 Gary Roen is an interesting man. He’s an author and a poet. He’s a sci-fi aficionado. And he’s a nationally syndicated book critic. I thought my writer friends and blog followers might like a glimpse into the mind of that mysterious being that strikes anxiety and terror into writers’ hearts . . . The Book Reviewer. (See Gary’s bio after the interview.)
So—Hi, Gary! Let’s commence. You're a respected book reviewer/critic. How did you get started doing that & what are some of the outlets/sites/journals you submit reviews to? I began as a book critic, back in 1979, when a friend Pat Flanigan asked me if I wanted to do a science fiction show on WPRK of Rollins College. I had the background of publishing, while Pat worked for WDBO radio. So, for two years we did the show Spaceship PRK. To promote the show, we expanded our coverage by doing sci-fi book reviews for a weekly publication in Winter Park—while including author interviews on the show, and also alerting listeners to sci-fi events in the Orlando area. Later I did the reviews by myself, looking for new places to publish. I then aimed higher by writing for the Orlando Sentinel, Baltimore Sun, and the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Today I write for others. Among them are Midwestbookreview.com, Bivouac Magazine, Lake Legal News, The Beach Side Resident, and bUneke Magazine. What do you like best about reviewing books? Several things. Of course, the books. I accept all genres from publishers, authors, and PR firms. Meeting authors at events like Fandom Kissimmee, Oasis, and Necronomicon Science Fiction conventions, or library events to promote reading and authors, are a few of the things I really enjoy. How many books are submitted to you for review? Do you review them all? If not, how do you decide which ones you'll read? The number would be staggering, if I took a count, because there are so many that come in from all kinds of different avenues. No, I do not review all of them, but, yes, I do read all of most of the books I write about. The only time I don’t is when it’s too confusing for me to understand, as many self-help books often are. I will state, ‘I did not finish this book because . . .’ and I explain the reason. As to how I decide? Several things are important to me. First—is the cover. (Okay, Victoria here. Please reread that last sentence. As a cover designer myself and, having conducted presentations on effective covers, I know this to be true. It's so, so important! Sorry. Back to you, Gary.) It has to entice me to want to open the book. Then the first paragraph has to grab me, and the author has to tell a story with a beginning, middle, and an end. After reading one, do you ever decide to not review it? Why? No. Once I have read it all, I go with a review. Sometimes when I’ve read a bit of one, I decide to not write about it, because it may be poorly written, be too confusing for me, or use certain words too many times and slows down the progression. I call it the Danelle Steele rule of thumb, because she uses and, but, and suddenly too many times each page. Last time I counted 18 times on the first 3 pages. Another problem I see is too many characters in a novel—or with the same letters for first names. Example: Sara, Sally, Shannon, and Sue. All female characters causing me to go back and figure which one is which. How would an author approach you for a review? Or do you only accept books from trusted sources, say a publicist, agent, or publisher? The first way to not get a review is come to my house and present it to me at my door or in my driveway. (Sorry folks—interruption. That sound you hear is Victoria spitting out her coffee with laughter. Eh-hem. Okay. Better now. Carry on, Gary.) Now, I will accept in many ways. PR firms like Maryglenn Mccombs’ Dowling Press—who sent me your book, JORDAN. I also talk to authors through social media like Facebook, LinkedIn, and Twitter. Or friends of mine, who are authors, have new books out, and they ask if I would review it. Now, another way to not get reviewed—very simply—is constantly sending me the question of, “What do you think of my book?” or “When are you going to review it?” Sometimes, in a heartbeat, I will send it back to you. In two cases, I did, because of the lack of courtesy on the part of the author. One author did not like that it took over two months from the time he gave me his book at a library event. Later, I gave his book back to him when we were at the same event. Another thing that will not get you anywhere is attacking me on social media because I have not immediately reviewed your book. Authors have to understand when dealing with anyone of the press—that it takes time, and they are not the only person a press person deals with. You're a writer yourself. How does reading so many other books affect your own work? I believe it made me a better writer. I grew up reading the Ian Fleming James Bond novels, Andre Norton, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, and many different genres, instead of just the science fiction that I write in. Your newest is Slotski's World. Tell us about it and when it will be released. Slotski’s World, and its companion, Journey, are available from https://www.legacybookpublishing.com/prime/authors/gary-roen/, any bookstore, or Amazon.com for ordering or in Kindle format. Both collections of science fiction short stories have been a lot of fun to write and promote. Much of my work comes from things I overhear