt nostalgic — but very excited.
Driving away was the hardest part. No tears, but a large lump in my throat.
A piece of my heart will always be there — in those buildings, carpets, walls, files.
And just like that — “7th Floor Going Down” — one chapter closes, and another begins.
As I sit here on the Metro North Railroad next to my husband on this very sunny, very windy Sunday, late April morning, I’m filled with wanderlust and a sense of possibility. As we speed by I notice trees, mountains, houses, cars, waterways, docks… so many ways of living and modes of travel.
The subway this morning, leaving New York City, back home to Connecticut
My heart aches to experience it all. I sit and watch, feeling stuck where I am; on a moving train that is going too fast. I am unable to really see, experience or touch any of it. Destination known.
I marvel at how at any stop I could really get off. How I could take another train to another destination and experience something new. I could…. Why don’t I? Why haven’t I?
I am a government employee.
A Fork in the Road.
That is the title now infamous email sent to government employees on January 28th. It quite possibly could open doors, new roads, endless possibilities. However, the doors and possibilities are soured by the ruthless ways civil servants have been discussed in the past few months.
I am government employee with a possibility of taking early retirement. I am 49 and was not planning to retire for a while. But the possibility cannot stop lingering on my mind. I want to see the world! I want to get out from under the grind, off the crazy train. The past few years, but particularly the past few months have dampened the passion of flames I once had for work. It was long burning down, but the new administration has left but the smallest of sparks still attempting to burn.
I have given my entire adult life to the United States government. At 18 I went into the Coast Guard. At 22, I continued into the active reserve pool and became a weekend warrior while raising two babies. At 26, I became a civil servant where I have worked ever since.
I’ve been on a train, on the path set out by many. Get an education, get a job, start a family, get the bigger house….
In the past 31 years with very little help from the supposedly educational funds and benefits that tempted me into the military in the first place I obtained a Professional Secretarial Certification, a Bachelors in Business Administration, an MBA, and a certification Healthcare Analytics.
There were countless other trainings I took through work or on my own. Regardless of where I took these trainings, I immediately gave everything I learned back to the government through my work. Up to and including teaching yoga.
I chose the government because like many undiscussed Americans, particularly second generation Americans, I grew up not have basic securities met. We always had food, though food security was something my parents often struggled with. There were enough clothes and enough help to feel ok. We did not have healthcare and my parents did not have jobs with paid vacation or sick time. Retirement is still out of the question for my 74 year old father. My mother passed away at 49, in part to smoking; but more in part to not having access to healthcare.
I chose the military for the benefits. Paid education, vacation days, and healthcare. The military also seemed as if it were fair and just, that there were rules that had to be followed and consequences for breaking those rules. My home seemed to be a place where there were no consequences and no rights for women or children. As a teenager with looming uncertainty of my future, the military recruiters at the tables stationed around my high school looked healthy, happy and secure in themselves. I wanted that for myself too.
I still don’t know if recruiters purposely mislead or they themselves do not know, but many of the things I was told were only partial truths. Healthcare is not for life unless you are destitute once you separate from the armed forces. The Montogomery GI Bill hardly paid for a semester let alone an education. I was not able to apply for specialty school right out of bootcamp as an E-3, a benefit I personally took advantage of because I had spent 3 years in junior ROTC. The immediate bump from E-2 to E-3 wasn’t a huge benefit, but the one that likely made what was a tough decision at the time for me. A decision that ended up being a very good one for my life.
Swearing into the United States Military at MEMPS in Brooklyn NY August 9, 1994
From that time, and into my career, and until this very day; there were spouted benefits. Benefits that lured me in, but were not what they seemed to be. Benefits that few who are the gatekeepers to obtaining these benefits even seem to know about.
My earliest experience was the lack of knowledge at my first duty station on being an E-3. Then seemingly gregarious barriers to putting my name on a wait list for specialty school. I did everything I was supposed to as quickly and efficiently as I could. It seemed to surprise people that I had the oomph to push through the barriers and keep pressing until I got the answers I was seeking. It seemed unnecessarily difficult, but that was only the start of many years ahead of pretty much the same.
I met and married my first husband who was also in the military at the age of 19. We had no plans of having children anytime soon, but I did know about the benefit to females of taking two years off to raise a child and coming back to finish any required time that was owed to the government.
When my husband and I were re-located and co-located from the west to east coast, the new dispensary that I was assigned did not carry the birth control pill I had been on for years. I was prescribed a new pill and immediately experienced unwanted side effects. When I went to the dispensary to discuss these issues; they took some bloodwork to ensure I was not pregnant, prescribed a new type of pill, and asked me to not take any pills until my next cycle.
My newlywed husband and I were careful, but obviously not careful enough because I never did start that next cycle. I was unintentionally pregnant at 20 years old. My new duty station (which was for the first time in my career on land [opposed to on ship]) helped me to apply for the two year program to raise a child. The administrators and I could not foresee my request being denied because I owed 2 exactly two years and my husband was also a service member.
The request was denied without an explanation. We were flabbergasted. The men and their wives at my at my station were so supportive and helped me and my husband with taking care of our newborn child. I will forever be grateful for the rallying and support provided.
October 1996, pregnant with my first born
My baby Thomas at just over a year old with his daddy
Two years later my owed time was up and I had the option to reenlist. For the majority of non-Air station based jobs, most Coast Guard members were required to be stationed on a ship alternating with land stations. Unless they specifically wanted to be on ship duty or if circumstances called, folks were allowed to be stationed on land for back to back tours.
The military does married couples the honor of trying to station couples together or close by. My husband’s tour was also up. His job required him to be at an Air station which were far and few between. Air stations at the time also required a 1 in every 3 or 1 in every 4 evening overnight obligation. My job as a cook was one of the few jobs in the Coast Guard that did not require overnight stays at all. It was the only way we were able to get by raising our son until that point. That and the help from the members of my station.
Service members have some input on where they would like to go by filling out what was referred to as a “Dream Sheet”. We filled out our dreams sheets and requested to go anywhere in the world as long as I could be stationed at a land station nearby an Air station so I could be home every evening with our son. It should not have come as a surprise when this reasonable request was denied. Yet it was a surprise and felt like a blow.
The Commanding and Executive Officers who were fond of my hard work, impressed that I finished a secretarial certificate and was taking college classes, and who were already upset from the denial for the maternity leave I asked for were also infuriated. The Commanding Officer (unprompted) wrote a letter asking for my request to be reconsidered because he felt I was just the kind of person that the Coast Guard should want to keep. He received a response back saying that it was my turn to go on a boat and if I didn’t like it, I did not have to re-enlist.
I did not reenlist.
I enlisted into the Active Reserves for four years instead. My husband stayed in and I became a military spouse. We had another baby and I finished my bachelor degree.
