Two of my good friends died on the same day last month, just before Easter. One I had known for more than 25 years, the other for just a handful. (In my sadness, I kept remembering a Girl Scout song that goes, “Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver, the other gold.”)
Susan was an “old” friend, although she was only 59 when she died. I met her when she was just out of college, I was in my early 30s, and we both worked for the Federal Election Commission. We soon discovered that we shared a spirit of adventure and an irreverent sense of humor. More than once, we had to squelch our giggles at the arrogant political posturing and ridiculous rulemaking of this impotent government agency.
One of my favorite memories of Susan is a vacation driving through New England, which she insisted had to be on the cheap. In Cambridge, we stayed at a YWCA that had a hefty card file of “undesirables” to be consulted before they would let us in. (We breathed a sigh of relief to find we weren’t in it.) Over the years, Susan and I traveled the world, independently, sometimes pampered in five-star venues. But nothing could quite compare to our memories of that YWCA.
Susan was perhaps the most ambitious person I have known, and her persistence paid off – along with her talent. She worked as a political speechwriter, and for Time Magazine. She co-wrote two books with her husband Alex. She held a prestigious endowed chair at Duke University, and was much beloved by her students. So after she was diagnosed with Stage IV uterine cancer, no one was surprised when, in typical Susan fashion, she developed an aggressive plan of attack. She didn’t win the war, of course, but she won many of the battles.
My friend Ann was a “new” friend whom I met at The Woods, where we both lived in West Virginia. Although in her middle 70s, Ann was still a hell of a tennis player. I loved playing doubles with her because she whacked the ball solidly and, like me, she didn’t put up with silly gossip or chit chat about nail polish.
A year or so ago, Ann became the Jean Valjean of The Woods when, returning from a trip in the dead of night, midwinter, she found that she had no wood for her fireplace. She got back into her car and drove to the lodge, where cords of wood are stacked just inside the portico. She crept out of the car, opened the trunk, and had just snatched a log when the angry voice of the general manager shouted, “Stop thief!” Never one to succumb to authority – or to think logically, for that matter – Ann retorted, “So arrest me!” and took off into the night. A few days later, she discovered that she had been banished from all the recreational facilities. Her rights were restored only after much pleading from her friends, followed by a reluctant apology to the manager.
Ann apparently developed some heart problems and, in retrospect, I think she had a series of small strokes over the last year or so of her life. She shopped for where she wanted to live – trying Alaska with her daughter, settling on Florida near her son. She shopped for religion, raised as a Catholic but settling as an agnostic. So it is ironic – tragic, really - that she found herself dying in a Catholic hospital in Florida.
I can resist the temptation to compare Susan’s and Ann’s lives, which were so different in terms of childhood advantages, education, dreams, and life experiences. I know that happiness is measured by more than money and privilege, and perhaps Susan and Ann were equally happy. What I cannot resist, however, is comparing their experience with our health care system . . . because their stories so dramatically illustrate the great divide in this country.
When Susan was diagnosed with cancer, she commandeered substantial financial and emotional resources for the battle. She had excellent health insurance and family wealth as a backup, plus Alex’s unconditional love and support. Together, through their academic and media careers, Susan and Alex had amassed a Rolodex of powerful people who could untangle bureaucratic red tape and open doors to renowned medical experts. Not to diminish in any way Susan’s courage and determination in the face of overwhelming odds, the fact that she survived nearly three years beyond her prognosis, during which she was able to live a gracious life and fashion a graceful death, was in part the result of extraordinary medical care . . . care that is beyond most Americans.
Ann, on the other hand, lived alone and, after a hardscrabble childhood, scraped by financially, frequently sending money to her grown children. Although a nurse, she rarely sought medical help: She couldn’t afford it, and she didn’t trust it. When prescribed medication, she took it only sporadically - often bootlegged from friends. After what I assume was a heart attack, she was rushed to a Medicare bed at the closest hospital and, following multiple surgeries, was unresponsive. The Catholic hospital ignored her signed DNR and inserted breathing and feeding tubes. Mercifully, after a week of almost unbearable pain, in and out of consciousness, she died.
There is no moral intended to these two stories, except, perhaps, that death, like life, isn’t fair. Or, on the other hand, death is the ultimate equalizer. In any case, I miss Susan and Ann, and am grateful for how much they both enriched my life.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Queen is Dead
One of my many dubious distinctions is, when I had a staff, they called me “The Apostrophe Queen.” I was the only one in the office who could spot the problem with, say, a doormat reading “The Smith’s,” telling me that the homeowner is a blacksmith. I was the only one who could tell the difference between “it’s” and “its.”