from people or what I’ve seen of news events. An example is Cycles, in Slotski’s World, where a husband and wife return home from a day of shopping to find their home completely gone. That came from a brief news story on a local station about a couple in Texas who had that happen. I just expanded it a little bit. Or the story, Everything, came from something as simple as a girl I observed. She was on her cell phone and told me she would just die if she did not have her cell phone, because it is everything to her. What advice would you give a new novelist? Keep writing. Find someone you feel comfortable with to edit your work, check out writer groups in the area, go to book-related events of all genres, and stay in touch with other writers by social media. If you are in college, take courses. I took courses from Susan Hubbard and Pat Rushin at University of Central Florida and learned my craft so much better in everything I write. Carry around notepads to write down things when you are out and about. Much of my work comes from things I hear or see, and when something comes to me, I have it to refer back to. When you come in contact with an author on LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram sign up to be a follower, because then you can get tips from authors and author-related sits. Do not write to be the next Stephen King or whatever—be yourself. Do not write to have it become a movie or TV show. Know who your target audience is. Example: Is this for kids, YA, Adults, or a combination? How important is it to market your books? Isn’t that for the publicity departments and PR firms? It’s crucial you learn to do some things on your own, because publicity departments of mainstream publishers have only so much time and money to devote to you. PR firms only work with authors who are doing a lot of this themselves. There is only so much you can expect from them. At first it can be hard, but you can take the attitude I did so many years ago. What’s the worst that will happen? You will be told no. Ask yourself—what have you got to lose? If you are shy, get over it and take on a little at a time, because you control what happens to your books. I now use social media to promote my books and ask if I can be a guest on a talk show or event. I have been told no, so I look up somewhere else to ask. The internet is a great resource, but it is not the only place to promote your books. I was amazed at a comic convention in Coco, Florida, that an author I talked to while waiting to be a guest on the show, Hanging With the Web, did not even consider being on because his books are on the internet. I think, duh, how do you get people to check you out, if they do not know how to find you? I am a person who is always learning. It amazes me how many people think they ended their education in school. I will continue to do so as long as I can. Much of what I teach to writers are things I learned by getting out and doing it on my own. There was no classroom, no lesson plans, other than feeling my way back in 1973, when my parents and I entered the world of publishing with my dad’s true crime book, Murder Of A Little Girl. Later, I sold it as a paperback version retitled, A Little Girl is Missing. His next one, Evidence of Murder, propelled me to be an agent. I did so, but had too many writers with so much attitude, that I refocused my attention to my own work of short stories and being a critic, as well as a consultant. Most of all, I am pleased with the direction my life has taken and am on the course I’ve known since attending Boone High School. Thank you, Victoria for having me. This has been a lot of fun. Authors can contact me through: gsroen@aol.com, sadieroen@yahoo.com, https://www.linkedin.com/in/gary-roen-1a6261149/Log into Facebook | Facebook, Gary Roen (@bearbeatle) | Twitter Gary S. Roen is the author of two collections of science fiction - Slotski’s World and Journey (Legacy Book Publishing)—as well as co-author of Cats, Cats, and More Cats (Royal Fireworks Press.) He is the author of two books of poetry. The Forgotten Father Coping With Grief (Taylor and Seal Publishing) and Look at Me World (Chateau Publishing). His work has been included in the short story collection, Computer Legends Lies and Lores (Ageless Press), and online magazines including Anotherealm, and Mercury Sky. He is also the author of a satirical play entitled Vamp. Roen is also a nationally syndicated book critic/writer/consultant, who has been writing for close to 45 years. His syndicated reviews have appeared in hundreds of daily, weekly, and monthly, publications that currently include Midwest Book Review, The Beachside Resident, Orlando Advocate, St. Cloud in the News, Osceola News-Gazette, Bivouac Magazine, and Arrhythmic Souls. His articles have run in Living Well and Live Wisely, bUnike Magazine, The Beach Side Resident, Strange New Worlds, Crime Book Digest, Eleven Magazine, Backstage Pass, and West Orlando News. Over the many years of his career, Roen has been a book salesman, a publicist for several publishing houses, and an agent working with authors and publishers in the true-crime field. He has been a regular on-air contributor to many different types of radio and TV shows throughout the United States. He’s worked for numerous companies in the field of market research, in Central Florida, as an independent contractor. This gave him many diverse experiences that have often found their way into his fictional stories.
