I’m in the middle of taking a course on diversity and leadership. We’re studying gender, and that’s got me thinking about how gender plays out in my life.
I am the only girl in a family of boys. I don’t just mean my immediate family (2 brothers and me). I mean both sides of my extended family. My paternal grandparents have 10 grandchildren—9 boys and me. My maternal grandparents have six—five boys and, once again, me.
I am five of six on my mother’s side, so the real chance of having female cousins fell to my father’s side, where I am two of 10 in the birth order. My grandparents have five children born several years apart. There are 23 years between my father, the oldest, and his youngest sister. I never really thought about being the only girl until I was 11 and my aunt and uncle were expecting their first baby. I used to get so angry when my aunt would tell people they wanted a boy because we had plenty of them already. Disappointed flooded me when we got the call that yet another boy joined the family.
A year later, I got another chance. My aunt and uncle were having another baby. No way could this be a boy. Disappointed again. I didn’t get my hopes up when another aunt and uncle (when your father is the oldest of five, you have lots of aunts and uncles) announced they were expecting the following year. Glad I didn’t because—you guessed it—another boy. We were up to eight grandchildren at that point.
Five years went by before another grandchild was on the way. I thought this was going to be it. I was 19 and still hoping for another girl in the family. But it was Zachary instead of Christina, and I gave up. I accepted that I was going to be it.
My father’s youngest sister married then, but as the years went by and no kids, we just assumed they didn’t want or couldn’t have them. I got the shock of my life in 2003 when my aunt announced she was pregnant. Could I hope? After all these years and grandchildren—could we finally have another girl? This baby would be magic number 10. Surely the odds would be in favor of a girl.
I was visiting my parents when my aunt and uncle stopped by to visit. “We found out what we’re having,” my aunt said. I knew it by looking at her face and accepted defeat. Sean was born in December 2003, three months after I turned 30. I was destined to be surrounded by boys. Holding the tiny newborn at the hospital, I decided that wasn’t so bad.
When I tell people I’m the only girl on both sides of my family, they laugh and comment about how I must be spoiled. I wasn’t. I was treated the same as the boys, especially in my immediate family. I had to mow the lawn and help my father around our farm just like my brothers. My brothers had to help with meals, dishes and laundry like me. My father taught me how to shoot a gun, throw a punch and even drive a tractor. I never once felt like I couldn’t do anything because I was a girl, and I will be forever grateful to my parents for that.
My special place in our family hit me the last time I saw my Grandma Betty. I went to visit her in the hospital the day before she died to say good-bye. I was sitting next to her bed when her doctor came into the room. “Who is this?” he asked her.
“This is my only granddaughter,” she announced, placing extra emphasis on the word only. “She is special.”
And at that moment, I didn’t mind being the only girl.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Skin Deep
I was waiting in line for coffee when I noticed the woman staring at me. Curious, I held her gaze until she shuffled a bit before blurting out, “You have pretty skin.”
There was a time when that compliment was rare, even unheard of. Growing up, if I caught someone staring at me, they would have done so because of my skin tone.
A polite term for what I am is pale. My grandmothers used to call it “alabaster.” The kids I grew up with called me “dead” or “super white” or “like a corpse.” I am so fair that I can see veins underneath my skin. I have never had a tan, and even the fake tan products can’t help me.
Growing up, I wanted nothing more than a tan. I would spend hours outside in the summers between sixth and eighth grades, with my beach towel spread on the lawn and me poured into a bikini in hopes of getting a golden glow. Despite my best efforts, I would end up pink or red if the sunburn were bad. Then, just as quickly, I would fade back to white. I hated the first day back to school, when my classmates were bronze and I was still “like a corpse.”
The worst part of being so fair was the questions. Why was I so white? Didn’t I tan? Why not try a tanning bed? Or makeup? As if I wanted to be so pale.
I finally gave up on the tanning quest after an eighth grade physical. I asked my doctor why I was so pale, and he did a great job of patiently explaining to me about melanin and skin cancer and sunscreen. Terrified of the word cancer after my grandfather’s death from the disease, I immediately started wearing sunscreen whenever I was outside—a habit that continues to this day.