That’s not all. I am the self-appointed Queen of Grammar, Spelling, and Punctuation.
I come by it naturally, from a family of public school teachers and college professors. My mother was neither, but from the time I learned to read, she sent me scurrying to the dictionary for words I didn’t know so that I could use them, and spell them, correctly. I met the ultimate enforcer in seventh grade English: Miss Caldwell, whose sensible pageboy hairdo, strictly tailored suits, and sturdy shoes contributed to her unassailable credibility on the subject of English grammar. Usage was either right or wrong – there was no wiggle room. Some 55 years later, I still feel that way about it.
But I am so alone.
In executing my royal responsibilities, I have encountered more than my fair share of opposition. Years ago, my daughter brought home papers marked "excellant," and after I corrected her first-grade teacher (gently, I thought), Ashley’s grades were reduced to “very good.” Many of my peers suffer occasional, but nonetheless egregious, attacks of close-but-no-cigar choice of words. A colleague with whom I work wrote of unscrupulous men “secreting” door-to-door; I assume this implies stealth, but I love the image of evildoers oozing from every pore. Another colleague referred to writing a story “from the prospective” of a young girl; I would argue that the writer had no prospects of being a young girl again.
Despite these kinds of setbacks, pervasive ignorance has worked out well for me. I write and edit for a living, so I welcome clients willing to pay me to insert commas, correct willy-nilly capitalization, and reunite verbs with family members in their compound. Lately, however, I am being overtaken by blog rule, which is similar to mob rule: hordes of bloggers are bludgeoning the English language, and they are winning through sheer size and force. Dare I even mention texting, once the province of tweens and teens but now, according to the Pew Research Center’s Internet and American Life Project, infecting vulnerable older folks? (I myself recently wrote in texting format a Washington National Opera student guide to “The Marriage of Figaro.”)
My grandmother, who was born in 1880, was a teacher. When she was my age, did she mourn the passing of once au courant but suddenly archaic nouns? Did she frown at the wanderlust of commas that for years nestled before “and,” briefly took off for greener pastures, then returned home, snug as a bug in a rug (as my grandmother would say)?
I am beginning to wonder if any of this matters. I have not come to a conclusion. In the meantime, if you find a grammar or punctuation error in my writing, don’t tell me. I would have to kill myself.
That’s not all. I am the self-appointed Queen of Grammar, Spelling, and Punctuation.
I come by it naturally, from a family of public school teachers and college professors. My mother was neither, but from the time I learned to read, she sent me scurrying to the dictionary for words I didn’t know so that I could use them, and spell them, correctly. I met the ultimate enforcer in seventh grade English: Miss Caldwell, whose sensible pageboy hairdo, strictly tailored suits, and sturdy shoes contributed to her unassailable credibility on the subject of English grammar. Usage was either right or wrong – there was no wiggle room. Some 55 years later, I still feel that way about it.
But I am so alone.
In executing my royal responsibilities, I have encountered more than my fair share of opposition. Years ago, my daughter brought home papers marked "excellant," and after I corrected her first-grade teacher (gently, I thought), Ashley’s grades were reduced to “very good.” Many of my peers suffer occasional, but nonetheless egregious, attacks of close-but-no-cigar choice of words. A colleague with whom I work wrote of unscrupulous men “secreting” door-to-door; I assume this implies stealth, but I love the image of evildoers oozing from every pore. Another colleague referred to writing a story “from the prospective” of a young girl; I would argue that the writer had no prospects of being a young girl again.
Despite these kinds of setbacks, pervasive ignorance has worked out well for me. I write and edit for a living, so I welcome clients willing to pay me to insert commas, correct willy-nilly capitalization, and reunite verbs with family members in their compound. Lately, however, I am being overtaken by blog rule, which is similar to mob rule: hordes of bloggers are bludgeoning the English language, and they are winning through sheer size and force. Dare I even mention texting, once the province of tweens and teens but now, according to the Pew Research Center’s Internet and American Life Project, infecting vulnerable older folks? (I myself recently wrote in texting format a Washington National Opera student guide to “The Marriage of Figaro.”)