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 In days long past, people knew, by the time a child was around five or six, whether or not the kid had all its marbles in the right places. Imagine, continuing the marble thread, the normal ones’ brains looked like a neatly set up game of Chinese checkers. Each marble precisely placed in its appointed spot. And such a child followed the rules, did what they were told.
Remember that old game, Mouse Trap? The one that looked like a Rube Goldberg contraption? (If you haven’t heard of him, Google him. So much fun.) Levers, flippers, scoops, and raceways had marbles flying everywhere. The child whose brain did that didn’t fit in very well. They disobeyed and explored forbidden places and thoughts. Were they geniuses or just idiots? Depending on the village culture, the ones with the flying marbles didn’t fit in. If they were simple-minded, but could be relied upon to complete easy tasks, they were trained to do so. If they were a danger to others, too much of a burden, or just scared the townspeople because of their differences, they were disappeared. Yup. You heard me. Oh, no one spoke about it. There are veiled references to such things in historical records, but stories survived about disabled or deformed newborns being left out in the woods for the wolves. Babies with problems were bad omens. Whacky behavior was a sign of stupidity. A child who couldn’t speak made it to the age of six, but constantly pointed at the sky and screamed. Along came a period of non-stop rain that killed all the crops, and subsequently, most the animals. Poor kid got blamed as being an evil spirit who brought the disaster. Yeah, he didn’t survive. That was from an arcane entry in a church record. Seems barbaric, doesn’t it? Ah, but it turns out, during most of human history, we’ve rejected anyone who was differently abled. More modern times brought ways of locking away the disabled-from-birth kids, but they were still out of sight. Unless, of course, you were rich or powerful. It’s the same old story. People haven’t changed. If you were a member of what my one son calls the lucky sperm club, your chances of survival were way better. Okay, okay. I get it. So far, this is so not funny. See, I’m here to make sure you realize how good you’ve got it. It all makes me especially happy that my siblings and I were born in the twentieth century. I hate to think of how those middle ages villagers would have treated my siblings and me. We exhibited some pretty dopey behavior, and we weren’t rich. So . . . We had a neighbor, who, I’m quite sure, wanted all six of us taken away somewhere. Anywhere. Had she been the head of an ancient village, my siblings and I would’ve been disappeared, for sure. Her children behaved with decorum. They didn’t roll in the mud. They didn’t race bicycles downhill with no hands. They never fell out of trees. We were loud and boisterous. We made messy mud and leaf sandwiches in our pretend deli on the side porch and tried to sell them. Once, after witnessing my brother chasing my screaming sister around the yard—he was attempting to hit a bee, that had apparently decided it loved her, by whipping a rope at her as they ran—our neighbor ranted at my mother but good about her disgraceful progeny. That brother is now a Ph.D. So, I wonder how many children, how many incredibly smart people, were discarded on the cutting-room floor of human history? I have to believe those villagers of old would’ve definitely left us in the woods.  Traditional mysteries aren’t usually my thing, but a friend recommended Alyssa Maxwell’s Gilded Newport Series, so I gave it a try.
Murder at Ochre Court is the sixth in this series. Although I haven’t read the first five, it didn’t matter. I was able to get into the story right away and easily understand who the main character was and her background. Emma Cross is her protagonist, a rather courageous young woman for her time—the late 1800s. This book begins in July of 1898 with Emma having an interesting meet up with none other than the famed journalist Nellie Bly. Emma is a newspaper reporter and wants more than anything to write about real news, not just the doings of those fantastically wealthy and privileged members of the 400. Emma is a distant cousin to the Vanderbilts, and as such, does have access to those families. The settings are wonderful, and Maxwell truly transports the reader to that gilded age. The magnificent mansions, clothing, manners, servants, food, carriages, and community at large are all described very well. The death/mystery Emma winds up investigating in this book is quite unique. I won’t reveal the who or how, but you won’t see it coming. The method used to murder the victim is absolutely ingenious and so appropriate to the time frame. So, yes, I will be going back to read the earlier books in this series, as well as the subsequent ones. I found it a delightful escape read and highly recommend it. Here's a link to her website: www.alyssamaxwell.com/  This Woman's Experience is a series of blog posts about what growing up, and life in general, was like for women who were born before 1965. It's intended to show the young women of today how it used to be. We can't go, and we can't let them, go backward.
