America's Biggest Threat: Little Girls

It’s been a tough week for 8-year-old girls in America.

In Virginia, Sunnie Kahle was denied return to her current Christian school for not being girly enough. In a letter to her grandmother--her legal guardian--the school inferred that Sunnie’s alternative gender identity was causing confusion among other students and that it was not in line with the school’s biblical teachings. Administrators admitted that she was a very good student and that they “love” her, but I guess not enough to let her keep learning in their institution…unless she wears a dress and grows her hair. 

In South Carolina, Olivia McConnell asked her state representative to sponsor a bill making the Wooly Mammoth the official state fossil. With strong historical and scientific support behind his young constituent’s proposal, Representative Robert Ridgeway brought it to vote in the House, and it passed 94-3. All was a go until Senator Kevin Bryant insisted on amending the bill to include a passage from the Bible explaining the creation of life…which is another banging-head-on-desk essay for another day. Olivia’s bill is currently stalled, not for lack of historical significance, but because a Christian fundamentalist cannot remember that religion has no place in our government, or that the earth is over 6000 years old. He must've missed third grade.

And in Colorado, Kamryn Renfro was suspended for shaving her head, which she did in support of her best friend who was bald due to the effects of chemotherapy treatments. Her crew cut was deemed courageous and supportive dangerous and distracting by school officials.

So we’re punishing young girls for being themselves, for honoring scientific discovery, and for standing with those who are too weak to stand themselves. We’re alienating them, diminishing them, and telling them to hush up and sit pretty.

What. The. Heck.

At an age where these girls should be encouraged in their research, individuality, expression, intelligence, initiative, and ability to connect with others, these schools and politicians are stifling their mental and emotional growth which so necessary is to become well-adjusted adults.

I don’t know the circumstances that led to Sunnie being raised by her grandparents, but situations like that rarely arise because the actual parents are doing an awesome job. So let’s assume she has had some emotional discourse in her past. If she does indeed have gender identity issues, kicking her out of school and away from her friends is not helping the situation. Remember, this is a Christian school... I guess they forgot that line in the Bible about “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” Nothing in that passage about just the pretty ones.

Kamryn said she shaved her head “because it seemed like the right thing to do.” And it was. That sense of empathy is to be applauded in a child, because it shows strong character. Instead of being sent home, Kamryn should have been given an assembly in which to explain her action and inspire her classmates.

And really, Senator Bryant. Leave your Bible where it belongs, in your church of choice and your own home. Keep it out of Congress. Try to learn something from this third-grader today. Olivia will lend you her science book. 

Don’t banish these girls for their haircuts and their boyish t-shirts. Don’t dismantle their budding interest in government and science while hiding behind your Bible-shield. The times, they have a-changed. 

Keep at it, girls. When grown men in positions of power are threatened by your drive, your passion, and your fortitude, you know you’re doing something right. 

The Significance of You

Fellow generational blogger JenX67 recently wrote a really smart piece about how her many pairs of Nikes have carried her through the various stages of her life. It immediately reminded me of an old Nike ad I’d torn out of a magazine 20 years ago. It was eight pages long—unheard of in the typical rules of brevity in advertising—and began with the phrase, “You were born a daughter.”






It replayed some of the desires and dreams girls all have when we're little.

























It evolved through many of the typical insecurities girls go through growing up.



No matter what you went through, the ad touched on it. You were included.



When I first saw it, I was 19 years old; I had no boyfriend, no job, had dropped out of college and had just moved back in with my parents. I didn’t know what the heck to do with my life. My ideas changed daily but were backed by no real motivation. I was living in a new town and didn’t know anyone.



And then finally...




"You became significant to yourself."






Yesterday I did a quick Google search for phrases from the ad. I was amazed to find other blogs mentioning it, other women talking about how they, too, had ripped out and saved that ad. One talked about taping it to her wall where it stayed for years…and then dozens of her readers commented that they had also ripped, taped, and saved.

This was a brilliant campaign, not just because we all remembered the slogan of JUST DO IT, but because we internalized the core message. It successfully appealed to the deep motivational pit in the souls of women across America, from teenager to middle age. Apparently even Oprah herself read it on an episode of her show.

It was written by then-32-year-old copywriter Janet Champ, whose message was that women who take responsibility for everyone else needed to take care of themselves. Later Nike ads written by Champ (how perfect of a name is that?) further championed the power within women while simultaneously challenging outdated beliefs on the capabilities of women. Not only did she inspire the athlete within us, she inspired legions of burgeoning writers, myself included. Don Draper could learn a thing or two from this chick!

