I Am Woman

Thoughts of war have been weighing so heavily on our minds this month, I all but forgot that March is Women’s Month.

A couple of generations ago it was called the Women’s Liberation Movement, and one of its most significant milestones was the burning of the bra. There was also the Helen Reddy anthem "I Am Woman" (hear me roar and all that) and the Virginia Slims ad "You’ve come a long way, baby" (in those days a woman smoking in public was a triumph for "women’s lib", which is one of the bad things that came out of the movement, like shoulder pads on t-shirts).

Then it came to be known as the Women’s Movement, the "liberation" having been achieved to some significant degree by the first generation of gender warriors. The choices available to women–in employment as well as in a host of other areas–grew; for a large segment of the female population, "being all that you can be" became an attainable reality, whether it be CEO of a multinational corporation or a suicide bomber.

Of course there were–and still are–women for whom liberation has not happened, who still live under great inequality, under oppressive conditions and social rules, who carry a burden simply because of their gender and nothing else. It is for these women that the "movement" must continue to work.

Today the politically correct term is female empowerment. It is a good time to be alive and female (Saddam Hussein notwithstanding). This point was clearly made in an anecdote I heard the other night. My friend’s little boy one day put on a poor imitation of a tummy ache, refusing to go to school. She later found out the reason: a girl in class had taken the initiative of announcing to all and sundry–in school and in her family–that he was her boyfriend, and would cozy up to him and make goo-goo eyes at him every chance she got.

Well, boys being boys he didn’t like that one bit, but there was not much he could do about it without making things worse.

This little story made me realize what a really long way we’ve come, baby. Not that long ago it was socially unacceptable for girls to call up boys or–horrors!–"make the first move" or give any indication that she liked a boy. Girls sat and waited–by the phone, at a party, for a job call back–and, very often, waited some more.

I’m glad to see that things and times have changed, and Women’s Month can be celebrated not so much with anger as with exuberance.