When I was in my early twenties, I divorced my first husband after three years of marriage. He had this rather bad habit of sleeping with just about any woman he liked the looks of - if he could. If you've read this series so far, you know that it was drilled into me to be a 'good wife' and overlook a lot. We got married, had a two-week honeymoon (That was its own disaster - a story for another day), and immediately moved from New Jersey to the panhandle of Florida. The problems began right away. He'd say he had to work late, then come in at 2 AM reeking of beer, saying he and another guy he'd been working with were just too wired afterward to go home and sleep. Oh, a young alcoholic, you'll no doubt surmise. This was in the late seventies. There were no cell phones, no internet. I didn't dare call his work to ask to speak to him. I was afraid to. I told myself at the time it was because I didn't want to seem like an insecure wife and cause his buddies to tease him about his 'nagging' spouse. Years later, I acknowledged the real reason was I was afraid of what I'd find out. Which I eventually did find out anyway. Get ready for a shocker - he wasn't working late. The beer ploy had been concocted and perfected by him and his friends when they were in college. Clearly, it only worked when they'd managed to find girlfriends/spouses like me - women with zero confidence or self-worth. He'd make dates and take women out after work. Or he'd go to a bar and pick one up, then go back to her place - or do it in the car if she had nowhere for them to go. And he'd make sure to have beer, but doubly made sure his clothes smelled of it, too, to cover up any perfume or other - eh-hem - residual odors. We moved six times in those few years of marriage. Everywhere we lived, weird circumstances happened that he'd explain away. I, being too intimidated, too insecure, too whatever - would buy the stupid explanation and just internalize the hurt. Squash it far down and pretend I didn't know what I was starting to understand very well. At the same time, he began calling me horrible names, criticized my looks (called me a whale body), and refused to have sex with me. (in retrospect, that was a blessing, as Lord knows what diseases he might have steeped himself in.) Women called the house giggling and asking to speak with him. Women would show up at our front door and, when I answered it, would have shocked expressions on their faces and mumble some hasty response like, "Oh, I must have the wrong apartment." Once, my ex ran past me to answer the door, stepped outside with the woman, took a few minutes talking to her, then came back and told me she was looking for - whatever else - and he merely tried to help her out. A stronger woman would have said bullshit to herself and gone right out there with her arms crossed and wedge herself into their 'conversation'. I was too afraid to do that. To find out what was going on. I pushed it back, way back, in my brain and pretended everything was fine. I understand too well - now - the reasons I did that. There are so many stories I could tell about that man and his cheating, but the blog post would be way too long. Some were actually pretty hilarious in hindsight, though not this one - I found a fake fingernail between the sheets of our bed when I felt something against my leg. (I didn't have fake fingernails.) I'll never forget what it looked like - lavender/purplish polish, and it had been chewed a bit. When I confronted him about it, he blamed it on our roommate (one of his college buddies who had his own room and bathroom on the other side of the apartment.) I knew that was bullshit, but accepted his excuse and kept that fake fingernail in the bottom of my jewelry box for years to prove to myself I hadn't imagined it. After three years of his baloney, I finally left him. It wasn't easy. Thank God we were in Hawaii by then. I loved it there. The point of this is not to garner pity for me. Legions of people have far worse happen to them - mine don't even tip the scale. I am long over all these things, made my changes, and am a different person now. The point of this is to illustrate the bad choices a person makes when they are insecure and don't think they matter at all. They'll put up with almost anything, because they don't feel they deserve anything better. Insecurity begets more insecurity, which begets really, really, stupid life choices. By the way, I wasn't done with my stupid life choices. I went on to make many more before I realized I could change my life. Don't belittle or denigrate your children - especially not your daughters. It has life-long, drastic consequences. Thank you.  This Woman's Experience is a series of blog posts about what growing up, and life in general, was like for women who were born before 1965. It's intended to show the young women of today how it used to be. They need to know this.