My grandmother, who was born in 1880, was a teacher. When she was my age, did she mourn the passing of once au courant but suddenly archaic nouns? Did she frown at the wanderlust of commas that for years nestled before “and,” briefly took off for greener pastures, then returned home, snug as a bug in a rug (as my grandmother would say)?
I am beginning to wonder if any of this matters. I have not come to a conclusion. In the meantime, if you find a grammar or punctuation error in my writing, don’t tell me. I would have to kill myself.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Power and Purpose
Clarifying what I mean by “retaining power and purpose,” I see the challenge as both professional and personal. Power and purpose are intertwined inextricably: one is the journey, the other the destination. My point is, the power to direct one’s own life for a chosen purpose, to make and learn from one’s own mistakes, and to have a meaningful impact upon the world is a relatively new concept for many women. (Okay, now ask me what “meaningful impact” means. It depends . . .)
Here is my favorite definition of power as it relates to women, from scholar and writer Carolyn Heilbrun in her book Writing a Woman’s Life:
Some women view power as a pejorative word, connoting brute force or unscrupulous manipulation directed at the powerless. In my own experience, power is especially frightening to women in countries where they have none – in Africa and the Middle East, for example. Heilbrun comments that women reject the notion of power “once they perceive the great difference between the lives possible to men and to women, and the violence necessary to men to maintain their position of authority.” She goes on to warn about what I believe is the crux of our dilemma about power:
For me, power is the ability to get a grip and make a choice. I can either summon the strength to act effectively, to control my own destiny (to the extent this is possible), or blow in the winds of other people’s power, a victim in a world I never made.
Whew!
In many ways, the challenge of acquiring and retaining power and purpose is the same for men and women of a certain age. But in other ways, the difference is both qualitative and quantitative. Qualitative because the fabric of women’s professional and personal lives tends to be more closely woven, and we are more sensitive to the balance. Quantitative because there is a sudden groundswell of women whose expectations were raised by fulfilling careers. For many with whom I have talked, the end of a career – whether voluntary or involuntary - means not only losing a major purpose to which many years have been devoted, but losing the chunk of power that came with the job.
Returning to the term “meaningful impact,” speaking just for myself, I have a hard time finding stuffing envelopes for a charity as meaningful as developing a strategy to elect a good man or woman to public office. What’s more, when I wore the label “political consultant,” my input counted. Labeled “volunteer,” I have taken my place (in Heilbrun’s terms), but my part often doesn’t matter.
All in all, I am wondering if later life doesn’t demand a greater paradigm shift for women than for men. Because we fought so hard to share the power of the work world, perhaps it is harder for us to give it up than for men who viewed work as an obligation, not a right worthy of battle. No wonder they can hardly wait to retire!
Popular culture grants men a graceful transition from office to golf course, but we’re slow to develop fairy tale endings for women. What is the music for a generation of women who did not rely on humming, “Some Day My Prince Will Come?” And for those whose prince did come, surely there are many more verses to their song.
Stay tuned.
Here is my favorite definition of power as it relates to women, from scholar and writer Carolyn Heilbrun in her book Writing a Woman’s Life:
Power is the ability to take one’s place in whatever discourse is essential to action and the right to have one’s part matter.
Some women view power as a pejorative word, connoting brute force or unscrupulous manipulation directed at the powerless. In my own experience, power is especially frightening to women in countries where they have none – in Africa and the Middle East, for example. Heilbrun comments that women reject the notion of power “once they perceive the great difference between the lives possible to men and to women, and the violence necessary to men to maintain their position of authority.” She goes on to warn about what I believe is the crux of our dilemma about power:
But however unhappy the concept of power and control may make idealistic women, they delude themselves if they believe that the world and the condition of the oppressed can be changed without acknowledging it.
For me, power is the ability to get a grip and make a choice. I can either summon the strength to act effectively, to control my own destiny (to the extent this is possible), or blow in the winds of other people’s power, a victim in a world I never made.
Whew!
In many ways, the challenge of acquiring and retaining power and purpose is the same for men and women of a certain age. But in other ways, the difference is both qualitative and quantitative. Qualitative because the fabric of women’s professional and personal lives tends to be more closely woven, and we are more sensitive to the balance. Quantitative because there is a sudden groundswell of women whose expectations were raised by fulfilling careers. For many with whom I have talked, the end of a career – whether voluntary or involuntary - means not only losing a major purpose to which many years have been devoted, but losing the chunk of power that came with the job.
