Feminine Energy Doesn't Pay The Bills

In the past year, I've seen a lot of commentary (okay, usually on a social media "reel") about what men have to do to make sure their woman remains "in her feminine energy." I think I get the gist; in non gender identifying language, the implication is that the man needs to ensure he is a safe environment so the woman can feel relaxed. My skeptical side sees how this language became gendered and the implications that surround applying a gender to one's "energy" become a slippery slope.

This kind of language then gets applied to life. Several years ago, my individual therapist informed me there was a backlash against "independent women." It sounded so fringe and bizarre to me at the time (about six years ago, I didn't even know about the term "manosphere" then). Who wouldn't want an independent woman? Who wouldn't want someone who arrives capable of paying their own bills and looking after themselves? This sounds like a perk, not a handicap. The increase in articles about the "male loneliness epidemic" occuring at a time when women finally have enough freedom to be able to support themselves is not a coincidence. In my own later in life single experience, I prefer someone who is solid company and consistent in treating me well. If they are also able to buy nice things, that's a perk, but not a requirement at the top of the list. The man has to provide, but when we shift from financial to emotional providing, it's treated as an impossible, unreasonable ask.

The backlash becomes tearing down women. We're "masculine" for simply being adults living on our own and paying all of our bills; for not needing a man. That's a sad statement; being needed is a low bar. Why not strive to be wanted, to be valuable in presence and not only for a paycheck? Much of the message to men is simply to not be like women. When we mind our own business, women get threats like, "Have fun dying alone with all of your cats." Women finally see this isn't the insult it's intended to be; 1) dying alone with cats (in peace) isn't the worst thing in the world and 2) see "male loneliness epidemic." It's all projection.

There's hand wringing about women earning degrees in higher numbers than men. When you hear whispers of ending no fault divorce or public figures stating out loud that they support one vote per household alarm bells should be sounding. When you have to hobble half of the population to hold on to power, that's not a win. I'm reminded of the white people whining hypothesis in the '80's and '90's that black people possess an unfair athletic advantage because enslaved people were "bred" to be stronger. The retort to that complaint was simple: elevate your game. Go to therapy. Learn how to have a healthy relationship. Confide in your friends (if you don't have any, make some). Stop treating sex like an act of domination. Unlearn the societal script that tells us women are inferior to men. Challenge the thought that anything leaning "feminine" (to include feelings) is to be mocked or disparaged. Insecurity commonly masquerades as superiority and gives itself permission to step on others in order to stay on top.

I'm not "masculine" for earning a salary that allows me to pay my bills without a man. I don't know when being an independent adult became equivalent to having XY chromosomes. I don't know why anyone would pine for the days when women were more like hostages than equal partners in their marriages. When we encounter opinion pieces asking if women ruined the workplace, I'm reminded of the blame Eve gets for ruining paradise. Women also got blamed for "ruining" the Service academies, the military, and every other realm where we were previously prohibited from entering. Instead of examining whether these places were ideal in the first place, or seeing what women added to improve things, by default, accommodating women is seen as a loss. What we fail to address is how everyone loses when women are expected to sacrifice their ambition, potential, rights and self worth so men can succeed.

When your mother shows up.

I posted the story of my first period a few days ago; the story encapsulates my deepest disappointment in my mother for not doing more to ensure I was comfortable. Out of guilt and/or a desire to be fair in showing she wasn't always falling short, I'm going to share a story of a time when she came through for me.

When some families had weekend traditions like volunteering or going to church, mine had the tradition of going to the mall to shop on weekends. Sometimes these trips included major purchases, but mostly they consisted of browsing familiar haunts. When all four of us would go, often my sister and I were released and everyone went their own ways with the understanding that we would meet at a designated spot at a specific time when it was time to go home. This was life before cell phones, and a life that required watch wearing, or being brave enough to ask someone what time it was. After my sister joined the Air Force and started her own adult life, we moved to California and the weekend outings continued. Sometimes this meant I was left to my own devices during our family "shopping together apart" time. During my sophomore year in high school, one of these outings resulted in me meeting a guy who was out with his friend. After some small talk, he asked for my phone number and I gave it to him, not because I had actively decided that I was interested, but because I had bought into the idea that any attention of a reasonably good enough looking guy was a good enough reason to share your contact information. There was minimal decision making on my part because what was the harm, right? This was how people met. This was how you get a boyfriend.

