Don't Call Me a Lady
Call
me Brash. Call me Bossy. Hell, call me the other B word. Just don’t call me a Lady.
I’m
a bit old school when it comes to the “L” word.
In my mind, those four letters are a gilded cage, a choke collar
fastened to the twin chains of “modesty” and “demureness,” ones meant to keep
women in line. And they still make me
flinch.
Ladies
please.
I
am old enough to have been brought up in a family that schooled me (however unsuccessfully)
in all things “lady”; it was part of the era. Ladies sat quietly, legs crossed;
nibbled their food; kept themselves tidy and presentable; were gracefully, elegant,
thin, beautiful; spoke softly with neither command, nor authority and knowledge.
But I was doomed to disappoint: no
beauty; my knees were always scuffed, my elbows rough and dry, my shoulders and
feet too big, my hair full of knots. And I said what was on my mind. I wanted to rub up against things, but lived
under an umbrella of expectation: Why
wasn’t I more refined? More girly? A Lady.
When
I was 16, Barbara, my petite, pearls and diamonds grandmother, gave me a black
silk evening bag with a fake diamond and pearl clasp, saying, “Everyone Lady needs one.” I was shocked that this was the most
important accouterments she could imagine for my soon to be adult self when what
I really needed were strong women who stood up to men, role models who showed
me that a girl can grow up to be just what she
wants.
Instead,
I learned girls were passive, pretty adornments, like the dolls I was given meant
to be looked at--things I wasn’t, nor had the slightest intention of being. Their lot was to wait—for a prince, for
happily ever after. No one would write
their story.
Baubo |
I
was too impatient for all that.
Please
don’t tell me to get over it, that these things reside in some distant troubled
past. The world we live in is still too ruled by
archaic ideas of how women should behave. You have only to look at the all-out
war on the national and local level on women’s reproductive rights and
the now infamous comments of the Dictator-in-Chief and his mostly guy cabinet to
see we have not come a long way, baby.
This
International Women’s Day I’m celebrating by thumbing my nose at it all, by bearing
my unruliness with pride and celebrating the bitchy, the bossy, and the badly
behaved. I’ll be lighting a candle for
Baubo, the most unladylike Goddess of all whose bawdy act of lifting her skirt
made Demeter laugh and propelled her into resuming her quest to find her
daughter. Like her, I’ll proudly act in some very unladylike ways, knowing such
acts have the power to change the world.
Comments
Post a Comment