Returning to the term “meaningful impact,” speaking just for myself, I have a hard time finding stuffing envelopes for a charity as meaningful as developing a strategy to elect a good man or woman to public office. What’s more, when I wore the label “political consultant,” my input counted. Labeled “volunteer,” I have taken my place (in Heilbrun’s terms), but my part often doesn’t matter.
All in all, I am wondering if later life doesn’t demand a greater paradigm shift for women than for men. Because we fought so hard to share the power of the work world, perhaps it is harder for us to give it up than for men who viewed work as an obligation, not a right worthy of battle. No wonder they can hardly wait to retire!
Popular culture grants men a graceful transition from office to golf course, but we’re slow to develop fairy tale endings for women. What is the music for a generation of women who did not rely on humming, “Some Day My Prince Will Come?” And for those whose prince did come, surely there are many more verses to their song.
Stay tuned.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Women and Sports
Coincidentally, as I was enjoying winter Olympics coverage this week, the NY Times published an article entitled, “As Girls Become Women, Sports Pay Dividends.”
It turns out that the dividends go beyond gold medals. Studies from two economists offered “the strongest evidence yet that team sports can result in lifelong improvements to educational, work and health prospects.” One study attributes to Title IX a 20 percent increase in women’s education and a 40 percent increase in employment among women 25 to 34. Another credits Title IX with making a difference in women’s long-term health: a 7 percent lower risk of obesity 20 to 25 years later.
I am somewhat skeptical of these findings because it is so difficult to isolate hard evidence of the benefits of sports for women. Correlation is not proof of cause and effect. It makes sense, though, that girls who learn early about strength and skill can trump looks and popularity in the jobs game. (Well, not entirely . . . but that’s another story!)
From my own meager athletic activities and experience with women who have succeeded in business and politics, I am convinced that sports can indeed make a life-long difference. Here’s why:
Playing almost any sport allows you to see your body in terms of functioning well rather than as a sexual magnet or decorative accessory. Strength, power, and control are a great source of confidence . . . knowing that where your body goes, your mind will follow, and vice versa.
While winning is great, it really isn’t everything. I wish more athletes would talk about how good it feels to hit a tennis ball down the line, to schuss smoothly down a ski slope, to cradle the ball and make a pass in lacrosse. It beats any anti-anxiety prescription.
The life lessons of sports have become clichés. But here are my personal favorites:
• So you lost . . . get over it.
• Some people cheat.
• Teamwork is not based on blame.
• A risk is not a gamble. (Taking your best shot based on strategy and skill is not the same as blowing your life savings at the craps table in Vegas.)
In my circles, talking about sports can lead to heated debate about the downside of competition and the evils of power. Even today, some women view competition and power in terms of moral values. Winning is bad because someone has to be the loser. Power is bad because it disenfranchises the powerless.
This was my grandmother’s view, and it still lurks in the hearts of women my age. When I’m feeling that way, I just whack the hell out of a tennis ball.
It turns out that the dividends go beyond gold medals. Studies from two economists offered “the strongest evidence yet that team sports can result in lifelong improvements to educational, work and health prospects.” One study attributes to Title IX a 20 percent increase in women’s education and a 40 percent increase in employment among women 25 to 34. Another credits Title IX with making a difference in women’s long-term health: a 7 percent lower risk of obesity 20 to 25 years later.
I am somewhat skeptical of these findings because it is so difficult to isolate hard evidence of the benefits of sports for women. Correlation is not proof of cause and effect. It makes sense, though, that girls who learn early about strength and skill can trump looks and popularity in the jobs game. (Well, not entirely . . . but that’s another story!)
From my own meager athletic activities and experience with women who have succeeded in business and politics, I am convinced that sports can indeed make a life-long difference. Here’s why:
Playing almost any sport allows you to see your body in terms of functioning well rather than as a sexual magnet or decorative accessory. Strength, power, and control are a great source of confidence . . . knowing that where your body goes, your mind will follow, and vice versa.
While winning is great, it really isn’t everything. I wish more athletes would talk about how good it feels to hit a tennis ball down the line, to schuss smoothly down a ski slope, to cradle the ball and make a pass in lacrosse. It beats any anti-anxiety prescription.
The life lessons of sports have become clichés. But here are my personal favorites:
• So you lost . . . get over it.
• Some people cheat.
• Teamwork is not based on blame.
• A risk is not a gamble. (Taking your best shot based on strategy and skill is not the same as blowing your life savings at the craps table in Vegas.)
