My sister Lesley has fantastic blogs. She has one about life in general (
My Turn to Talk) and one about politics (
My Turn to Rant). At least at home, she probably had to wait her turn because I was hogging the floor. She was the quiet one, the perfect one, the funniest one, and I still think, the most talented one.
In our
nightmare of an elementary school, we were all the quiet ones. We learned to wait, hands folded, for permission to speak, eat, or move. It was a place and time when real cruelty to children was accepted. It was also a time when boys and girls were treated very differently.
Our school building was so old, the words "Girls" and "Boys" were etched into the stones above the two symmetrical stairways parting the main entrance. I wished for those distinctions to be enforced, humiliated daily by the boys' taunts as we climbed the staircases, clutching our mini-skirts to our legs.
Dress codes forbade us from wearing pants, so frightened were the grown-ups that we might develop so-called "confused gender identities." At some point, they allowed us to wear shorts on gym days, but only under our skirts. (Gym days were a wonderful relief on the staircases.)
Above all, we were treated differently when it came to the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Girls were not invited to answer. This was a question posed only to the boys; only their raised hands would be recognized. I learned by kindergarten that my options were to be a teacher, secretary, nurse, or ballerina. Of course, ballerinas are the prettiest, so that was a no-brainer.
By the time we got to our (dysfunctional) high school, anything other than an aspiration to get married and have children meant being a "career girl" (said in the way you'd say "worm soup"). Since we grew up on (literally on) the campus of a women's college, we knew the path led toward becoming a "college girl." But after that...??
Both of my older sisters, Karen and Lesley, were Merit Scholars, Phi Beta Kappa, perfect SAT scores -- you name it. With welcome mats at major universities, they both chose unexpected paths -- for Lesley, it was the fun-sounding Kalamazoo College. But after she got her degree, she got married (what?), then she got pregnant (OMG!) then she quit grad school (how can she conquer the world that way?!).
I thought the object of this game was to be The Best at Something. Who knew what -- we never had guidance counseling about actual vocations. ("You want to go to college? Well, there are some catalogues over there. Good luck!")
I steered my decisions based on regrets I might have on my deathbed, imagining them to be some professional goals I didn't achieve, due to not trying hard enough. ("This is killing me" was no excuse, as long as I was still alive -- no matter how miserable. "I will not regret this on my deathbed!!")
I'm not on my deathbed yet, but I am eligible for AARP. And what I regret, as usual, is not being more like Lesley. Nobody ever told me I might someday wish I'd had more children. I never thought about marrying a man who was, well, generally normal. Basic stability never seemed like something I could afford, in my quest to do the hardest possible things in the hardest ways possible.
We did end up a lot alike, though. Neither of us set out to be where we are, and both of us are still wondering what we'll be when we grow up. We both live in suburbia, with husbands and (relatively) adult children. We've both found enterprising ways to work independently, free of bosses and pantyhose -- anathema to Dale Girls.
But recently, Lesley embarked upon a job in an actual office, where she gets to dress like a grown-up! I've gotten close enough to imagine myself in a Serious Wardrobe, with shoes, even. But as it is, shoes are optional -- I teach dance/music classes, and work at home, writing. I stroll wistfully past the nice clothes in stores en route to the usual "activewear" (which work equally well as inactivewear, I find), fantasizing about a normal schedule, reliable salary, and of course, healthcare benefits.
Lesley and I both keep learning that bosses are a lot like our elementary school teachers, but worse. At least in school, being the straight-A, stellar standard, over-achieving, perfectly polite, hands-folded student means the teacher gives you a report card recognizing it. In the work world, though, it seems bosses prefer the C-students.
I think I'll just see how it works out for her.