Four years later in 2002, both my husband and I had completed all required obligations to the military. It was not long after 9/11 and we decided to take a plunge into the civilian world.
Finding work in your twenties hot out of the military with little other work experience and family obligations is not easy. I was interested in federal employment because of the benefits and pension.
I applied to dozens of government and private sector positions. It took about 6 months to find a temporary grant funded government position.
During my first few years as a civil servant I applied for the programs and leadership trainings that were available, but I was denied participation because I was not a permanent employee. I went back to school (out of pocket) while working full time and raising 2 children for an MBA.
I used the information I was learning in school and my personal drive constantly to make my job, my role, and in turn my organization a better place. In 2007 I finished my Masters degree and landed a full time permanent position. About 5 minutes later I was asked to teach and mentor students in the programs I had never taken and had been denied access to. I was not snarly or punishing because I paid for and took my own initiative to learn what they denied me access to. I excitedly obliged because I wanted to provide my organization with the passion and knowledge I myself wanted to share.
MBA graduation in 2007
I cannot believe that was 18 years ago. Since then I’ve learned even more. In my journey as a government employee I’ve changed as a human, but maintained exceptional performance reviews for every single rating period for 31 years without fail. I have given the government every piece of knowledge I learned, and for many many years, many more hours than I was ever paid for.
I have since been divorced and remarried. My children have grown and left the nest. I’ve taken many other trainings at work and outside of work. I trudged a personal journey of experiencing C-PTSD from childhood which involved drinking, recovery and a lot of therapy.
Very typical office set up I had (back in the days I had an office that is)
At my ‘hands down’ favorite position I held in Primary Care
Screenshot
Group of lady work friends I had for many years
I’ve been on the path. I was not planning to retire now. I have more to give. But do I want to give it to the government anymore???
My heart has not been in it a while. And the current administration seems to admonish and mock employees like myself.
Until this very day I am dealing with “benefits” unknown to those who are the gatekeepers. My latest escapade involves healthcare. I have been paying for health insurance for a family through the Federal Employee Health Benefits (FEHB) since 2002. A few years ago while I was undergoing intensive outpatient therapy I was part-time and we used my husband’s insurance because the employee share for part-timers is unaffordable. We switched back to my insurance over 4 years ago, but the government has a stipulation that upon retirement in order to keep the FEHB for life, you have to have paid FEHB for the 5 consecutive years prior to retirement.
This is what stopped me from Taking the Fork in the Road back in January. Healthcare. One of the very reasons I entered into the federal workforce 31 years ago. The lack of which (healthcare) I attribute to my mom passing at 49 years old. The very age I happen to be at the moment.
The only time I did not pay for healthcare was for the short period of time I shortened my work hours to deal with mental health issues.
Most veterans have mental health issues. Most individuals enter the military because the benefits outweigh the personal risks. Most individuals who join at a young age do not have many other options. Those lack of options, lack, limit = mental health issues that if not already experiencing, will likely show up later in life when the dust has settled. Like it did for me.
Back in January when the Fork in the Road email was sent, I read all over the place in OPM guidance and other government sources that under VERA authority (when early retirement is being offered) the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) waives this 5 year healthcare payment requirement. I asked about it at the time. No one has ever heard of it. Of course they haven’t. I’ve been down this sad road before. Benefits that are there but unknown or in some way inaccessible.
My Department is offering VERA again due to impending RIFs (Reduction in Force) and this time it specifically states that OPM is waiving the 5-year requirement.
Why am I still here? What do I have to gain?
I think I want to get off the train. I watch the world literally and proverbially whizzing by. A world I long to see and experience.
I am not one of these mystery civil servants you hear on the news. One of these lazy people who is just taking from the population and needs their job to be cut with a sledge hammer. I gave the government more than I gained from it. I know my job can be involuntary cut in a few weeks. If I get to keep a job at all, there is no guarantee it will be at my salary level or that I enjoy.
Yes, there is waste in the government. There is waste in all organizations. The fairness I had been seeking when entering the federal workforce is not on everyone’s side. As employees under the rule of the law, we are mostly indistinguishable from one another. All kind of being lumped in with the bath water that our administration wants to throw out.
As I reflect on my journey, I realize that my experiences have shaped me into the person I am today. The highs and lows, the challenges and triumphs, have all contributed to my growth and resilience. While the uncertainty of early retirement looms, I am filled with hope and possibility. I am ready to embrace change and explore new horizons. My dedication to public service has been unwavering, and I am proud of the contributions I have made. As I contemplate the next chapter of my life, I am reminded that there is so much more of me to give. The world is full of opportunities, and I am eager to seize them.
I post a lot of happy photos and experiences on social media. I have a pretty good life. One thing I almost never write or post about is Daren & my biggest struggle. The largest hurdle we haven’t gotten over and continue to learn about and navigate is having a blended family.
I’ve written countless journal entries over the years. We’ve written hundreds of heartfelt emails to one another, our kids and our extended family trying to explain where we are coming from. I don’t really know anyone in real life with a current blended family to turn to for advice or to vent. There are little to no resources.
Over the years in complete frustration I’ve turned to the Internet. It’s been helpful in learning how we are not alone, but as with many things in life the “tips” (if you can call them that) are much easier said than done. In the past week I’ve been a bit selfish and have only been looking up information about stepmothers. In the past I ran across information and angry forums where biological moms and step-moms posted and complained about one another. It was all a bit too much for me, yet I kept reading the same kind of stories and threads over and over. This week I tried to stick with peer-reviewed information only. There is little to none. The closest thing I can find that has a lot of information are Psychology periodicals. The New York Times and Huffington Post had some articles too, but on average 1–2 a year, and they are more informational for the public to be aware of the struggles that blended families experience rather than a help to the blended family itself.
What shocks me is how “textbook” we are. We fell hook, line & sinker into exactly what normally happens.
Stepmothers generally have such a bad reputation. It’s often long into adulthood, usually after grandchildren/step-grandchildren are born, that the relationship between a stepmother and her stepchildren starts to flourish. Until then it’s often contentious, and it doesn’t have to be. These are 3 things in order that a family could do to speed up that process.
The parents should work together to establish the boundaries, rules and consequences in their home (father and stepmother).
Both biological parents should work together to maintain as many commonalities as possible between both homes and back one another up, or at least check in when the children complain about one home or the other.
The biological mother should give her children permission to accept the stepmother in their lives.
This is the bare minimum to ensure success. Taking it further might look like all three (or four if mom is remarried) parents working together, especially if either stepparent has children living in their home. Mature adults realize this is in the best interest of all kids involved. Without the above three factors in place, the situation is practically a perfect setup for failure. However, we are so quick to blame the stepmother when anything goes wrong. Why? The world believes the fairy tale evil stepmother fantasy. She is the easy target because she is the outsider and no one feels any loyalty to her.