When my first ex and I were newly married (1978), we attended a work party with some of his new (male) work acquaintances. Everyone was in their early twenties. Some of the guys were married also, and their wives, like me, dutifully stood in a conversation group with them, nodding along like vapid bobble heads. It was what you did back then. Many of us had jobs, too, but no one ever asked about those, or our lives, or anything else concerning us. It was all about the men. My ex went to get another drink, and one of the other men started staring at me. It became uncomfortable enough that I'm sure I was turning red. Finally, I asked him why (in a mousy little voice) he was doing it. He smiled a weird, sideways smirky smile and said, "I'm just waiting for the pencils to drop." The other men laughed uproariously with him. The women didn't say a word. I was pretty naive and did not understand the reference. I gave him a questioning look that, I think - in retrospect - he interpreted as an admonishment. At least I hope so. But I just felt stupid and embarrassed. I didn't know what he'd said to me. I sensed it was inappropriate and knew I couldn't tell my then husband, or it might cause a problem at the work party. And of course, my duty was to not disrupt or cause issues. My duty was to be a stepford-type wife. So I said nothing. There was no internet then. No where to look up such a thing. I mean, I wasn't about to ask the local librarian about that one. We'd moved far away from our families and friends. So I let it go. Years later, I heard a reference to the same type joke and finally understood it. The guy was commenting on my breasts. They were perky. Of course they were. I was twenty. I suppose it doesn't seem like a life-changing event - and it wasn't. It was just one more little thing that we used to put up with. Today's 20-year old woman would likely have told the jerk to go eff himself, but back then it was drilled into many of us that a wife offending or disrespecting (by not tolerating) his co-worker could have dire consequences for a young man's advancement prospects. So we smiled pleasantly.  Greed. Power. Money.
The cause of most human atrocities are rooted in those three words. The pursuit of more money, always more, relentlessly more, is a twisted sickness that infects people. Money buys power. Money buys respect. Money buys - safety? Maybe not. Author Tom Straw has a smart defense attorney, Macie Wild - trying to prove her client's innocence on a murder charge - teaming up with an ex-cop, Gunnar Cody, who has serious skills (think Jack Reacher skills) and a great surveillance set-up, plus a scary-good IT guy - when her case intersects with his work. Unfortunately, Wild's and Cody's investigation exposes them to the rotten, brutal, and deadly underworld of Russian oligarchs, whose insane amounts of stolen money and the subsequent influence it buys - even in the supposedly 'safest' corners of the American legal system - turns their investigation into a dangerous adventure. There's a lot of action - at times, it felt I was inside a Mission Impossible movie - and there is a romantic element. What Straw does nicely is making the romantic element develop slowly, so when the two of them actually do something about it, it feels natural, more realistic - more deserved. Too many other novels of this type simply throw the characters into bed as soon as possible, which always feels forced and takes me out of the story. Straw doesn't overdo it, either. In the end, Macie, for all her worldly experience to date, is shocked by the extent that money can corrupt. It's sick, and it's a condemnation of humanity - that in thousands of years of watching people screw themselves and entire populations in the pursuit of power and money - most of today's humans haven't learned a thing. There were a couple of drawbacks. Straw's writing style in this novel is to combine different characters' dialogue, thoughts, and actions into single paragraphs, which made me have to frequently go back and reread for clarity. Who said that? Wait. Who thought that? Wait. Who did that? I would have read this book much faster if that hadn't been an issue. The other was Cody's motivation to pretty much drop everything - from the get-go - to spend his time, resources, and money to help Macie with her case. It wasn't explained, and, I felt, didn't make sense. He didn't seem the kind of guy to fall head-over-heels in love at first sight and, because of that, risk his life and his resources in response. But, I can suspend disbelief when the story is interesting, so - I did.  This is an essay from my book, A Little Bit Sideways. It's about us. Americans. We are unique, to say the least. Happy 4th, Everybody!