The name calling stopped after I “embraced the pale,” but there was still a part of me that longed for a tan. Bronzed skin seemed so beautiful and healthy. But then I went away to college and met and noticed people like me. Fair skinned, alabaster, pale. I was no longer alone. I started getting compliments instead of taunts.
And now we’ve come full circle. Thanks to Twilight and True Blood, pale skin is “in.” The trait that caused me so much grief growing up is coveted. It may have taken vampires to make it acceptable, but I’ll take it if it means another kid won’t be teased for not having a tan.
As for me, I’m doing fine with the paleness. I still avoid the sun and religiously wear sunscreen. I have few wrinkles or lines, and I still get carded from time to time. Someone told me the other day that “there’s no way you can be 30.” I’m not—I’m 36. I’ll take it.
There was a time when that compliment was rare, even unheard of. Growing up, if I caught someone staring at me, they would have done so because of my skin tone.
A polite term for what I am is pale. My grandmothers used to call it “alabaster.” The kids I grew up with called me “dead” or “super white” or “like a corpse.” I am so fair that I can see veins underneath my skin. I have never had a tan, and even the fake tan products can’t help me.
Growing up, I wanted nothing more than a tan. I would spend hours outside in the summers between sixth and eighth grades, with my beach towel spread on the lawn and me poured into a bikini in hopes of getting a golden glow. Despite my best efforts, I would end up pink or red if the sunburn were bad. Then, just as quickly, I would fade back to white. I hated the first day back to school, when my classmates were bronze and I was still “like a corpse.”
The worst part of being so fair was the questions. Why was I so white? Didn’t I tan? Why not try a tanning bed? Or makeup? As if I wanted to be so pale.
I finally gave up on the tanning quest after an eighth grade physical. I asked my doctor why I was so pale, and he did a great job of patiently explaining to me about melanin and skin cancer and sunscreen. Terrified of the word cancer after my grandfather’s death from the disease, I immediately started wearing sunscreen whenever I was outside—a habit that continues to this day.
The name calling stopped after I “embraced the pale,” but there was still a part of me that longed for a tan. Bronzed skin seemed so beautiful and healthy. But then I went away to college and met and noticed people like me. Fair skinned, alabaster, pale. I was no longer alone. I started getting compliments instead of taunts.
And now we’ve come full circle. Thanks to Twilight and True Blood, pale skin is “in.” The trait that caused me so much grief growing up is coveted. It may have taken vampires to make it acceptable, but I’ll take it if it means another kid won’t be teased for not having a tan.
As for me, I’m doing fine with the paleness. I still avoid the sun and religiously wear sunscreen. I have few wrinkles or lines, and I still get carded from time to time. Someone told me the other day that “there’s no way you can be 30.” I’m not—I’m 36. I’ll take it.
Friday, January 1, 2010
A New Year
A new year brings with it the promise of new beginnings and fresh starts. Many of us have resolutions. We want to lose weight, stop smoking, exercise, read more or a host of other goals too numerous to mention. Today, the first day of 2010, we are brimming with excitement, energy and promise. This will be “the” year.
I have not yet decided exactly what I want to accomplish in 2010. But while I think about what the new year will hold for me, I will also take the time to be grateful for what I have. My wonderful family and friends. A challenging, steady job that allows me to take care of myself while meeting my professional needs. I own my home. There is food on the table and money in the bank. I am in good health, and after years of illness, so are my parents. My two furballs are happy, healthy and bringing joy to my days. I could go on.
Today, the temptation to focus on what to improve is great. But don’t forget about the joys and blessings that already fill your days. Want what you already have—not what you don’t.
I have not yet decided exactly what I want to accomplish in 2010. But while I think about what the new year will hold for me, I will also take the time to be grateful for what I have. My wonderful family and friends. A challenging, steady job that allows me to take care of myself while meeting my professional needs. I own my home. There is food on the table and money in the bank. I am in good health, and after years of illness, so are my parents. My two furballs are happy, healthy and bringing joy to my days. I could go on.
Today, the temptation to focus on what to improve is great. But don’t forget about the joys and blessings that already fill your days. Want what you already have—not what you don’t.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Reframing the List
The request arrived even earlier this year in the form of an email.
