Sunday, November 13, 2016

Glass Ceilings, Girls, And Margret Thatcher


So here we are wrapping up the week of yet another American election, and a doozy of an election it was. Unpredictable to the point that all the deodorant companies made a tidy little profit, I'm sure. There were just so many factors that, if I could put a picture to it, were like low-hanging fruit on the branching tree of American history. Not the least of these was our very first female presidential candidate who, understandably, was quite a hero in many eyes. Another was an all-party defying business man who represented something of the old forgotten patriotic spirit of "power to the people" and all that. His ended up the more tempting fruit, which was equally understandable.

Despite the "the people having spoken," there's still shouts of racial this, sexist that, bigot here, phobia there reverberating through these following days. Frankly, I'd say it sounds strikingly similar to the temper tantrums my toddlers throw, but even they're more controlled than some of the population, it seems. One tirade that recently caught my eye informed the female population we're all going to die now and even went as far as to imply that had Jesus been in the running, he would have looked strikingly similar to our female hopeful, so we basically just voted Him out. Um, my friend, I think the more obvious concern there is that if we were voting Jesus in for the presidency then we'd also be electing God as judge - sure you're ready for that? But I digress, because what I'm most confused by is the reaction of the motherhood of the nation who keep moaning something about what they're going to tell their daughters? Now, I'm a mother too so that lumps me in there with the rest, but this... this just sends my eyebrows halfway up my forehead in the perplexed question of, "about what, exactly?"

Because I know exactly what to tell them.

We'll tell them the names of pilgrim women who feebly stepped from rickety ship to wild land with everything they'd ever known, everything, an ocean away for the sake of freedom.

We'll hint that Jane Austin would make a fascinating dinner guest to sit next to, what with her truthful observation of human nature perfectly swirled with Sahara-worthy dry humor, both of which helped make her little novels relevant long after her death.

We'll bring to life the battle in which Molly Pitcher, crouched over wounded soldiers with her pitcher of water, saw her husband collapse, and watch with our girls as she sprinted over body and brush to take his place at one of the few firing cannons that kept the enemy from advancing.

We'll sit them next to Rosa Parks on a cool December evening in Alabama as she calmly sent a resounding trumpet note of human equality from the bus seat she refused to rise from.

We'll introduce them to Margret Thatcher as a young girl who dusted shelves in her Father's grocer, and whisper in their ears that she went on to become the first female Prime Minister of Britain and be known as "the iron lady" because. . . Well, you see what I mean.

If the currently protesting daughters of today knew these women of yesterday not as names in a textbook but as living, breathing, hope filled, chance taking, failing, succeeding, courageous friends. . . would they still be pooping on signs, burning flags, and moaning that the world is at an end? Be honest, because I'm not seeing it.

I get that a female just lost out and that losing is a wretched feeling, but so what. I don't see that as any reason for handing out failure on a golden platter or doom and gloom in a gift wrapped package. Has the "everyone is a winner" mentality so wrecked us that we can't see the opportunity for inspiration here? (Besides the lesson that you don't get anywhere by lying, cheating, and shoving your way to the top, ahem). So, a glass ceiling wasn't shattered. If it means that much don't whine about it, go shatter it.

For now, please excuse me while I dive beneath my pillow to stay until certain fellow countrymen quit embarrassing us all by moving beyond toddlerhood.