Oh how deep sexism runs.
Despite being raised on "Free To Be You and Me", despite Women’s Studies courses, despite working in the domestic violence movement, despite counseling to learn “I wasn't a bad girl but bad things happened to me”, despite reading Naomi Wolf, Alice Walker, Adrienne Rich, Marge Piercy, despite surrounding myself with strong women, I recently found myself watching Part One of the HBO series “John Adams”, amazed that Abigail Adams was so brilliant, eloquent, and a clear advisor to her husband— and I realized by their absence in the outward political landscape, I’d assumed there were no founding mothers to the Constitution, that somehow women weren't as intelligent and articulate back then, as if we didn't grow into full humanity till after our inclusion in the storytelling.
I am continually stunned by the assumptions I still carry.
Just like I once thought a woman couldn't be president because we are too emotional to be in charge of warfare.
Just like as a white woman, I have to continually unpack the biases absorbed into my pores, the false premise that my pigmentation somehow makes me better than my sisters with a darker complexion.
My hope is my daughter, all our daughters, will carry less as they grow, as we include more voices at the table, as we listen to each other, as we move beyond the white story of "him" that places the rest of us in the margins of civilization.
With this hope in my pocket-- and a bag stuffed with additional reasons to protest the incoming administration-- I sit here at SeaTac, waiting for my connecting flight, on my way to the Women's March in D.C.
My daughter Olive was born into a world where a woman as president is no longer unthinkable. Where she won't be told as blatantly as I often was: "You can't do that because you are a girl."
May she dream more possibilities than my limited perspectives can even imagine.
May all our daughters. And our sons who stride alongside their uprising sisters.