This is a very lonely feeling. As a stepmother you wonder what is wrong with you. You lose part of yourself. You question every word you say. I felt really alone for so long. It’s comforting to now know that many stepmothers experience similar feelings—being blamed, misunderstood, and caught in situations they didn’t create, simply because of the role they stepped into.
Wow, how that sits with me. So it’s not just me? It’s not something I did or our special situation?
I’ve been accused of thriving on drama, needing my husband’s ex as a common enemy to save my relationship with him, being verbally abusive, making capricious rules, being childish, having an eating disorder, trying to make the children into something they aren’t—the list goes on. To anyone who knows me in real life, this sounds ridiculous. But if you didn’t know me and heard I’m a stepmother, you really might believe it, because of the perception that already exists.
Why do so many women have the same experience?
From what I’ve read and experienced, the stepmother is often the first to notice something isn’t working and starts to look for ways to improve the situation. She tries to create structure and understanding within the home, and that can sometimes come across as controlling or authoritative, even when the intention is the opposite. That can create resentment and distance right from the start.
I’ve also noticed that stepfathers often seem to have a different experience. In many situations, dynamics between households play a role, especially when emotions from the past haven’t fully settled. That can create ongoing tension between homes, and the stepmother often ends up in the middle of it, feeling both responsible and powerless at the same time.
The above becomes even more complicated when the stepmother has children of her own and is trying to create a fair and balanced home for everyone. It’s so important that all the kids feel at home, but when expectations differ between households, it can create a divide between step-siblings and make it difficult to maintain consistency.
If we could all just co-parent seamlessly, many of these issues would likely ease, but that requires a level of communication and maturity that isn’t always present. Unfortunately, the stepmother is often the one labeled as the problem.
These are some common myths that I find so absurd.
She is jealous of the children.
That is such a strange accusation, yet it’s widely believed. I’ve heard it long before I ever became a stepmother, I’ve heard it about myself, and I see it come up again and again. The idea that someone would secretly try to manipulate situations to make children look bad just doesn’t align with the reality I’ve experienced.
She tries to exert power over the blended family and make the children’s lives miserable.
What kind of person actually wants to see children miserable? I ask that honestly. I can’t think of anyone in my real life who operates that way.
I think a lot of people hear one side of a story and form their opinions from that. What might look like strictness or control is often something as simple as asking for basic respect, structure, and consistency.
In step-families where the father is the biological parent, it’s not uncommon for dynamics between households to influence parenting styles. When expectations differ significantly, the stepmother can end up being the one trying to create balance, which can easily be misunderstood.
After this happens repeatedly, the stepmother can begin to feel like she has no control in her own home and has to walk on eggshells. Over time, that only makes things more difficult, and the situation can start to feel strained in ways that weren’t there at the beginning.
She shouldn’t have any say when it comes to the children.
This is a partial myth. There are areas where she should have a voice—anything that directly impacts her home, her time, her schedule, or her children. And there are areas where she shouldn’t. Finding that balance isn’t always clear.
Discipline is one of the most difficult areas. If something happens within the home, it makes sense that the adults in that home address it together. But when expectations differ across households, it can create confusion and tension for everyone involved. Consistency matters, especially when multiple children are involved, and when it’s lacking, it can create resentment between siblings.
If she is kind, the children will warm up to her.
Not necessarily. There are many factors at play, including loyalty. Children can feel that accepting a stepmother is a betrayal of their biological mother, even if that’s never said directly. That creates a barrier that the stepmother has no control over.
Over time, I’ve come to understand that even kindness doesn’t always resolve that dynamic. Relationships take time, and sometimes they don’t develop the way you expect.
Culturally, there is also a double standard. Children are allowed to feel however they feel, but the stepmother is expected to show patience and understanding at all times.
She isn’t immature and childish; she is human, often trying to navigate something incredibly complex without much guidance.
Are you a stepmother or know of any? Try looking at things from her perspective. Most little girls don’t grow up with dreams of marrying a man with children. Almost no woman sets out seeking that situation. Choosing it usually means you love someone enough to take on everything that comes with their life, including the parts that are already complicated.
That doesn’t make anyone perfect. It just makes them human.
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If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention.
I have to admit—I had never really heard of International Women’s Day either. My initial reaction wasn’t great, but I started looking into it. It’s been around since 1909. Really? It was first celebrated in New York City, and the date later moved to March 8th when it was recognized more broadly. It’s been around for over 100 years and somehow never fully caught on here. Maybe it’s about time.
When I thought about it beyond that first reaction, I started to feel something closer to outrage. To everyone who made fun of the day or felt the need to post something snarky—have you ever stopped to consider why it exists?
In the United States, we still lag behind many developed countries in policies that support families. Paid maternity leave is limited. Paid paternal leave is not standard. Many women still earn less than men in similar roles. Representation in leadership and government positions remains uneven. And culturally, women are still often portrayed in narrow ways that shape expectations from a very young age.
Globally, the gaps are even more striking. Women make up half the population, yet hold a much smaller percentage of leadership roles. Many still face violence, limited access to education, and restrictions on basic freedoms. These realities are not abstract—they affect real people, every day.
So when people dismiss something like International Women’s Day, it makes me pause.
Why is this acceptable?
Why are these things normalized?
Some might say women make different choices—that they step away from careers, take fewer risks, or prioritize family. But why is that the structure we’ve accepted? Why does raising children—future members of society—come at such a high personal and financial cost?
Most families I know didn’t choose daycare because they preferred it. They chose it because they had to. To pay bills. To survive. And for those who stay home, there are tradeoffs too—financial, professional, long-term.
This isn’t just a personal issue. It’s a societal one.
You would think the federal government might set a stronger example. On paper, it often does. In practice, that hasn’t been my experience.
I’ve worked for the federal government for over two decades—active duty, reserve, and civilian. When I got pregnant in 2006 while in the military, I applied for what was described as a generous unpaid leave program. My situation was straightforward—we had no childcare support, and both my husband and I had schedules that made coverage nearly impossible.
It was denied.
No real explanation beyond “I was needed.”
I returned to work after six weeks. There was no place to pump, so I didn’t breastfeed. A coworker’s wife helped watch my son. People were shocked the request had been denied. It worked out—but it easily could have not.
A few years later, when it came time to reenlist, I wanted to stay in. I had strong performance reviews and had advanced quickly. We asked for a reasonable accommodation—one of us needed to be stationed somewhere that didn’t require overnight duty so we could care for our child.
It wasn’t considered.
I was told it was my turn for ship duty. End of discussion.
I left active duty.
Another motivated woman out of the workforce.
Years later, in my civilian role, I saw similar patterns. Flexible schedules, job sharing, alternative work arrangements—all things that exist on paper. In practice, they were rare.
After 22 years of consistent, high-level performance, I asked for an alternative schedule to manage burnout and maintain balance.
The answer was no.
No clear explanation. No real discussion. Just… no.