He was black, a highly uncommon demographic in my high school. He wasn't bad looking. His name was Ulysses (middle name "Grant," I kid you not) and he lived in East Palo Alto which was, at the time, a notoriously dicey bay area town adjacent to Palo Alto, home of Stanford University and a lot of rich people. In remembering events, I realized we'd met before I was licensed to drive and took the bus from Half Moon Bay to San Mateo to meet up with him for a movie date (Dark Man, starring Liam Neeson, thank you IMDB). That was the extent of our relationship. When the movie was over, we talked for a little while, but my primary concern was catching my bus to get home.

Two and a half years later, I was a senior in high school and prom (at some point between my sister's prom and mine, we all stopped calling it "the Prom") was on the horizon. I wanted to go as to not miss out on a milestone high school experience. My dad had died a few months before, and there was a high school classmate interested in asking me out (which I knew through our mutual friends), but I did not want to deal with rejecting him. Instead, over the phone, Ulysses invited himself to be my date.

It seemed like a good enough solution to my dilemma. Looking back, I wish I had invited my best friend or attended in a friend group. I hated that we were expected to pair up with a boy in order to enjoy a night out in a gown and enjoy some time on the dance floor. I hated the wedding like mimicry of couples' poses and pairing up in this transient way that felt like a grab for status. Those who had a date got to go to the ball, and the have-nots stayed home. I hate that I did not have the ability to deconstruct what I had unknowingly internalized without question. I said yes.

Ulysses did not have a way to get himself from East Palo Alto to my home in El Granada, so I drove to pick him up. I arrived at his apartment building, where we went inside to gather the tuxedo he'd rented. He was sipping a lemon Snapple when I got there, and I remember thinking his breath was tart, but I said nothing. We got into the car and I drove us back "over the hill" on highway 92 that crossed the Santa Cruz Mountains and led to the coast.

We got ready at my house. My mom had helped me choose my entire ensemble, a blue violet tea length off the shoulder velvet dress with dainty black velvet mules and a necklace and earrings she'd lent me from her collection. I guess we'd also given Ulysses a room to get himself ready; I didn't remember. He did not have a corsage for me.

My mom drove us to my friend's house, where the limo was supposed to pick us up. There were two other couples, and we had split the cost of the limo and agreed to have dinner before heading to the San Francisco hotel ballroom hosting our prom (theme: I'd Die Without You, by P.M. Dawn -- what angsty teen chose this? I'll never know.).

What I remember: Ulysses had no money for dinner. We had to split a pasta plate Lady and the Tramp style, which I covered using my saved up earnings from my job as a library page. By the time we arrived at the hotel for the actual prom I was experiencing deep regret. I didn't know this guy, and I had not paused to think about what I actually wanted for myself with this milestone experience beyond getting dressed up and looking pretty. What I did know: I did not want to be around this guy. When we took formal photos, you could actually see me leaning away, because not only did his breath smell, his cologne did not mask his blossoming body odor. He had looked good in the store when I was 15, and now I was experiencing buyer's remorse.

Prom ended with the six of us outside, waiting for the limo to fetch us for the return trip home. Ulysses kept trying to lean in for a kiss and I kept dodging. I dreaded having to make that long drive back to drop him off. My mother got us from the limo drop off point, and when we got home, she told me she would be driving him back. She and I took up the front seats while he sat in the back. I had never been so thankful in my life. It was just the two of us in the house now, and we were both adjusting to the loss of my dad. I had seen how quickly she took action the morning after he died; selecting flower arrangements, notifying relatives and coworkers, and organizing the funeral. She didn't believe in keeping a body on ice for weeks which meant there were only a couple of days between his death and the funeral. She was good in a crisis, and I sometimes wonder what she might have been able to do with that skill if she'd established a professional career.

This was no different, and we dropped off Ulysses and went home. She never criticized my choice or asked what I had expected from that night. I think she must have seen the disappointment on my face and knew to step in and (literally) take the wheel. I regret not voicing my gratitude much later in life, so she could understand there was a time when she'd done something exactly right as my mother. This time she was the mother I needed, and I will always be grateful for that.