We are women

Today is International Women’s Day and please forgive me, but I’m feeling a touch jaded at the moment. We have less control over our bodies than our mothers did, childcare costs are at an all-time high exceeding the growth in overall inflation, and the American maternal death rate is the highest among all industrialized nations, even worse among women of color. Maybe it’s going better for women in other countries (I see you, France!), but I can tell you that it’s not looking super hot for us American women.

This is not to say that I am not exceedingly grateful to the women (and others) out there fighting to turn these statistics around. Organizations like Moms F1rst, Every Mother Counts, and Planned Parenthood are giving me hope that change is possible. It’s just really freaking frustrating that the work needs to be done in the first place (she says with her middle finger raised to the patriarchy).

Unfortunately, in the fight ahead of us, we don’t have the luxury of being jaded. So, this week I went looking for inspiration and fortification and realized I didn’t need to look very far.

I am the eldest daughter, of an eldest daughter, of a daughter who spent the latter part of her childhood in an orphanage in Harlem. My grandmother showed her love through food and a meticulously kept home which makes sense when you grow up with both in scarce supply. She didn’t suffer fools, but I can still hear her cigarette-tinged laugh in my mind. She wasn’t the cuddle on the couch or play on the floor kind of grandma, and I wasn’t always sure how to connect with her. But I admired the strength she exuded even if it scared me a little bit.

I don’t know a whole lot about my mom’s relationship with her mother because, quite frankly, I’ve never asked. Growing up I don’t remember my mom being on the phone a lot with her mother. There must have been calls, but raising her family in Omaha, NE while my grandparents had retired in Savannah, GA – there just wasn’t a lot of face time or any other kind of time for that matter.

I know my mother was raised to be as strong and independent as the 1950’s and 60’s would allow. She went to college several states away from home, got a nursing degree, married my father, and eventually they started their own family together.

Every generation parent their children a bit differently than the last. My mother DID sit on the floor and play games with me, there were cuddles and pet names. My brother and I were not allowed to leave the house without first hugging my mother goodbye – we knew we were wanted and loved, and my goodness is that powerful knowledge to have. In addition to valuing strength and independence, I was taught emotional wellness. By the time my mother went back to school to get her master’s in counseling, physical and mental health were already equals in our home.

Is my mother perfect? Of course not, none of us are. It would take years for Mom and I to strike a balance between her being my mother vs a therapist. Then there is the part where she has professionally analyzed each of my relationships and friendships. She refrains from telling me her professional opinion unless I ask, but her game face has never been as strong as she thinks it is.

My mother and I do not talk every day. Sometimes I get jealous of friends who have seemingly closer relationships with their mothers. Who call their mothers to tell them about their days, to complain about the small stuff or lament over the big things. If I did this, I’m fairly certain my mother would question why I wasn’t talking to my therapist more regularly or if my medication needed to be adjusted.

As I’ve learned throughout my adult life, different isn’t bad, it is just different. And goodness knows all families are different.

That said, over the course of Adelaide’s entire life, my mother never missed one of my phone calls. Stopping whatever she was doing to answer in case it was an emergency – and too many times it was. For more than a month she slept on a barely comfortable pull-out couch in our basement to help care for our family as Adelaide was dying. Then made plans for us to get matching tattoos on Adelaide’s birthday, just five days after her death.

As I have been faced with crisis after trauma after misstep after setback, I find myself thanking her for the tools she bestowed on me – that she taught me. I know that I can face nearly anything because I am loved and supported which, ironically, is what helps make someone strong and independent.

I am lucky to have the mother I do and to have her still with me. She embodies what I want to honor on this International Women’s Day: specifically, the duality of femininity that it takes to survive in this world. Whether we are fighting for steps forward or being pushed backward, we are resilient, we are proud, we are worthy, and we are women.

ID: Kelly in a red dress smiling leaning into her mother, who has chin-length blonde hair and is wearing a white dress with a blue floral pattern and a white beaded necklace. Her mother is also smiling.

ID2: The picture is taken at the beach. Kelly’s grandma, an older woman with short black hair is wearing a green polo and khaki shorts. Kelly (age 2) has a blonde bowl cut and is wrapped in a towel. Kelly’s mom (age 30) has shoulder-length brown hair parted down the middle and is wearing a light green v-neck shirt. They are all smiling at the camera.