When I pushed for clarity, the response wasn’t transparency—it was subtle resistance. Enough to feel it, not enough to prove it.
Eventually, I left that role.
Another motivated employee gone.
This isn’t just about me. It’s about a pattern.
At some point, you start to ask—where is the accountability? Why don’t these issues feel more visible, more urgent?
Why aren’t we talking about them more openly?
Why aren’t we asking for better?
And beyond our own borders—why aren’t we paying more attention to the realities women face in other parts of the world?
This isn’t about comparison or competition. It’s about awareness.
Because inequality isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Built into systems. Accepted over time.
So maybe International Women’s Day isn’t something to dismiss.
Maybe it’s simply a reminder.
To pause.
To notice.
To ask better questions.
To consider what still needs to change.
Because if we don’t, it’s very easy to assume everything is fine.
And often, it isn’t.
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“To the outside world, we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other’s hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time.” – Clara Ortega
Is this true for everyone? I used to think it was, but I’m not so sure. It’s true for me. I’m close with both of my brothers. My brother Mario is only 20 months my junior, but only a calendar year apart; so it put us a year apart in school growing up. My brother Frankie is 4 years and 5 months younger than me. As I said, I’m close with both of my brothers; but my relationship with Mario is something that I don’t even have words for. Mario and Frankie… It’s Franceso really. Francesco Camillo. Mario Anthony, and I’m Esterina Francesca. We are true guineas. My father is straight off the boat from Italy; 1970 at 20 years old. My mother’s entire lineage is Italian. We are 100% Italian and have the insanely authentic names to show for it.
At 20 months old I don’t have any single memories of a time before Mario. My mother used to tell me stories about how I was excited about her big belly and understand kind of, but not quite that I would have a brother or sister. She and my aunt Fran told me about how I wouldn’t speak to my parents once he came home until not long after I observed a diaper change and asked “what’s that?” pointing to the difference I noticed about our bodies at not yet 2 years old. These are memories I don’t have but heard them enough that I feel like I do.
Memories I do remember are of us playing together in our house on 64th street in Brooklyn… or is it E. 64th, 63rd? I don’t know. My aunt Fran would know. Or my dad when he isn’t drinking (which isn’t often). None-the-less I do remember Mario there. I have a few memories of our first home at my grandmother’s famous house where all 3 of her kids lived on different floors on Ocean Avenue. Mario was there, but I seem to remember him asleep or in the background somewhere while my parents, aunt, and grandmother played cards until the wee hours of the morning with gin & tonics about. I hung around tugging at the group and kept myself busy with the joker card and the dog. We were either in my folk’s basement apartment or my grandmother’s first floor jaunt. The 64th St. flat is where I have my earliest memories of Mario being mobile and us talking and playing together. It was a small place, but we had an imagination. I remember waking him up out of his sleep in the mornings to play. My dad will still talk of the time period where Mario hadn’t spoken at some ridiculously late age, but he talked to me. I don’t know if I just interpreted things for him and he signed, or if he was actually speaking; I only remember I knew what he wanted to say and translated it to my parents for him. He’d nod enthusiastically.
As toddlers we played behind a little desk, pretending the little piece of wood horizontally holding the two ends together was a steering wheel and we were driving. We played board games and “read” books. My dad worked and my mom was home when we were young. Aside from my dancing school lessons and our cousins, before I started school we didn’t play with other children much, and my mom was always busy cleaning or painting ceramics or something. There were no computers and like 1 hour of children’s tv on in the morning. Mario and I were mostly all we had for entertainment.
I do remember when my mother was pregnant with Frankie. I remember understanding that the belly meant a baby. This was a period in life before sonograms and no one knew what they were having before the baby popped out (can one even fathom such a thing???). I do remember really really really hoping for a baby sister. I don’t remember count-downs or anything. I do remember playing in the backroom of my grandmother’s store (Dinettes R Us) on Coney Island Avenue with my brother Mario under a desk when the phone rang and my grandmother answered. I can still hear her famous NY accent as loud as one could possibly talk without screaming “Hallo?!”. I think Mario & I were playing cards. I remember wondering if the call was about the baby and wishing, wishing, wishing it was a girl. My grandmother walked to the backroom and said “Your mother had the baby… it’s a boy!” I was happy, so happy. Mostly because my grandmother was so happy; and I didn’t care anymore that it was not a baby sister. Mario didn’t seem to pick up on this too much. He feigned joy (likely because I was joyous) and just continued to play.
If this were a play, the next act up was Mario & I in our apartment with my aunt Fran waiting for my parents to come home with Frankie. There was some red rocking apple toy I picked out for this new brother somewhere at our apartment on that 64th Street that I knew was a baby toy but I was playing with it anyway. The moment came when Mario and I were called out to the terrace overlooking the street because my parents were home. We ran out to the terrace and saw the car pull up in the front of the house. My dad was driving and my mom was in the front seat holding the new baby.
We were both too young to feel jealous over this new character in our lives. It just seemed very normal. I remember Frankie sitting in a car seat type of item while my mother was busy in the kitchen or something (though we didn’t have car seats back then… it was 1980). Mario and I would try to make Frankie laugh (which he did) then we’d make a “boo” face to scare him and started laughing when he cried; which only made him laugh too. The earliest lessons of lovingly teasing I suppose. Frankie always had a few years behind us and was always either following us around or trying to swindle us in playing a game with him. There were plenty of memories all 3 of us playing; but many more memories I can remember of just Mario and I while Frankie was sleeping or engrossed in something a little too juvenile for us. We played made up games like the “Pink pink coolie”, barbies that went nuts and threw themselves down the stairs in the apartment we ended up at over “Dinettes R Us” on Coney Island Avenue, or just playing in our yard of the building – Uno, the kiddie pool, catching lightening bugs, laughing…. We made up plays and songs for our parents with our cousins and our parent’s friend’s kids. Through elementary school we had the same teachers and laughed about their funny sayings or sang ridiculous songs we both knew. When we realized something annoyed my mom like the abominable song our music teacher made up and taught the kids (“Hello, hello, I like to say hello”) we’d tag team with one another and get a kick out of seeing my mom so aggravated. We fought too. Don’t get me wrong. I remember us blaming each other for stuff (well… me blaming him mostly). We hit each other. We were mad often for all of 5 minutes while we got separated and sent to our rooms until we were laughing about something outside or something one of us pointed out in the house. Mario was my companion. My very first best friend.
