{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.
You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman but also always be looking out for other people.
You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining. You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be a part of the sisterhood.
But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful.
You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.
I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all of that is also true for a doll just representing a woman, then I don’t even know…
~ From ‘Barbie’, by Greta Gerwig
Each time they take a photographI lose a part I can’t get backI wanna hide, this is the part where I detach
Each time they write a hateful wordDragging my soul into the dirtI wanna dieI never admit it, but it hurts…
When I was going through my formative years, girls ran the world. At least, they ran my world.
My Mom was the real head of our home. Dad may have outwardly been the powerhouse disciplinarian, but my brother and I knew that the way to get something we wanted was to have Mom on our side. We also saw how she ran the house, and the finances, and our lives. We watched as she went to graduate school, worked her way into a career as a nursing professor, and somehow kept us all going.
My friends from school – Suzie, Rachel, Lynn, Jill, Missy, Ann, Kate – were the people who inspired me. I wanted to be one of them. They held all the power and sway over what mattered to me. They were smart and funny and caring and kind, they knew how to put themselves together, and, to put it into the simplicity of my childhood mind, they were just cooler. Boys were clunky, awkward, and so much slower to develop. In later years they would appeal in a different way, but for grade school I much preferred the company of females. Before sexuality and forced gender assignations got in the way, my nature related more to women than to men. In the way I grew up viewing the world, women were the better sex in every way.
The mothers I knew – Suzie’s Mom, Missy’s Mom, Ann’s Mom, – were the powerful people who, in my head and likely in reality, ran their own families and households. Best of all, they would guide me at times when I needed intelligence, grace, and strength.
The teachers I had – all women until seventh grade (aside from physical education) – were the people who gave me the greatest gift of all: knowledge and a thirst for learning.
And my grandmother, whose birthday would have been today, was from a time and place where she couldn’t see her own power, or how much she influenced my young life. She saw herself as a quiet and shy person, who only came into her own when surrounded by familiar people and family, who counted on her husband, even in the many years after he was gone. (He died before I was even born, and yet her allegiance and deference to him was part of her regular narrative.) I only saw her steely grit and strength, the way she survived on her own for most of her adult life, and the way she wove glamorous stories of Greta Garbo alongside tales of Peter the Rabbit (which may explain more than I realized at the time).
I don’t wanna talk about it right nowJust hold me while I cry my eyes outI’m not Joan of Arc, not yetBut I’m in the dark, yeah
I can’t be a superhero right nowEven hearts made out of steel can break downI’m not Joan of Arc, not yetI’m only human
Anything they did to me, said to meDoesn’t mean a thing, ’cause you’re here with me nowEven when the world turns its back on meThere could be a war but I’m not going down.
Along with all those women who ran my world, there was one singer who cast a spell on me in the way that everyone should so have a spell cast upon them in their formative years, and Madonna was that guiding force. While she was consistently being pilloried for her sexiness, her desire, her provocation, for her survival as a woman and for her domination as an artist – all I saw was her majesty and might, and the way she ruled the pop world throughout the decades in which I grew into an adult.
One little lie I can ruin my dayWords are like weapons, they betrayWhen I am afraid, one word of kindness it can save me
I don’t wanna talk about it right nowJust hold me while I cry my eyes outI’m not Joan of Arc, not yetBut I’m in the dark, yeah
I can’t be a superhero right nowEven hearts made out of steel can break downI’m not Joan of Arc, not yetI’m only human
Anything they did to me, said to meDoesn’t mean a thing, ’cause you’re here with me nowEven when the world turns its back on meThere could be a war but I’m not going down
In the skewed view of my youth – skewed only in the view of the rest of the world – my limited and somehow visionary idea of women as superior to men worked to instill an idea of equality in my head, particularly when the underlying-yet-ever-prevalent patriarchy worked to skew things the other way. It was only after the first blush of innocent youth that the world began encroaching its sexist and misogynistic awfulness upon my mind, and as my friends and classmates fell into socially-prescribed gender roles, the safety and happiness I felt in my matriarchal existence was quickly threatened, and just as quickly extinguished. When it suddenly wasn’t safe to be a girl or a woman, then it certainly wasn’t safe to want to be like a girl or a woman.
I didn’t see that then, I only felt the diminishing of joy – something I likely attributed to growing up and losing the exuberant innocence of youth. But from that removal of joy came a slow substitute of strength and power, something that many women have had to conjure simply from being a woman in a world still so hostile to equality.
Being destructive isn’t braveThey couldn’t say it to my faceOne day I won’t careBut for the moment I’m not thereI’ll just close my eyes and let you catch me now
A gay man attempting to understand what it’s like to be a woman is as trifling and trivial as it can be noble and empowering, depending on how one goes about it. These days I approach such endeavors with wary humility, and a keen acknowledgment of all the limitations that my privilege and charmed life have bestowed upon my life and my viewpoint. I count myself extremely fortunate to have been raised by all the women who made my first view of the world one where women were in absolute control. That I still believe that to be true in so many ways is a would-be/should-be truth I will endeavor to bring into reality.
I don’t wanna talk about it right nowJust hold me while I cry my eyes outI’m not Joan of Arc, not yetBut I’m in the dark, oh yeah
More than that, I wonder how they feel at those moments when the world demands they be the women we think they should be, when the weight of being a woman is piled upon all their other roles as wives, mothers, professors, nurses, directors, aunts, sisters, and friends. I wonder how they do it, and in making me wonder that they open my heart to things I need to learn. Women still run my world.
I can’t be a superhero right nowEven hearts made out of steel can break downI’m not Joan of Arc, not yetI’m only human
Anything they did to me, said to meDoesn’t mean a thing, ’cause you’re here with me nowEven when the world turns its back on meThere could be a war but I’m not going down
My mother’s mother, Marion Louise Mitchell, born on this day, March 13, in the year 1911, in the little town of Hoosick Falls, remains a guiding spirit in my life. To most who knew her in my lifetime, she was a quiet and docile grandmother, a somewhat anxious worrier who relied on her rosary beads and bible to see her through the nights. But that’s not entirely the woman I knew and loved. In addition to the unshakeable faith she exhibited, she was one of the first people to show me the power of a story – in the tales she would share with me and my brother as we snuggled into the twin bed that she had in the guest room of my childhood home – the same bed that my Mom slept in as a child. More than that, she shared stories of working in the arsenal during the war, stories of a childhood with four siblings, stories of nights out when she would dress up and dazzle, smoking a cigarette for effect even when she didn’t smoke the rest of the time. She embodied another lifetime – and another life of which we merely heard echoes – and in that world she raised the woman who would become my mother.
Whenever I listen to this song, I think of my Gram, and all the women in my life, and I am grateful for them.
Anything they did to me, said to me… Doesn’t mean a thing, ’cause you’re here with me nowEven when the world turns its back on meThere could be a war but I’m not Joan of Arc
Song #176 – ‘Joan Of Arc’ ~ Winter 2016
