Some members of my family are here visiting with me, which is the most wonderful gift anyone can receive. Two daughters are tucked into my wee home and a grandson whom I call “George” (not his actual name) and he calls me “Denise,” for which neither of us can provide a reasonable explanation and a granddaughter whose birth name I use regularly or at least try to when I remember it and not confuse her with any of her aunts’ names or who knows what name.
I do my best. I remember thinking when my mother got our names wrong in my childhood that I would NEVER do such a thing. Laughable now. We went to the beach yesterday after filling the car with a ridiculous size and inventory of inflatables, the sight of which made us laugh until we couldn’t breathe. I must confess, we spend most of our time together bent over with guffawing and sometimes not any of us can explain what is so funny.
I was watching my 12-year-old grandson and my nine-year-old granddaughter planning to go for a bike ride, and their differences were as plain as the nose on your face, an expression I haven’t heard in a very long time. They are both kind and sensitive people with a giant-sized sense of humour; they are both bright and curious, and of course precious, as any grandmother would report of her grandchildren.
For this bicycle riding adventure, in the blink of an eye Abby had cinched up her helmet, pulled on knee pads and elbow pads to keep her safe as she is just mastering this bike-riding thing. No one helped her; she was ready to go in seconds.
And then she had to stand and watch Linden run in and out of the house 412 times looking for his helmet and the bungee cords he was certain he needed to affix some sort of cargo contraption to the back of the bike and ask his mother three dozen questions without waiting for the answers and … it got me thinking.
There is plenty of discussion these days about the differences between men and women, which provides ample fodder for comedians, but it is an important topic in finding our way to understanding each other more clearly. Some of it is genetic, but I think we would all agree that how we raise our children, how our social norms channel boys and girls in different directions and how early laws and a patriarchal European history have made the realization of gender equality seem almost impossible.
I had the lucky circumstance of growing up with a father who was a feminist before there was such a term. He believed his daughters could do anything they were interested in, and his perspective was founded on the strong bond he had with his mother.
It was my grandmother who shaped his character and, in doing so, ensured no limitations on my opportunities because of gender. Even still, when my daughters were young and playing hospital, I overheard them calling each other a nurse. I inquired as to who was the doctor, and they simply had accepted that only a man could hold that position. I was stunned by that revelation, and we had some good long talks on the subject.
Progress is certainly being made, but it seems painfully slow. The United Nations reported that “violence against women and girls remains one of the most prevalent and pervasive human rights violations in the world.” Femicide is not a new term. It was first used in 1801 in a book by John Corry, followed by Diana Russell introducing the term in 1976 to the International Tribunal on Crimes Against Women in Belgium, to specifically name the killing of females by males because they are female.
