Forcasted Fog on Memory Lane

I went on an unexpected walk this morning. Unexpected because thick grey fog covered the foothills and I was delighted for it. I don’t encounter much fog where I live now but growing up in a small harbor town in California, fog was like a family member. It was always a part of an event or it was a reliable partner in the mornings as you walked to school. I miss it and admittedly get rather excited when it comes around.

The previous night’s cold air turned from frost to snow and although I should have felt cold, I didn’t. I was happily enjoying my hours alone. I walked a pathway near a lake which I had seen before but never in the present glory of that moment. The lake was engulfed with morning mist and I was awed as I heard the geese, watching them take flight one after another. It was a scene straight out of an English novel. All it was missing was a hunting dog and someone wearing plaid. . . it was peacefully romantic and time stood still.

I was taken back to a point in time when I could smell the ocean air or hear the harbor seals barking at the morning. When you grow up near a waterfront, you never forget the cool mist on your face or the familiar taste of salt on your lips.

There are just those moments in time, a vista, a view that impacted your memory forever. When the entirety of the moment is perfect . . . the smells, the sounds and ultimately, the feel. I’ve had a few in my life. Mostly they are memories of home when I was a little girl, or vacations. . . hikes.
If you’re reading this and you can understand what I’m describing – please comment below and share a memorable view you’ve witnessed . . . perhaps from your childhood or today. This was mine.

A woman's work is . . .

I recently attended a get together with some women. The room was filled with perfume, bling and fine clothing. Throughout the evening one person jokingly said that they had been wearing sweats all day with their kids and just showered and dressed prior to attending the meeting. Following her confession another spoke up and said the same thing and then two more women agreed. Laughter filled the air like some sort of de-pressurizer. That’s exactly what it was all about – PRESSURE! I had half-heartedly attended in jeans and a sweater because frankly, I could give a care less to put on those heels and make-up simply so I could gather a few smiles of approval from the guests. This conversation immediately made me sad. I felt like a sell-out and all the women there were sell-outs as well. “Why do we do this to ourselves?” I wondered. I quietly asked the neatly seated women around the room “Why in the world did I have to change out of my comfy clothes just to get all dolled up for you all?”. I thought that given the conversation, they would agree with my honest question but just as their confession hour was a de-pressurizer, my question filled the room with a thick uncomfortable cloud that even I couldn’t stand. I came home and later looked up a paper I wrote a few years ago concerning how I identify myself. In honor of Women’s History Month, here is an excerpt. Regardless of how you identify – societal pressure applies to us all.

I am a female and was raised to view females and males in the conservative fashion. I dress as a female and although I take on typical societal gender roles such as mother, wife and homemaker, I feel as if my personal goals conflict with the gender roles that society has assigned me. For example, I am a graduate student and consequently plan in gaining a professional career. Here there is a conflict with my roles as a mother and my roles as a woman. . . my responsibilities assigned me vs. the responsibilities I seek to assign myself. People would think they are one in the same but I argue that there is a great conflict that takes place when a woman is faced with multiple roles. I’m challenged within the group of fellow mothers who are stay-at-home moms. Such a woman is idolized and cherished in the realm of motherhood while a working mother is seen as sacrificing an element of intimacy with their children. The religious community I’m involved in endorses stay at home mothers by offering a great deal of resources for these women while there are very few resources for working mothers who need the same support. However, the conflict is ironic. Society defines individualistic success, therefore we can assume that stay-at-home mothers are not as highly as esteemed as their “career-women” counterparts. Take note that some or most of thee career women just happen to be mothers as well! Thus, I am either first a mother and second a professional or I am first a professional and second a mother. Women are blatantly forced to choose between family or career goals simply by answering the common question “What do you do?”. This question is asked with such ease and normalcy that it fails to acknowledge the potential struggle is presents for women who survive in the margins.
Another example of conflict within my gender identity is what’s called my gender expression. Gender expression often conflicts with society’s accepted expression of gender. Personal hobbies such as outdoor sports, hiking, climbing and camping are allowed however it’s insinuated that I am expected to maintain a certain amount of “ladiness” by avoiding becoming “butch” or rough. More so, when women are enduring the “fragile” season of pregnancy we are expected to forgo any engagement in personal interests that might potentially put the pregnancy at risk.
Location is a context to consider that influences my gender expression. While rather comical to reflect on, it’s truth is evident. Living in the suburbs, I maintain the typical expected appearance of a female by wearing make up, jewelry, dressing neatly and by so doing portraying that I’m taking pride in my appearance and myself (not to mention the representations of my social-economic bracket). However, when I
lived in a rural area on a Navajo reservation, I rarely wore make up, dressed for comfort versus fashion and pursued my outdoor hobbies with greater vigilance. Differing locations expect differing expressions of gender.
Cultural Identity, 2009

Just makes me wonder. . .

Orange Julius, etc.

I took 3 little sticky fingered-question-asking-totting toddlers to the mall today. I thought I’d distract them from weaving their way through the crowds by buying them each an Orange Julius. Admittedly, I was completely bribing them to just sit down so I could hear myself think and maybe keep them in one geographic location for more than 60 seconds. It worked beautifully.

I crinkled the receipt into the bottom of my purse as we sought out a table in the intimidating food court and they plopped down on the wooden chairs.

We talked about why the cup is made out of paper, who colors it and how “the man” makes it to which I quickly interjected that I was certain both women and men make them at “the factory”. Then conversation turned towards an interrogation about where we’re going next and the endless stream of questions around how long it would take until we got there. This conversation was of course in itself pointless, because I was dealing with an abstract dimension of time. Specifically the time frame in which 24 seconds is 14 million times longer than an hour. . .Not to mention the massive confusion around the length of a days, weeks and forever’s.

Four year olds.

Finally the panel interview came to a pause and all that was heard was the shuffling of nearby shopping bags and the impolite slurp of the children’s straws as their bellies filled up with orange juice and ice cream at ten in the morning. I began to disclose my memories of going to an Orange Julius with my Dad as a little girl. I told them that he’d never ask me what I wanted because he always knew. Either that or we couldn’t afford the fancy strawberry-banana contraption that came in the large cup. Either way, I was indifferent to what drink we were having because all that mattered to me was sitting with my Dad and feeling special. I told them that when I was a little girl I lived in California and we’d go to a place called Del Amo Mall. I’d do exactly what us four were doing right then- sit at the food court and stop for a drink.

The nostalgic trip down memory lane soon came to a detour as the little boy looked at me with bewilderment and asked, “how come you didn’t come to this mall?” “Well,” I said “I guess we didn’t know about this mall back then”. He just looked at me as if he was trying to make sense of why in the world this lady was telling him this story. The other two little people sat there slurping away and I’m not entirely sure they were even in on the conversation. This came to my attention immediately after the youngest kept pointing to her head and reciting the word “nose” in her loudest vibrato. I went on to say that it was nice to have special memories with family and I thanked them for stopping for a special treat with me, the same way I did when I was their age.

The little boy, my nephew, said that I was welcome and after he finished wiping his frothy mouth with his red sweatshirt sleeve he asked “So then. . . after you had a drink with your Daddy, then you grew up?” Not quite knowing how to reply to that I just smiled and nodded. I took a big slurp from my own cup and then looked at him and enthusiastically answered “Well, I guess I pretty much did. BUT the nice thing is, I can sit here and drink this Orange Julius with you all and I’m right back where I used to be. . . all those years ago!”

He just looked at me, and then slowly said “I have to go to the bathroom now”.

So, that was what we did next. It took approximately 4 -6 minutes.