MY MOTHER, THE STEAM ROLLER (2025-4)

There's an image in my mind that bubbles up regularly. It's kind of a "mind reel", like a mini-movie that plays in my head. It's become a reel because the human attention span seems to be getting shorter and shorter. We are down to little snippets.

Here it is:

It’s Sunday morning. I can smell the distinctly musty-humid scent that comes when we open the glass double-doors to the lobby of the Pleasant Hills Chapel of our little Branch-turned-to-Ward in the South Hills of Pittsburgh, PA. Our mother walks in, followed by her three young daughters: Ann Marie, Cori and Libby. I’m the middle one. We waddle behind her like little ducklings, our feet flipping swiftly under us because we are late. (It’s a generational flaw.) The organ is playing the opening song. Or maybe even the Sacrament Hymn. Brother Johnson, who seemed to me to be 100 years old but was likely in actuality ten years younger than I am now, sits in the back and comments as we pass:

 “Here comes the steam roller.”

I feel heat rising inside me as we walk up to our regular pew, glowing red as it reaches my head.

I feel sad that calling our mother a steam roller was something in Brother Johnson’s personal history and a defining portion of my memory of him.  What he did not pause long enough to realize, in his misuse of an ability to make comment, was that the woman who had not only forced herself out of bed, made herself presentable, and provided presentable dress for her daughters… had fed and provided shelter for those daughters… had purchased not only the car but the gas to get to church and driven them all there herself, had done it all on her own, without the aid of the father of those girls… this woman essentially had to become a steam roller to survive. The four of us man-less females put our shoulders back and walked up the aisle of our little chapel worthy of everything the Lord had to offer. Mom knew that. She taught us that. But some others didn’t know it … or hadn’t been taught.

Our blessed faithful mother, a rebel soul from the start, never left us. She had her flaws. We all do. But unlike the man who chose to drive away from our home and never return, she never left us. Even when her spirit took its flight, and she was gone from sight, she never completely left us. 

She remains… not only in her daughters, and their daughters, their daughters and the daughters to come, but also in her sons, and their sons. She bled onto us, and we are bathed in her, similar to the way we are bathed in the blood of our Savior. They both liberated us in their own way. I don’t mean, in any way, to lower the majesty of our Lord and Savior and his blessed atoning sacrifice. But I do mean to raise the divine feminine to the level of reverence for which I believe it was designed. It begins with respect then moves on to reverence.

Respect is a formal way of showing consideration and tolerance for others. Reverence is a feeling of profound awe and respect that comes from within. 

Respect women, who have been unduly and unrighteously oppressed for most of human history. Then when you have mastered respect, move on to reverence. It’s higher level thinking and higher level feeling. 

Gratefully, the father of my children and resident of my heart has made me feel not only loved but also revered. No wonder my mother loved him as much as I do. He reveres me, and also revered her the way she should have been revered, if for no other reason but the divine nature with which she came at birth.

Thank you, Mom.

Thank you, David.

Happy International Women’s Day

Whispering confidence into her great-grandaughter.

My safe place.

My true loves.

3-8-22 WE ARE WOMEN (hear us roar)

I’m realizing its International Women’s Day, not because I’m up on all this kind of stuff, but because I finally got to sit down and check in with my pals on social media. 

I start thinking about being a woman, and the historic plight of the female gender, and my personal history of prejudicial treatment…

Then I start thinking about equal rights…

Which leads me to thinking about the difference between equality and equity…

And I start pondering the basic tenets of republican versus democrat political parties in relation to equity versus equality…

and, as is usually the case, my brain gets tired of thinking and I get the urge to go to the fridge.

So I have another helping of chop suey from dinner, even though it’s eleven pm,

And I return to my computer to find what thought started this whole knotted chain.

 

Sometimes I pretend I’m a man. I don’t lose my feminine instincts in this exercise, but I do ponder who I might be if I had my same talents and thought processes and personality, but I was a man instead of a woman. It’s a really curious place to let oneself go. Interestingly, I’m still overweight and a little slouchy, cuz even as a man my body likes to eat too much sugar and doesn’t like to work out. But in other ways I feel different. First of all my daily routine is much more… routine. There’s a lot less super-diverse multi-tasking going on. I feel, in my pretend self, more empowered professionally. And more burdened by a need for success. I don’t love having to shave every. single. day., but I’m loving not having to duck into the Ladies room to see if I have bled through my pants every. single. month.

Because I have decades of actually living in a woman’s body, I’ve seen a lot of change regarding gender fairness. What I’ve seen, in general, is a quest for equality. I’ve seen good men work toward equality, and not so good men taking the low road. I’ve seen good women working for fair and equal treatment and opportunity, and I’ve seen ruthless women hurting the rest of us. I still see women allowing themselves to be perceived as objects, or probably more accurately, perceiving their bodies as objects to be desired. I continue to wonder at my fellow sisters-in-arms buying-in to the power of their bodies to alter the emotions of people around them. If we ask the men around us to resist their animal instincts, we ought to be expecting ourselves to resist the urge to lure them as well. (That there is me on my soap box.)

Anyway, I am lately trying to consider the difference between equality and equity. Equality is low level, first step action toward equity. Equity seems to be an appropriate goal. This is why our whole white-Anglo-Saxon-Mormon family marched through our community shouting Black Lives Matter two years ago. It’s kind of a no-brainer that “all lives matter”. Of course they do. But black lives have been so long unjustly treated, and unfairly regarded by society that we need to swing very far to make up for those among us who are in denial. Equity gives them more room, more grace, more sympathy and empathy from us. Eventually, when equity turns to judgement, and then to grace, there will be no need for shifting, because we will all be on common ground. But until then, I’m willing to give a little from my comfort to balance things out. It’s sort of like the gas prices today compared to one week ago. They have sky-rocketed, we are told, because we have made a decision as a nation to refuse to purchase Russian oil while they are invading Ukraine. Huzzah for America! Sometimes… often times… doing what is right pinches pretty hard. Hard won’t kill us. Loss of integrity will.

So, here’s to women tonight. Here’s to the strong ones, the tired ones, the ones who scratch their breasts every night when they remove their bras and the ones whose breasts have been removed in order to preserve their lives. Here’s to weak women, and overtaxed ones, and those who are black AND female AND unemployed. Here’s to the women who would rather be men, and men who feel like women, and to women who are brilliant leaders, and school crossing guards. Mothers and Aunties and Grands and not-so-grands. Our uniqueness gives us form, and our solidarity keeps our united heart beating. And here’s to the women who lined up in heaven before me, took the big leap and prepared the earth for my generation. To my sisters, who are my strength and my truest friends. And here’s to my daughters, who prove the world improves with each turn, and their daughters, who prove it over again.

I AM WOMAN 

I AM INVINCIBLE 

I AM TIRED