Over the years when I'd rediscover the pages in my notebook, I would mentally check off the items in the copy that I’d reached in my life thus far. If I found that I’d reached another one, I think it reassured me that maybe my life wasn’t so off track after all, that I was just running through the normal milestones at my own pace. Many times the ad's message was in the back of my mind when I made a major life decision; when I ended that relationship that felt too confining, when I enrolled in graduate school at 37, when I started putting my writing out there for the world to see.

I think that becoming significant to yourself has different meanings at different ages. Early on it means finding your voice, standing up for yourself. Later it means letting go of outside influences and negative peers, following your dreams. Later still it can mean regaining an independence you might have set aside for years when you chose to devote your energies to family.

In any instance, it's a profound realization to make the commitment to be significant to yourself...for the first time, or once again.

"Because you know it's never too late to have a life. And never to late to change one."

Eloquence By Design

During my senior year of high school, my AP English teacher assigned us to write a character development paper, two pages that presented a fictional character by way of a scene utilizing dialogue. Once the papers were completed, we were to read them aloud for the class.

I clearly remember my gnarled stomach the afternoon the papers were due. Our class was small, but I was terribly nervous about reading my work aloud even though I was proud of my writing. I kept hoping that maybe we could exchange papers and read each other’s papers. No such luck; if you write, you read it.

I wrote about Rose, a young woman who was outspoken, opinionated, confident, and bold…quite the opposite of everything I was at the time.

When I finished reading my paper for the class, there were raised eyebrows and smiles of disbelief. I didn’t know how to interpret these silent reactions. Was it that bad?

My teacher said, “You had someone in mind when you wrote that.” It wasn’t a question. It was obvious that there was inspiration.

“Yes,” I stammered, not knowing if that was allowed for the assignment. I was terribly concerned about following what was allowed back then. “Julia Sugarbaker…the character from the TV show Designing Women. I kind of wrote what she would have been like as a teenager.”

Who I was really writing about was the person I wished I was as a teenager; unafraid to speak up, not easily duped, a smart cookie.

Dixie Carter, the actress behind the Julia Sugarbaker character, died yesterday. Even though Designing Women hasn’t been around for almost 20 years, I was sad to hear this. Dixie’s Julia was an inspiration to me. Her ability to stop traffic with her eloquent yet biting soliloquies was magic to me. It didn’t matter that she had a team of writers behind her words…all I saw was an intelligent, elegant woman who could steal your breath with her words. She could conjure a fire in your soul and smack you with her wit. Love her or hate her, you never forgot her.

I know that somewhere in the stacks of notebooks I’ve saved from my teenage years there is a page of notebook paper with Rose’s scene written on it. I saved it as a memento for when I became a famous writer and was asked how I got started writing.

So today I drink a toast: to Dixie, to Julia, to Rose, and to the girl I once was. May you all live on as proud Southern women, unafraid to speak your mind, even if your voice cracks.

The Rowdy Girls

I’ve written before about the very special episodes of the TV sitcoms of my youth, with some sarcasm. But not all were as corny as I made them out to be. One that I first saw in 1989 still resonates with me, and truly did partially shape who I am.

Season 4, Episode 6 of Designing Women was titled “The Rowdy Girls.” In it, main character Charlene introduces the other women to one of her childhood friends, Mavis. By chance Charlene stumbles upon Mavis’s husband physically abusing her. When confronted by Charlene about it, pregnant Mavis knows that it’s wrong, but claims she can’t leave because she doesn’t have any money of her own, all her credits cards are in her husband’s name, and where would she and her three young daughters go? She’s embarrassed, humiliated, and feels helpless to change her situation.

The next day Charlene comes to see Mavis again, and hands her an envelope of money from herself and the other women. The money is to allow Mavis to leave her husband, and Charlene tells her where and when to meet up with her, and she would find them a safe place to go.

Mavis is stunned when she looks inside the envelope. She asks, “Why would your friends do this? They don’t even know me.”

Charlene answers, “Because that’s the kind of people they are...and that’s why they’re my friends.”

As a teenager, I didn’t know anyone who was being abused. It was something I only learned about on TV talk shows or in school assemblies. I never knew anyone who needed to get out of a dangerous situation like that. But I was still affected by this show, and every time I watched it in reruns years later I had an emotional reaction.