With my cousins Anthony & Camille
The first real memories of bonding with Mario were on Coney Island Avenue. We had a very small apartment. My bedroom was the first of three that were adjoined, meaning you had to pass through mine to get to my parent’s room. And then pass through my parent’s room to get to Mario and Frankie’s shared room. We moved to Long Island in 1988 a few days before my 12th birthday. I remember the apartment being torn apart for quite sometime with packing and whatnot before the move. I don’t know how or why, but for some reason Mario and I ended up needing to sleep in my room in a double bed for some time. The first night I remember us talking into the wee hours started with Mario tossing and turning. I was in 5th grade and he was in 4th. I asked him what was the matter and in completely different words he confessed he was stressed because he wasn’t good at anything. I felt so bad that he was upset and tried to think of things he was good at to help him feel better because I knew his worries were ridiculous. I came up with several that he shot down with some excuse. Until I remembered reading his papers that he wrote for Saint Brendan’s Elementary school classes. I told him with complete genuine enthusiasm that I thought he was good at writing… and suddenly he quieted to think this over and completely agreed. “I am pretty good at writing aren’t I?”. “Yes you are”. We talked for a little bit about the things I remembered reading and I could tell he started to feel really good about himself. We talked much longer about his talent of writing . He ended up going to sleep happy. I remember the next day him referencing the conversation. I felt so good about helping him feel confident.
I remember being in up to 6th grade and laughing into the wee hours of the morning in that same apartment with Mario. My mother screaming from the next room “Get to sleep!!!”. We’d quiet for a few minutes until one of us said something so funny that we couldn’t help but bust out. My mother would march in and turn on the lights ranting and raving. God knows this only made us super serious until the lights turned off and we’d giggle quietly again. Not being able to help busting out into serious laughter again a few minutes later.
Mario was always hilariously funny. Even then. In a very Jerry Seinfeld way long before Seinfeld hit the scenes. He has ALWAYS had a knack for pointing out the very mundane and seeing how ridiculous it was. We were just silly kids in elementary school. Being only a year apart in a small school that had only one class per grade, we knew all the same people. “Why do we always have to say Michael so & so?” (I’d actually write the last name if I could remember it)… “Why do we not call him Michael or Mike? No one would know who he is by those names”. Silly stuff, but it was just so stinking TRUE, and he seemed to have an ability to pick up on truisms that no one else noticed and point them out in a comical way.
“We know one another’s faults, virtues, catastrophes, mortifications, triumphs, rivalries, desires, and how long we can each hang by our hands to a bar. We have been banded together under pack codes and tribal laws.” – Rose Macaulay
Our family is nuts. Certifiably nuts. I know everyone says that about their family, but mine really is. The stories we can tell are practically unreal, but the crazy part is that they are not. Crazy people attract crazy circumstances, which makes crazy experiences followed by crazy stories. As they happened in my life and I had to go to school or work and told people, they wouldn’t believe the things that happened. I mean they did, but were shocked. Each story just also happened to be funny. When you step back and don’t take anything too seriously; it’s all just life and life is fun and funny! My brothers and I always made it funny. As things happened we laughed at it. We all ended up picking up that Seinfeld kind of attitude where we took the daily experience and pointed out the insanity of it all. Only we had really insane things happen that were kind of out of the ordinary daily experience that made it all the more funnier. The danger in that though is that you become immune to crazy and fail to realize when lines are crossed and accept things as normal that most people just wouldn’t. My grandmother was funny and always laughing. My aunt Fran was a hilarious cynic without ever trying to be. My dad had a funny work experience on the job as a painter almost every day and would relive it around the table over dinner laughing so hard he could barely breath. He’d start coughing from laughing, and we’d all be laughing too before the punch line even came because well… laughing is contagious. My mother didn’t laugh as much as the rest of us did, but she did have a comical side to her when she let it out. More like my aunt, hilarious cynicalness just randomly thrown out when you least expected it. She’d be annoyed when we laughed about it too, which only made it funnier.
I really remember Mario and I sitting around and bonding many warm summer evenings until literally the sun rose after we moved to Long Island until our later teenage years. At that time I had my own room and Mario and Frankie shared a room. During the summers we’d play Nintendo or Monopoly or Uno all night. It would start out with some friends, Frankie, and our neighbor Andy around sunset. Eventually everyone would go home or turn in; but we played and played long after the gang retired and my folks went to bed because they had work the next day. I remember countless nights sitting on my bed laughing about our family members, mainly my grandmother and the craziness of our dysfunctional parents. We’d point out things we’d notice and hypothesize about why they were like they were and how insane it all seemed.
At least once or twice a month one of us would inevitably knock on the other’s door, usually in the evening during homework and ask if the other wanted to talk. The answer was always yes. The intention never started with a talk that would last for hours, but it always did. We talked when we were upset, or worried, or just wanted to laugh, or reminisce about the past. We certainly shared secrets. We shared a paper route when we were in junior high into high school for a few years. With our money we’d shop and often find a sweatshirt or Z.Cavarricci’s neither of us could afford on our own but both liked and decided to share since we were about the same size at the time.
“Siblings are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness and cooperation and kindness and caring, quite often the hard way.” – Pamela Dugdale
My father tried and miserably failed at teaching us how to speak Italian from the time we were little. He’d try to lure us in with fun games and piggy-back or airplane rides for each word we remembered. It worked a few days back-to-back but then we’d just lose interest. In junior high when it was time to pick a language Mario and I chose Italian and learned some through school. We immediately started calling each other Fratello and Sorella and still do until this day. Sometimes it’s shortened to “fratel” or “sorel”. We would use the little language we knew as a way to talk in front of others who we didn’t want to understand us, like some neighbors that were annoying us, or little Frankie who we likely wanted to get something out of.
Frankie was always a little hustler. He loved his eggs and tuna fish sandwiches. He’d make a delicious lunch and have it all out on the table and offer it to Mario and I. When we’d say yes he’d ask us for a fee. I swear on purpose he would go to TJ’s hero shop (most famous in town, dare I say Long Island) and come back with a beautiful piping hot hero and sit down and talk non-stop about how unbelievably tastey it was. Then he’d try to convince me and Mario that we’d like one too – here… smell it. “I’ll ride my bike to go buy one for an extra fee for the inconvenience”. We’d always cave. He was always willing to jump up for extra cash, but try to get him to do his chores and help us while my mom was working… forget it. We’d fight with him and bother my mom at work. She’d tell us to work it out and hang up the phone in a huff. Work it out meant some kind of fight with no one winning and everyone losing. Early lessons on how that gets you nowhere.