“Have you thought about your Christmas List?” my mother wrote. “I’d like to start shopping early this year.”
It was mid-October. She usually waits until early November before she starts asking (or nagging, depending on my mood) and gives my brothers and me a Thanksgiving deadline. But for some reason she decided to start early, and I felt the pressure.
It’s been a month since she first made the request, and I still haven’t attempted a list. I always struggle with it, but this year seems even more challenging than usual. There isn’t anything I need, and I can’t think of anything I want.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why I struggle with such a simple task, asking my parents to buy me gifts. I used to think it was about clutter and not wanting a bunch of “stuff” in my house, but I realize it’s deeper than that.
It’s about money. Something we never had much of growing up.
We never went hungry, or were homeless or anything like that. We always had food on the table, clothes on our backs and a roof over our heads. But I always knew that it wasn’t easy at times for my parents. My father worked 41 years at a job he didn’t care for, barely missing a day of work and putting in plenty of overtime, in order to take care of his family.
My father is retired now and providing for my mother and himself with a pension and social security. The same roof remains over their heads, and food and clothing are plenty. In theory, since they no longer support my brothers and me, money for Christmas shouldn’t be an issue.
But in reality, there are bills. Both my parents have battled major illness in the past eight years. Both almost died. They survived, but their health requires a large chunk of that retirement income. They don’t mention it, but I’ve seen the thick binder of medical bills that sits on my father’s desk next to the computer.
The thought of them spending money on me makes me feel guilty. The guilt makes me struggle with the Christmas List. Yes, my mother asks for it. But the guilt is still there, hanging over my head like a storm cloud.
I mentioned my struggle to a friend. She suggested I reframe the idea of the Christmas List and look at it from my mother’s point-of-view. Mom enjoys shopping, especially at the holidays. She wants my brothers and me to have a happy Christmas, and in her mind that involves presents wrapped underneath a tree. She also doesn’t want to disappoint and buy us something we don’t want, like or already own, so that’s why she places such value on the list. Write a list, my friend suggested. Don’t worry about if they can afford it. They know their limits. Enjoy making her happy.
And that’s what I’m going to do.
“Have you thought about your Christmas List?” my mother wrote. “I’d like to start shopping early this year.”
It was mid-October. She usually waits until early November before she starts asking (or nagging, depending on my mood) and gives my brothers and me a Thanksgiving deadline. But for some reason she decided to start early, and I felt the pressure.
It’s been a month since she first made the request, and I still haven’t attempted a list. I always struggle with it, but this year seems even more challenging than usual. There isn’t anything I need, and I can’t think of anything I want.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why I struggle with such a simple task, asking my parents to buy me gifts. I used to think it was about clutter and not wanting a bunch of “stuff” in my house, but I realize it’s deeper than that.
It’s about money. Something we never had much of growing up.
We never went hungry, or were homeless or anything like that. We always had food on the table, clothes on our backs and a roof over our heads. But I always knew that it wasn’t easy at times for my parents. My father worked 41 years at a job he didn’t care for, barely missing a day of work and putting in plenty of overtime, in order to take care of his family.
My father is retired now and providing for my mother and himself with a pension and social security. The same roof remains over their heads, and food and clothing are plenty. In theory, since they no longer support my brothers and me, money for Christmas shouldn’t be an issue.
But in reality, there are bills. Both my parents have battled major illness in the past eight years. Both almost died. They survived, but their health requires a large chunk of that retirement income. They don’t mention it, but I’ve seen the thick binder of medical bills that sits on my father’s desk next to the computer.
The thought of them spending money on me makes me feel guilty. The guilt makes me struggle with the Christmas List. Yes, my mother asks for it. But the guilt is still there, hanging over my head like a storm cloud.
I mentioned my struggle to a friend. She suggested I reframe the idea of the Christmas List and look at it from my mother’s point-of-view. Mom enjoys shopping, especially at the holidays. She wants my brothers and me to have a happy Christmas, and in her mind that involves presents wrapped underneath a tree. She also doesn’t want to disappoint and buy us something we don’t want, like or already own, so that’s why she places such value on the list. Write a list, my friend suggested. Don’t worry about if they can afford it. They know their limits. Enjoy making her happy.
And that’s what I’m going to do.
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