As an adult, I eventually came to know friends who needed a way out of something, be it an abusive relationship or an unhealthy living environment. I remembered Mavis and Charlene, and I made a mental note to be a Rowdy Girl myself. I decided that I would be “that kind” of person; the person who sees when a friend is in trouble and makes the step to show her a way out and give her the necessary help without being asked for it. The friend who helps quietly and unselfishly, not for thanks but for the sake of doing the right thing.

On the show, Mavis does eventually leave her husband, and when she meets up with Charlene later, The Supremes’ song “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” is playing prominently. I just heard that song on the radio yesterday, and even 20 years later it still calls to mind this episode and reminds me of my aim.

I still strive to be “that kind of friend.” The friend who sees through the excuses and coverups, one who listens to the shaky voices and realizes I’ve been placed in that moment for a reason, and that I can and should make a difference. It’s not always easy to see the need, and sometimes I feel as helpless as those who need the help. But I keep trying.

Ms. Understanding

Yesterday I asked a classmate to critique a piece I had written for a graduate writing class. It was a speech in praise of a former high school teacher whom I admired for inspiring me to be fearless in pursuit of my goals. In this speech I used the word “feminism” and the phrase “proud feminist” to describe myself, and credited this teacher for inspiring those qualities.

My classmate suggested an editorial change: remove “feminism” and “proud feminist,” replace them with something less negative. Tone it down a little, she suggested.

I am equally dumbfounded and pained that today there are still educated American citizens who view feminism as a negative thing.

Changing those words in my speech was not an option; they were the heart of the theme of the entire piece. They are also a keystone in the blocks of which I, as an American woman, am constructed. Those words will remain.

By definition, feminism is “the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men.” It’s about equal rights, folks. If you see equality as negative, you have some serious socio-cultural issues to work through.

A friend called this persistent ignorant misinformation a “cultural script,” thoughtless cliches that are easy to reference and regurgitate but aren’t based on any personal thought. If you once heard the word “feminist” associated with the groups of women who used to burn their bras in protest, or that horrible moniker “femi-nazi” and that’s all you’ve ever bothered to learn on the subject, let me assure you here and now that the feminist movement is so much more than undergarment pyromania.

Women who are directly benefiting from feminist action every day are doing so unknowingly and thanklessly. Let me attempt to end some of the ignorance.

Feminists are the ones who drafted and rallied in support of the Equal Rights Amendment, which stated "Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex." The ERA passed in Congress in 1972 (the year I was born), but was killed 10 years later when it failed to be ratified by a minimum of 38 states. 134 years after the first women’s rights convention in Seneca Falls we still had not reached full equality. But we trudge on. Feminists are nothing if not determined.

The feminist movement has been a long and arduous one, but the successes it has reached have been significant:

1920 Women gain the right to vote
1963 Equal Pay Act
1972 Title IX enacted
1978 Pregnancy Discrimination Act
1986 sexual harassment deemed to be illegal job discrimination.
1996 Virginia Military Institute ordered that it must admit women

And the list goes on.

The feminist movement did not end with women gaining the right to vote. It did not end with the passage of Title IX, and it will not end when a woman is elected President of the United States. There is no singular final task to accomplish, after which “feminism” will retire.

The feminist movement continues, and must continue, in order to remain vigilant in maintaining the equalities that have been attained, and to be a watchdog against inequalities that continue to spring up.

If inequality is a cancer, then the feminist movement is lifelong aftercare. It is the daily surveillance for new malignant growth; it is the periodic education of new generations to the dangers of discrimination; it is the chemotherapy which goes to Washington to permanently eradicate practices which promote gender biases that threaten to kill a healthy state of equality.

I hope my classmate comes to realize how much she has gained from feminist action. Equal access to education and sports, voting rights, marriage and reproductive rights, and prevention of and legal action against gender-related job discrimination are all POSITIVE direct results of proud feminists.

Never be afraid to call yourself a feminist. Wear that badge proudly.

Forever Young

It’s no secret I’m a feminist. I openly and proudly lay claim to that title. I tend to be quick to point out actions or words that are contradictory to gender equality; sometimes I’m nicer about it than other times. I also tend to be a little old-fashioned when it comes to the way I address adults. I still want to call my friends’ parents “Mr. and Mrs. X” even though I’m in my 30s and they’ve told me I can call them by their first names. But if they were Mr. and Mrs. X when I was 7, they’re still going to be Mr. and Mrs. X when I’m 37, and not “Bob and Judy.”