This picture just cracks me up. We look so Miami vice. This was in 1988 or 1989, in Ocean City, MD I believe
When I started to drive since Mario and I were close in age we had a similar yet not exclusively similar circle of friends. We were even friends with another brother and sister (the Bottegos) that we hung out with on a regular basis. We didn’t hang out all the time together with our companions, but often enough to have a lot of memories. We’d all hop into my car and go out to eat at an all you can eat buffet, or just walk around Port Jefferson or go to the beach, the pool hall, the movies or a long drive to nowhere. I would pick Mario’s girlfriend up in the morning before school. It definitely wasn’t all peaches and roses. I remember a lot of fights too. Often with our friends present rolling their eyes and trying not to take sides. I remember one particular day rowing a boat down Carmen’s river through South Haven park with my boyfriend and Mario’s girlfriend. None of us were particularly good at rowing, especially coordinating 4 people; but somehow Mario & I ended up in a ridiculously loud argument in the middle of nowhere in a place that made it impossible to storm off. So we had to sit in that rowboat fuming. No such thing as silent fuming in my family though! There was the very memorable night after going to the Ponderosa that Mario threw up in the back of my car on the way home. I was so mad at him. We got home and our friends helped us clean up while we laughed about how silly we all were for stuffing ourselves, reliving the experience as if it were some long lost memory. Once we took some friends through Brooklyn to show them where we used to live and even visited “the little old man” [we called him] at the deli my mom always had us walk to on the next block on Coney Island Avenue to buy cigarettes and a loaf of Italian bread. We went to NY city on the train with a mutual moocher friend that brought no money and split paying for him. And there was the infamously still one of the hottest days of my life when we decided in the height of summer to pack as many people in my car as possible and go to Great Adventure (Six Flags) in NJ and stop by the drive through safari on the way in. Windows were required to remain close (there was seriously no choice unless you wanted a safari animal in the car) and I had no air conditioning. Haha! Then fighting of course on the way home when I got lost, looking at the large oversized Rand McNally map and arguing about the right way back home.
Mario, Frankie and I had so many famous sayings that caught on with our parents, our aunt Fran and our neighbors and friends. We single handedly started most of them. We were that loud Italian family on the corner with cars on the lawn, some project always going on. Composting right next to the driveway when no one else even knew what that was. The summer would mean the pool was open and late into the evening you’d hear screaming and splashing; fighting and laughing. Tomatoes, basil, parsley, eggplant and zucchini plants perpetually in the garden tucked away in the corner. The ragged pets that ran free through the neighborhood, chickens running around the lawn. The grandmother who would visit with a Mercedes and mow the lawn in her high heels. My mom’s picture plastered all over town as one of the town realtor’s. Us randomly hauling out a refrigerator that may have been tossed over in a fit of anger, carrying out bags of trash in quiet fear or laughing like the serious buffoons that we were. Somehow in some unspoken way we knew just what stories were ok to tell and which were too outlandish. “Your father painted the outside of the wrong HOUSE one bleary eyed morning?” “A grandmother said that?” (one is the legendarily golden ‘p’ story for anyone who knows it). “Your mother indignantly came home from work and buried that cat in two minutes flat before getting back in the car to go back to work?” As my brothers and I randomly remember these experiences and sayings as adults, we text each other to see who else remembers. It often begets a series of hilarious texts and long lost memories. There are too many to write or remember. We also had a series of pets (all who ran away from the nut house). Here are some recent texts between Mario and I just a few weeks ago while I was in Copenhagen:
As crazy, yet scary, and albeit fun my house was growing up, I knew I had to get out to be able to get along in life without being reliant on the lunacy; so I joined the military and left the summer I graduated high school. Not long after Mario sent me a story he needed to write for his 12th grade English class. I don’t remember what the prompt was, but I do remember much of the story. He wrote about how much he missed his sister. Just me barging in to take his clothes, the sound of the “schk, schk, schk” of the pump of my hairspray. How he couldn’t move a thing in my room without me getting up to put it exactly the way it was. He wrote how he didn’t think he would, but he missed all that.
Shortly after I left I got married to my first husband, and just 6 months later got pregnant with Tommy. Then 2 years following Tommy I had Gabby. A year later little Frankie popped on the scene. Mario had Maria 9 years later so she is a little bit behind our 3, but we did good living far apart, keeping in touch and making sure to get to the main events in our kid’s lives. We are not a part of each other’s families like my aunt Fran and grandmother were to us. That makes me sad but we live so much further apart.
I talked to both of my brothers often in our adult years so far. Frankie not as much these days but always Mario. We have bouts of where we’ll connect more regularly than others, but we always know we can pick up the phone to chat. That happens often enough and the conversation is never short or lacking incredible depth. I’ll often call him when I’m fuming about something because not only do I know he’ll understand and express empathy at my utter frustration, but I’m 100% confident I’ll get off the phone laughing and feeling better. We are still shaping each other’s lives. Sharing new experiences, songs, books, and philosophies. We’ll get off the phone and download or Google something the other one told us about, and talk about it next time. I feel like we can open each other’s eyes to new things easier than my eyes are opened to things other people tell me because not only do I trust Mario, I know he is so much like me that if he believes something or likes something, it’s worth the exploration because in all likelihood I would appreciate it as well. We still spend countless hours talking, laughing, and commiserating about politics, the amped up news, family members, the ex’s in our lives, my dad, and the memories of “mommy & grandma”. We have long deep philosophical conversations that leave me in another state of understanding the world and seeing things in lights I would have never glanced at before.
“We are not only our brother’s keeper; in countless large and small ways, we are our brother’s maker.” – Bonaro Overstreet
My siblings shaped my life. I now know I’m lucky to be close with them. Not everyone is this close with their kin, my own children included. Not everyone makes it to adulthood with their siblings or long into life like my own cousin Anthony who passed away at the age of 17 when my cousin Camille and I were only 16. I understand and appreciate that any day anything can happen to anyone of us, so I want to stop and appreciate the relationship I have had with my brothers and honor it in a special way.
I was there for both of my brother’s whole lives and they mostly for mine. They knew me back when as an equal, having similar experiences as I did; learning the same life lessons and teaching one another about life in various ways. Inevitably we shaped one another’s personalities and the way we see the world. It’s a beautiful thing and I’m forever grateful for it.
Us three crazy DeGrazia kids as adults
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Just writing that subject line, the song “I Love Being a Girl” suddenly pops in my head. I have an urge to look up the words, but I am currently on a plane as I type this, without an internet connection. I remember the song from when I was a little girl in dancing school. I danced from the ages of 2–12 at a dance school in Brooklyn called Miss Helen’s. She was an older teacher and we had a real piano player (no pre-made music). Miss Helen was a woman of the 1930s and 1940s—a time when ladies were really ladies, even when they had to go to work. And men sported timeless attire: hats, overcoats, and shiny shoes. All the music we ever performed at Miss Helen’s was from that time period. Inevitably every year, one class did a tap number to “I Love Being a Girl.” It was usually a younger class with sweet little girls, stamping their feet and learning the early lessons of dance—to move on the beat and stay in line with the other girls using peripheral vision.
