Ladies, We Need to Talk.

Today, I am diverging from recounting my life of yesteryear. The hard part about soul searching is digging up all that old shit, good and bad. A lot of emotions wash over me. . . nostalgia. . . happiness. . . admiration. . . sadness. . . anger. . . in the end, all this thinking then broadcasting it to the world leaves me feeling both freed and cleansed but also isolated and empty. Funny how those words are different sides of the same coin…not only poetic, but synonymous.

On the anniversary of her death, in celebration and memory of the strongest, most resilient, adventurous and kind woman I have known, I want to put aside cleansing my soul to the would and instead I want talk some fierce feminism today. In a nod to my uncle’s passing this week from the same horrible disease that took my mother too soon, I also write this for him. I know he is motorcycling into the sunset, and he leaves two strong and amazing Ceridon women (do they make any other variety of Ceridon women) behind. I love you, Mom and Uncle.

Now, I promise this post is lighter and perhaps a bit scolding from here forward.

I try to ride daily. When you are staying in the Sierras, it is not hard to get in some miles on fun, winding roads. Round trip, it’s 12 miles to the nearest market, 40 miles to the pharmacy, 60 miles to my brother’s and 20 miles to the nail salon.

Yep, the nail salon. A girl has got to  keep her toenails in good form. I guess the nail salon doesn’t get many clients showing up in full motorcycle gear with a helmet in hand. I was quite the novelty among the staff and clients.

As I was leaving, a woman said “You ride? That’s great. I only ride on the back.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah, I don’t known how to ride myself.”

“You should learn, it’s so much fun to be in control of your own ride.”

“Oh! No, no, no. I can’t do that. I just can’t do that.”

Can’t.

Can’t?

Can’t!

Ladies, let’s talk about that little undermining, underestimating, and decidedly unfeminist word. First, I can totally respect someone wanting to ride on the back of the bike. You don’t want to learn to ride? Cool. You tried it, but prefer to be a passenger? Good for you. Own that shit. But can’t is not acceptable.

Can’t is one of those words we’ve been taught to make us dumber, “I can’t understand this super smart thingy, please teach me.” To be weak, “I can’t open this super tight whatchamacallit, can big strong you do it.” To be demure, “I can’t do that sort of thing, I am a good girl.” To be more feminine, “I can’t do that, it’s for boys.” To be less, “You’re so much braver and stronger and smarter and better than me, I can’t do those things.” And in this case, to be weirdly complimentary, “Oh gee, woman-I-am-talking-to, you do that all by yourself? I can’t do that.” Or maybe that last just weirdly diminishes a women who is doing something decidedly unwomanly, unfeminine.

Yeah, I am piling a bunch of baggage into one passing conversation. But this isn’t about that one conversation. It isn’t about motorcycling. It’s about empowering oneself through our choice in words and how we represent ourselves and our capabilities.

I listen to moms and dads and teachers correct kids when they use can and can’t. Sarcastically saying, “I dunno. Can you?” Or saying, “Did you try? Then, how do you know you can’t?” Yet somewhere on our journey to adulthood, little girls learn to bat their eyelashes and say “I can’t, can you?” We use it to be less intimidating, less capable. We use to not own our wants and our desires.

When we proclaim we are incapable of something – that we can’t – then we might feel better having deferred the need to explain why we want what we want or why we don’t want what we don’t want. And sure, avoiding the explanation feels less taxing.

I get it. Just saying “I can’t” instead of “I want” totally eliminates the possibility of someone mansplaining how what you want is wrong. But that is avoiding something awkward by implying you are different and less than those who are capable. You are not dysfunctional because you want something different. Own that shit. Don’t feed and perpetuate the lie that says we women are less or that differences in skills or behaviors are based on differences between men and women.

My mom didn’t raise her two daughters to be less than her son (save for that childhood beauty queen episode, but no one is perfect). She didn’t fall for that gendered crap that said my sister and I were less capable than our brother. And, as anyone who survives an abusive life knows, she didn’t succumb to the word can’t. She picked herself up every time she got knocked down and she said, “I can do this. One foot in front of the other.”

Mom, I can and I will. One foot in front of the other.

Happy cooking and kicking ass!