In my circles, talking about sports can lead to heated debate about the downside of competition and the evils of power. Even today, some women view competition and power in terms of moral values. Winning is bad because someone has to be the loser. Power is bad because it disenfranchises the powerless.
This was my grandmother’s view, and it still lurks in the hearts of women my age. When I’m feeling that way, I just whack the hell out of a tennis ball.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Professional Bookends
Here’s what I don’t get: A man hits 60, his gray hair is branded distinguished, his years of experience equal wisdom, and his most difficult decision is choosing between a big-buck bonus or a platinum parachute. Yet a woman in her 60s who has racked up some impressive credentials, earned a bit more than the 76 cents-on-the-dollar female-to-male ratio, and at least bumped her head on the glass ceiling, is not a potential main course on a corporate menu.
It's bad enough that she started her career as an appetizer. But now she's a leftover.
When I was 19, newly married out of a journalism scholarship at Stanford University, I applied for my first full-time job. The interviewer was vice president of the Los Angeles toymakers who gave us Barbie. In fact, making my way to the VP’s office, I noticed that engineers sported nude Barbies in their cubicles instead of pinup calendars.
My future employer leaned over his desk, his beady eyes leering at my girdle-encased knit skirt, my padded-bra-enhanced sweater, and my red stiletto heels – standard office attire for those days. Since I had little work experience, the conversation was more personal: Why had I left school? What did my husband do? What were our plans for the next few years?
And then came the big question: “Are you taking birth control pills?”
“Oh, yes!” I replied eagerly.
“I am often tempted to put birth control pills in the secretaries’ coffee,” he grinned. “We don’t want to put time and money into training young women who will get pregnant and leave us high and dry!”
Needless to say, I got the job. And I stayed for the several months it took me to learn that the issue of birth control was more about getting locked in his office and being chased around the desk than it was about employee turnover.
Fast forward to 2005 and an interview with the CEO of a Washington, DC non-profit organization, discussing a job for which my four decades as a successful political consultant and small business owner made me distinctly overqualified. He is nearly my age, a sophisticated metrosexual, lavish in his praise of what women have accomplished. I am beginning to think this might be a good place for me.
And then came the big question: “Do you need to use the restroom?”
“Oh, no!” I replied, aghast.
“I thought that if you are taking the Metro, you might need to ‘go’ on your way out," he grinned. “I know how it is for women your age.”
Needless to say, I did not get the job. I have moved on, engaged with my usual array of clients and projects. But I can’t stop thinking of these two interviews, 45 years apart, as the oddly-matched bookends of my professional life. As the saying goes, the more things change, the more they remain the same.
It's bad enough that she started her career as an appetizer. But now she's a leftover.
When I was 19, newly married out of a journalism scholarship at Stanford University, I applied for my first full-time job. The interviewer was vice president of the Los Angeles toymakers who gave us Barbie. In fact, making my way to the VP’s office, I noticed that engineers sported nude Barbies in their cubicles instead of pinup calendars.
My future employer leaned over his desk, his beady eyes leering at my girdle-encased knit skirt, my padded-bra-enhanced sweater, and my red stiletto heels – standard office attire for those days. Since I had little work experience, the conversation was more personal: Why had I left school? What did my husband do? What were our plans for the next few years?
And then came the big question: “Are you taking birth control pills?”
“Oh, yes!” I replied eagerly.
“I am often tempted to put birth control pills in the secretaries’ coffee,” he grinned. “We don’t want to put time and money into training young women who will get pregnant and leave us high and dry!”
Needless to say, I got the job. And I stayed for the several months it took me to learn that the issue of birth control was more about getting locked in his office and being chased around the desk than it was about employee turnover.
Fast forward to 2005 and an interview with the CEO of a Washington, DC non-profit organization, discussing a job for which my four decades as a successful political consultant and small business owner made me distinctly overqualified. He is nearly my age, a sophisticated metrosexual, lavish in his praise of what women have accomplished. I am beginning to think this might be a good place for me.
And then came the big question: “Do you need to use the restroom?”
“Oh, no!” I replied, aghast.
“I thought that if you are taking the Metro, you might need to ‘go’ on your way out," he grinned. “I know how it is for women your age.”
Needless to say, I did not get the job. I have moved on, engaged with my usual array of clients and projects. But I can’t stop thinking of these two interviews, 45 years apart, as the oddly-matched bookends of my professional life. As the saying goes, the more things change, the more they remain the same.
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