I have mixed feelings about being a female. A curse and a blessing. From the time I can remember, I was encouraged to embrace my femininity. My mother and grandmother insisted I dance. My grandmother was always buying me frilly dresses and pretty overcoats. “Sit like a lady,” “ladies don’t say that or laugh like that,” “just be careful—you don’t want to get your pretty dress all dirty.” I would look longingly at my brothers, who could hunch over, sit however they pleased, and run off to play without worrying about soiling their clothes. I always felt ridiculous in poofed-up, itchy dresses and ribbons or curls in my hair. My mother was always trying something new with my hair. I had to sleep with curlers many nights, or some kind of Chinese ribbons that my hair never took to. I absolutely HATED my dance recitals and putting on makeup. I felt like a clown. I wanted to be in the audience with shorts, sneakers, and air conditioning like my brothers and cousins who were forced to come sit and watch this yearly grand performance.
When I became a teenager and started buying my own clothes, I put myself in comfortable things that normal teenagers wore. I started wearing makeup in my early teens and poofing my bangs with Aqua Net hairspray like most girls did in the late 80s, early 90s. I paid little mind to jewelry or nails or shoes or anything super girly. I joined the Coast Guard and fit in well, not having to worry about my clothes each day and being able to throw back my hair in a bun under a hat quickly. I loved it.
I guess what got me excited about being a girl was the opposite of being in a uniform. The rare times I was able to get in civilian clothes and literally let down my then fairly long brown hair, I felt so… feminine! The guys I worked with every day did a double take. I felt like a new person. It was kind of cool to literally transform. Over the next few years, once I became a civilian, I discovered all sorts of fun things—hair different ways, different kinds of earrings and bracelets, flat shoes, heels, boots, leggings, colored pantyhose, different shades of makeup and nail polish. Hair up or down, curly or straight. Dresses, skirts, pants, capris, tight shirts, loose flowy ones… Oh, the possibilities were endless. Thanks to my mom in my formative years, I knew how to do my hair in different styles and not be bothered by the discomforts of pinchy shoes, clothes, and tights. My grandmother immediately noticed my transformation. She was a woman of class. She had timeless beauty and style. She had a wardrobe many a woman would envy with years’ worth of clothing, shoes, handbags, belts, scarves, and luggage. She always bought me beautiful things over the years—things me and my parents thought were way too expensive and sexy. Underwear, lingerie, bathing suits, shoes that I couldn’t even walk in. When I started to realize how much fun these things were, my grandmother was so excited for me. We were always close, but we really bonded at this time in my life over the joys of being a woman. She had and shared clothes she outgrew by popular designers before they were even popular. I was finally listening when she talked about fashion and the stitching on our bags. I got a little more into housewares. She loved to set a beautiful table and had given me many china sets, glasses for all occasions, napkins, tablecloths, and cutlery. Gosh, it is fun to be a girl. Poor men with so few options.
I never appreciated these things before then. My mom loved her makeup, manicured nails, perfume, and clothes, but she wasn’t into anything expensive and sort of detested her own mother for insisting on the best of everything. At the time I started to really enjoy fashion, my mother sort of became a hippie. She divorced my father, married, and moved in with a Venezuelan man from a missionary in Florida, and started working in a homeless shelter. She started to wear old comfortable clothes and let her once short, always perfectly hair-dried tresses grow long. She stopped wearing jewelry and makeup and cared less about a perfectly clean house and homemade dinners on the table. My grandmother and I thought her to be crazy. She became quite spiritual and pretty adamant that these “things” just don’t matter.
They have both since passed. I now understand my mother a whole lot more.
At some point in the past few years, my feet really started to hurt in shoes. Many a morning when it was freezing cold out and I was in a rush, drying my hair and squeezing into stockings knowing there would be no time for breakfast, I watched my husband turn dashing in about 5 minutes flat, and then make himself some eggs and read the paper over a long cup of coffee. I am no longer sure that the time sacrifice to look nice is worth it and should be encouraged.
There were times during PMS or that time of the month where it took all the energy in the world to get up and get dressed to the nines and get to work—running to the bathroom with feminine hygiene products discreetly in tow between meetings, then being embarrassed to show up late while being wildly uncomfortable and bloated, with pinching clothes… only to sit down and see some man, who I’m sure took 5 minutes to be ready and ate breakfast, gawk at me like a piece of meat. Not cool, dudes out there. I was really doing these things for me because they were fun, not for them. How dare men get to do nothing and then stare at pretty women? I was understanding what people meant when they say it’s a man’s world.
I started to notice the respect that well dressed women get. A female standing at a podium making a speech with an unfitted shirt and wild undried hair just does not command the same attention as the slim suit skirt with lipstick and a Brazilian blowout who would follow before or after her. I have watched audiences, colleagues and even coffee baristas ignore the comfortable, practical woman over the impeccable one who had to put hours into looking that way time and time again. When this realization started to take hold, I began to get bitter about the injustices women in general face.
I understood the bra burning craze and movement toward a hippie life in the late 60’s, early 70’s. There were men at the time who understood these injustices too and went with the flow. What stopped them? Drugs and too free of a life I assume, but they weren’t on a bad track. The jokes about the ladies room lines really started to get to me. Yeah haha funny, but it’s just not really ok. Why are their restrooms even close to the same size as ours? We are heading in with babies, small children and handbags. Changing tables, broken hooks with no where to hang a purse many times except your own teeth. Sweating in a jacket, squeezing in with a little kid, having to actually wash your hands at all, but then doing it while balancing everything else one is holding trying not to touch anything nasty. Why is bringing the kids into the ladies room still even the norm? Even when you don’t have any or they have grown, they are all still in there, underfoot; being lifted to the sinks. Poor mother doing a balancing act and everyone right around her trying not to get in the way or hit with splashed water. Forget it if you have your period and need to take care of business amongst the chaos. Then only to go outside and see the man you are with happily on his iPhone, never understanding what you have just gone through… Or bless his soul never understanding why you are an irritated grump when he asks what took you so long.
That is in my free country. There are women who are actually still oppressed in the world. All over. Then there are THOUSANDS who are made to work fields under hot burkas so we can drink coffee and eat chocolate and meat. There are many more who have to work in hot deplorable falling down factories to make cheap garments… Sadly mostly for women so men can ogle them.
Domestic violence. The sex trade that men actual pay for, treating women like objects. Women are not equal. I don’t know why I believed that when someone told me that when I was young.
A few months ago I watched a free Netflix movie called Miss Representation. I was so moved by it I had all 4 kids watch it. There are SO many unfair and male dominated decisions even in our “free” country right under my nose that I never noticed. Why the sex object in ads, video games, movies? It’s so ingrained that we don’t even notice it and little girls (and big ones too like me) think it’s normal to have to strive to look fake all the time. In politics, tv and movies; women are cheapened and made fun or or talked about provocatively when a man almost never faces the same ridicule. What’s even funnier is that at the end of the day women actually get down to business. Men are often consumed with power and being the alpha male in the room or thinking about what’s under one (or more) of the women’s clothes, that they aren’t even paying attention and things are repeated and beaten to oblivion before a decision is even made. One of my favorite parts of the Miss Representation movie I mentioned is how some political women who are a MAJOR minority in the United States said that they often joke in the bathroom across party lines on breaks that they would have had the decision over and done with in a few minutes opposed to the days they are spending deliberating on our capital’s floor watching egos and the same non-sense being repeated over and over.