But there’s one demographic that I wrestle with addressing…what to call middle-aged women whom I still see in my mind as teenagers? I find myself referring to my friend Jennifer as “this girl I know.” In actuality, she’s a 38-year-old corporate lawyer, well educated and worldly. She's hardly a “girl” and certainly worthy of a higher social title than that. Even though I know she’s a professional grown woman, I still think of her and see the smartypants girl I met in 6th grade math class. It’s a term of endearment, and a compliment in that I don’t notice that she is aging. But I don’t want to offend. If a grown man were to call me a “girl” I’d have a fit. I know that I should bestow the same respect that I expect from others.

I used to roll my eyes when my mom referred to her contemporaries as “gals,” as in “me and the gals are heading over to the malt shop.” Corny, right? She’s in her 60s but her best friend from college is still her best gal. My grandmother was 78 and still referring to friends she had known since grammar school as her “school chums.” Antiquated, but quaint. And you can’t fault your Gran for that. I guess that every generation has their own version of this dilemma, whether they realize it or not.

So to my friends, if I refer to you as girl or chickie, please don’t freak out, I am not belittling you. It simply means you’re ageless to me, vibrant and beautiful.

Serendipitous scheduling

During my senior year of high school a scheduling conflict planted me in aerobics class my last semester. I never would have picked this class; what 16-year-old girl wants to spend an hour in the middle of the school day getting all sweated up and messing her hair? Not me! But I had no choice, the all-powerful beings in the guidance office said it was either aerobics or weightlifting. Great.

On the second day of class we dressed out and spread out in the gym. Our leader, known as “Coach P,” lugged out the 50-pound standard school-issue record player since I guess cassette tapes were still too new-fangled for the public school system in the late ‘80s. The scratchy recording began, and some music that none of us recognized started to play. And then we heard it… “I am woman, hear me roar, in numbers too big to ignore…”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! We’re doing aerobics to hippie feminist propaganda folk music? Isn’t that illegal? Or something?

There was no time to question in, Coach P was already showing us the choreography and yelling at us to follow along or be doomed to running extra laps around the track later. We realized there was no fighting it, as we were already doing high kicks to Helen Reddy’s verse. So we continued, intermittently giggling at the outdated song and rolling our eyes at each other that this is how we were spending our noon hour. It’ll be over soon enough, we thought.

Oh, silly girls, how wrong we were.

Day three began with the same routine, as did days four and five. And weeks two and three. Five days a week for 18 weeks we aerobicized to I Am Woman. But what else happened in that time was unexpected.

When you hear any song repetitively you can’t help but learn the lyrics. Long after I’d left the gym and proceeded on to Contemporary Lit class I still had the song playing in a loop in my head. After a couple weeks, we let down our too-cool-for-everything attitudes, gave in to the madness, and started singing along while doing our stretches and lunges. A few weeks later, we even began to have fun with it, dramatically emphasizing certain lines, dividing the group into 2 parts as if lead singers and backup chorus: “I am strong…STRONG!…I am invincible…IN-VIN-CIBLE!…” All of this much to the delight of Coach P, who couldn’t help but laugh at our enthusiastic turn of attitude.

A few years after I graduated high school I really found myself embracing the feminist movement, finally understanding what it meant as a whole and to me as a young woman. I was coming into my own as an adult, learning about the world outside of the bubble I’d grown up in, and exploring socio-cultural enlightenment. I was born the same year this song was popular, but it was almost 20 years before it meant anything to me.

Often I’d find that song still playing in my head and it came to have a profound effect on me. Fighting the little-girl shyness that had identified me for most of my life, I’d sing this song to myself when I needed a confidence boost. The comedy of my high school experience coupled with the motivational message played a role in the self confidence I have today.

I made myself a little promise that if I was ever on TV accepting some major award that I would thank Coach P for making me do aerobics to Helen Reddy. Teachers don’t always get the recognition they deserve, and I thought that would be a great public shout-out. But the truth is, I’m never going to be accepting an Oscar so chances are the world won’t hear me say that. But Coach P, you deserve applause and acknowledgment for your contribution to my maturity as a proud feminist. I don’t know if you realized what you were doing at the time or not; I suspect you did. I want you to know the message got through loud and clear.