Ed. — From the Sunday, March 19, print edition.
VIRGINIA BEACH — I started writing as a young girl – first in a little red diary with a tiny silver lock and key, later in journals I still fill regularly. In college and graduate school, I took creative writing classes and wrote a few short stories and even a bit of poetry. When my first book was published, I shared my thrill with my father, an avid writer. That’s when I learned of my mother’s dreams and talents and realized how her life and choices made mine possible.
My mother wrote for the area newspaper as a teenager, reporting on local high school events. After graduation, she went to work for the evening paper as the administrative assistant for the managing editor. She dreamed of possibility but spent her days facilitating his busy schedule, answering phones and taking meeting minutes. Her creative talents were wasted on the Christmas presents she was sent to buy and wrap for her boss’s wife.
Women of my mother’s generation often found their dreams sidelined and their accomplishments morphed by those of the men in their lives. My mother aspired to attend an art institute. But she was not permitted college because the money needed for higher education was intended for her younger brothers.
She imagined herself an artist with a studio where her craft could be honed. Her parents, however, planned for her to marry and raise a family. Later, she longed for a part-time job, but my father’s career was on the rise, and he wanted her at home.
When she became the town’s planning commission secretary, my father (whose thinking about gender roles changed dramatically over the years) insisted she make dinner, clean the kitchen and get us kids settled before she could leave for the 6 p.m. meetings that sometimes went until midnight.
My mother wasn’t a trailblazer or an activist, but she pushed the boundaries of gender-role limitations to make space for herself in a world that refused her entry.
Back when women drivers were still a novelty and seatbelts were not a legal requirement, my mother put my sister in the car, got behind the wheel of our Chevy Impala and taught herself to drive, weaving figure eights in an empty parking lot not far from our home.
She learned to make friends in all the new places my father’s job took us, which is not a small feat since making friends gets more complicated the more history we have behind us.
She had three small children and a husband whose job often took him out of town for long periods, but my mother joined a women’s art group and, in her precious “spare time,” made colorful wall hangings she sold at the local artisan market.
She attended a consciousness-raising group to negotiate the 1970s women’s movement and her desire for more.
She excelled as a homemaker – awing the neighborhood women with her tastefully decorated and immaculate house.
She even taught me to cook and bake, activities I recently learned she didn’t necessarily enjoy.
With the help of like-minded women around her, my mother broke the mold determined by family, faith and culture. She keeps in touch with many of these women. One of them is her long-time best friend. They continue to support each other in their efforts to pioneer new paths. And in witnessing this, I’ve done the same – without ever forgetting that, if not for their sacrifices and the lessons they learned, I would not have the choice of role or ambition.
Recently, a few of my oldest friends and sorority sisters visited me in Virginia Beach. We spent two days talking nonstop about our careers, children, partners and homes. We shared college memories as a means of reconnecting. We lamented the effects of aging and mourned the time passing. We found ourselves dumbfounded that many of the issues we faced as young women – slut shaming, body dysmorphia, reproductive limitations, sexual prohibitions – were still with us.
Or coming back around for the next generation to grapple.
My mother, her friends and these women in my life teach me daily the significance of this month meant to mark their lives as meaningful accomplishments worth remembering.
Women’s History Month is not a political ploy to oust a power structure. It’s our opportunity to consider the family of women around us and celebrate the work they’ve done to make all of our lives possible.
The author is a former Virginia Beach Planning Commissioner and college professor. Reach her at leejogger@gmail.com.
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