*** I once went to a Fourth of July celebration concert with an English friend. When I invited her, she said, “Oh, sure. Gloating’s far more fun when the losers are present.” Huh. I hadn’t thought about the Fourth from a British person’s perspective. It made me consider how little we modern day Americans know about the personalities of the people who were responsible for that little tiff we call the American Revolution. We were ticked off by King George’s government treating the American colonies as though they were property. As if! How dare they! Oh, wait. Technically, the colonies were. But still. The British had the nerve to levy taxes on needed supplies like paper, paint, glass, and tea. Never mind that the taxes were supposed to help pay off the debt from the French and Indian War. In North America and the Caribbean, it was a battle against the French for control of those colonies. The American colonists hated the notion of the French taking over, so England really was fighting for their cause as well. And it was pretty darn pricey. In fact, so staggering a debt, that it nearly destroyed the English government. The colonists didn’t care. Already, the fledgling & soon-to-be rebellious ones conveniently forgot they almost had to learn French and step up their game in the kitchen. And who wouldn’t want to forget? That’s a lot of pressure—going from preparing basic grub (Sorry, English) to excelling in wine reductions, crème fraiche, and escargot. King George III was a little unstable—not completely mad yet, but King Louis XV? Despite being known as the beloved, Louis wasn’t. (It’s kind of like how every North Korean adores Kim Jong Un.) Louis was—as were all the Louies—weird. And surprisingly progressive by today’s standards. He was the first one to send a transvestite to spy on the Russians. Luckily for us, Louis never met a war he couldn’t lose. Might it have had something to do with too much wine and men wearing silk stockings? Back to our British overlords. By 1770, only the tea tax remained. Big deal, right? Depends on how much you know about human beverage history. And lucky for you, I’ve done extensive research. Tea was the first non-alcoholic drink in the Western world that wouldn’t make you sick. See, back in those days, everybody knew if you drank water, you could die. They didn’t understand the why. Until tea, everybody drank beer or wine. Seriously. Even the kids. It’s a miracle the human race didn’t stagger its way into cave walls and off cliffs, stab themselves with poisoned arrows, and get dizzy and tumble down the pyramids to extinction. So tea was a big deal. It enabled the industrial revolution, because sober people can be trusted around machinery. Drunk people, not so much. But perhaps England’s biggest mistake in all of this was allowing volunteers to go populate the New World in the first place. They should have assigned people to go instead. Because the people who would volunteer to leave everyone and everything they know to sail for months to an uncertain fate carry a certain daring adventure gene. No—it’s not really a gene. Don’t make me roll my eyes at you. All of us Americans, back then and now, carry this thing I’m calling a gene. Americans come from ancestors who dared to leave home and try something new. People seeking freedom from other people telling them what to do or believe. As a result, by default—we Americans are independent. Curious. Brave. Brash. Restless. Self-motivated. Inventive. It’s why our spirit is admired around the world. The most adventurous people from all the other countries chose to come here, effectively diminishing their home country’s gene pools of such traits. We can’t help being rebellious. It’s in our blood. So, of course that pesky tea tax was going to piss them off royally. There was a bit more to it than that, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome in the history aisle. My fellow Americans, this is an awesome responsibility. Our demanding that they—whoever they are (Oops, it’s the government, don’t tell anyone)--do something (This is outrageous!) is constantly at war with our inner rebel that doesn’t want anybody messing with our lives. Until we break an axle in a deep pothole. Why the heck can’t these fools manage to fill a hole?! Or dozens of people fall ill from salmonella in a restaurant. Why can’t THEY make sure these places serve safe food?! Or your baby gets lead poisoning from chewing on an imported toy. Why can’t THEY test these things before they allow them into our country?! Nothing’s changed. We want it both ways. And that’s impossible. Happy Fourth of July, you rebel, you.  This Woman's Experience is a series of blog posts about what growing up, and life in general, was like for women who were born before 1965. It's intended to show the young women of today how it used to be. They need to know this.