I wish my mother and grandmother were still alive to have intelligent chats over coffee (my mom) or a gin & tonic (my grandmother), about how they feel about feminism in this day and age. We are in an interesting time period. My grandmother grew up during the depression when men and women’s roles were a little different. Not too far from the farming generation where no one worked outside the home, and men & women were equal in taking care of two different parts of running a home and raising children. Fashion had no part of practical life. Men were getting their power reduced with voting and equal rights. Both sexes pooled together to do what needed to be done for our country with WW2. Women looked and acted like women, men like men- but it seemed fair. Even when men left the home to work and more money was flowing, women stayed home to keep house and raise the kids. Then the economy started to boom and women now had products (made by men no doubt) that made them look shapely, done up and feel pretty. Advertisement, tv and movies ramped it up and suddenly it was the female norm to be “done up” everyday, stay skinny and keep a perfect home.
Bring in my mom’s generation who had to do all that but then also work outside the home to buy all these life necessities to look and be perfect. Child rearing, keeping house, working like a horse; but doing it with heels, perfume and make up was and still is generally an expectation of females only. Men just have the work like a horse part. Women fought against it at first with the bra burning and high divorce rates of the 70s, but somehow they became oppressed and took on extra roles throughout the years. Many women, myself included, play this part because it’s what we were taught to do. We saw it on tv and magazines and in movies, watch our mothers, aunts and neighbors do it; so we think it’s normal and don’t even question the differences. Men run 95% of the media and politics, everything that shapes out perception of the world. My mom, like most other women, (now myself included) ended up hitting a burn out wall. We feel mostly powerless against the world and against the majority of women who have not yet awoken to this reality, feel there is nothing we can do and kind of quietly rebel against this nonsense.
Gender inequality is everywhere. I saw it so much on the vacation I’m returning from over a vast number of cultures in a few countries. I’m on a plane right now. Everywhere I look men are sitting spread eagle right into the women’s spaces. Women are sitting uncomfortably like ladies. Most men push past women everywhere, doorways, trains, on lines. When I see a woman struggling with a suitcase or trying to get a stroller down stairs, it’s another women helping her and other ladies making sure she is being helped unlike the oblivious men charting off to push the weaker and slower out of the way as soon as possible. Women are still covered in much of the world. They can’t show their faces. They are the ones pushing strollers and lugging the family’s bags. In the crowded and stinky restrooms women are brushing out their hair, applying a fresh coat of lipstick to keep their man’s attention and tending to the children. Why don’t men have to do any of this?
Men may never know what it feels like to be scared to get into a cab late at night or even walk to the car. They never have to change their last name and deal with the legal obnoxiousness of having several identities. Or being paid less for doing the same job! They cannot understand the pressure most young girls start to feel in the preteen years when they see their dad, brother or classmate’s nudie photos for the first time and start to believe they need to look like the altered models for a man to find them attractive. They have eating disorders and serious self confidence issues because of the media. Men will never understand what it feels like to bleed every month, have your hormone levels rise & fall and not have any control over the emotions souring through your body. Or being so tired some days from the loss of iron you can hardly function. We are told we are wimps for not pushing through crowds or dealing with a period, but has any man ever dealt with a menstrual cycle or been called a bitch for elbowing their way through a crowd? Yeah yeah yeah… the way of the world and the curse of being a woman and all that stuff, but by who? It’s the way of the world, but we should be able to see the injustice and unfairness in the differences of the genders. How can women embrace femininity when they are expected to be both sexes at the same time and take on every role every man or woman has had since the dawn of time? So many women before me including my own mother have realized this simple fact but are such a minority that they can hardly do anything about it except maybe hold some rallies where they are mocked by both sexes alike or post blogs, write stories or make low budget movies where they will be called a feminist and very possibly be publicly made fun of.
In some ways my grandmother and Miss Helen had it a little easier. A bit closer to a period where women were gaining domestic and political rights but both sexes had a very separate yet equal role. Men held doors and helped ladies with heavy bags. Both sexes dressed up and women weren’t expected to have twiggy like bodies. I may have loved being a girl then.
I still do enjoy many parts of being a girl, but not at the expense of being expected to do it all. In the past few years I only blow dry my hair once or twice a week. I don’t wear make up many days. I’m certainly wearing more comfortable clothes and shoes. I shop only consignment. I care much less about ultra girly things. I would rather drop money on a charity to help women and children around the world shape the next generation over an expensive bag that plays into the obscene role of the woman who has the perfect job, kids, clothes, house, and husband. It’s fake and exhausting. I’ve been waking up to this reality over the past few years and can feel proud that I talk to my own daughter about the confusing world women live in so she doesn’t fall into the same confused state many of us are or were in.
No more having three-year olds in tight sparkly costumes cut down in a heart shape to their non-existent bust. All dolled up with hairspray and lipstick, looking like a clown singing about enjoying being a girl in a world where there is female oppression, genital mutilation and sex trade. If you are lucky enough to live in a free country, enjoying being a girl means obsessing over your weight, bearing most of the household duties, watching your sisters be gawked at and spoken of as objects and spending hours a day trying to look like the media says you should to be taken seriously at work or even in the grocery store.
I also know there are a lot of men and single dads out there that do play a big role in parenting and running a house. They get my kudos and I know they are likely helped with that baby stroller on the stairwell by another women rather than a fellow dude. It’s also a woman who sees you outside a public restroom deliberating how you and your daughter can both use the bathroom and offers to take her in.
We are all human, let’s treat each other as such. This just means a little more elbow grease from the “weaker sex” on raising awareness in both world wide and domestic issues; and a little more compassion from men on what half of the population around them feels. Equal rights and equality between sexes is not the same thing.
Love & Peace. Namaste.
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Frankie was always a little hustler. He loved his eggs and tuna fish sandwiches. He’d make a delicious lunch and have it all out on the table and offer it to Mario and I. When we’d say yes he’d ask us for a fee. I swear on purpose he would go to TJ’s hero shop (most famous in town, dare I say Long Island) and come back with a beautiful piping hot hero and sit down and talk non-stop about how unbelievably tastey it was. Then he’d try to convince me and Mario that we’d like one too – here… smell it. “I’ll ride my bike to go buy one for an extra fee for the inconvenience”. We’d always cave. He was always willing to jump up for extra cash, but try to get him to do his chores and help us while my mom was working… forget it. We’d fight with him and bother my mom at work. She’d tell us to work it out and hang up the phone in a huff. Work it out meant some kind of fight with no one winning and everyone losing. Early lessons on how that gets you nowhere.