Today's post is from Ann Meier, who, after the experience she describes here, went on to earn a Ph.D. in psychology. More info on Ann follows her post. Here's Ann: I can’t do math. As a straight A student, I never lacked confidence in my academic abilities. I found something of interest in every class I took. I know, it’s disgusting, right? I loved ninth grade algebra. In high school, I moved on to tenth grade geometry. I was very interested in art at the time, so the shapes, lines, and angles intrigued me. The first semester, my teacher was a woman. I earned three As for the first three six-week grading periods. My schedule changed for second semester, and my new geometry teacher was a man. My first six weeks with him, I earned an A. I still had confidence in my ability to do math. The second six weeks. my grade dropped to a B, and the third six weeks, I received the only C grade of my high school years. What happened? My male teacher believed girls weren’t capable of understanding mathematics. He said things like, ‘this is an easy girl-type problem’ or ‘this is a difficult concept, I’ll need a boy to answer this question.’ Our teacher loved to call a girl to the blackboard to work a problem, and then confuse her to the point of tears. A week didn’t go by without one of us crying in front of the class. Unbelievable, right? Yet it happened. His constant discounting of girls’ ability to do math, and his relentless taunting convinced me. I’m a girl. I can’t handle math. My grades show the decline in my performance. He killed any interest I had in math. The impact was far-reaching. I avoided all future math classes. No college algebra, no trig, no calculus. In college, I also managed to avoid math by taking science classes. With no math foundation, I found myself playing catch up. When I finally decided I wanted to major in psychology, I hit a huge obstacle with the required statistics classes. Without the goodwill tutoring provided by an incredibly giving classmate, I would have had to give up my chosen field of study. One man and his sexist beliefs made all the difference. And at the time, none of us doubted what he told us. We were girls, and we couldn’t do math. *** Ann Meier lives in Orlando and writes Mysteries with a Theme Park Smile for adults and a companion series for middle grade kids. She was a manager on the Universal Orlando Resort opening team and also worked at Walt Disney World. She has co-authored a college textbook, written journal articles, and worked in human resources for a Fortune 100 company. She earned an undergraduate degree in English from Ball State University and a Ph.D. in psychology from the University of Maryland, College Park.  This Woman's Experience is a series of blog posts about what growing up, and life in general, was like for women who were born before 1965. It's intended to show the young women of today how it used to be. They need to know this.
Kitty Philips is my guest blogger today. Kitty is a 7th generation Floridian currently residing in the mountains of Tennessee. She grew up in rural North Florida and is from a long line of farmers and working women. (More info at bottom of post.) She's also, in my opinion, more than a bit of a 'bad-ass' and someone I wish I'd had the confidence as a young woman to be more like. So, here's Kitty: *** Can you imagine a world where you, as a woman, can’t get a credit card or any credit in your name without your husband’s approval? You can’t buy a car. You can’t get birth control. You can’t have any 'female' surgery. You can’t open a checking account. Your husband can call your doctor and have access to all of your records without your permission. This is the world I came of age in. The 60’s. Those were difficult times for women. Not that my father was like that. Women in my family have always worked outside the home. It was encouraged and not frowned upon. But once I left home, I found doors closed to me. Car loans. Apartments. Credit cards. And certainly reproductive services. These were the things the Women’s Movement was about. We didn’t even think about being called 'honey'. We wanted basic rights – equal pay, equal employment, equal care, equal financial opportunity. As late as 37 years ago, I couldn’t get the same amount of life insurance as my husband, even though I made the same amount of money. My salary wasn’t as important as his. Which translated to . . . I was a lesser person. Many of these restrictions were laws – laws! Some were just understood. The Women’s Movement or the Women’s Liberation Movement came about in the mid-60's and lasted until the early 80's. The main objective was to make women equal class citizens. There are some who say it came out of the civil rights movement. I think it really started during World War II, when women filled the jobs left by men going into the armed forces. Rosie the Riveter exemplified those women. After the war, and the men came home, women were no longer satisfied to stay at home and be the little wife. We marched. We burned our bras. We staged sit-ins. We staged walk-outs. We wrote our legislators. We talked to our men. In some cases, there was violence. But change oftentimes involves violence. The movement was really about the patriarchal and sexist system in this country. The media portrayed us as man-haters, but that was far from the truth. Unlike today’s Me Too movement, we didn’t hate men. We loved men. We just didn’t want to be second class or subservient to them. As a result of our work, women’s issues were brought to light. Roles were revised. Sex could be discussed. Our feelings and needs were brought out into the open. Our problems were added to books and courses in sociology, psychology, and even biology. Departments on women’s rights were set up. Colleges began to teach courses. Abortion laws were changed. Women wanted to rid the country of the idea of objectifying women. We protested the Miss America Pageant. We wanted control over our reproductive processes. We wanted to be paid for maternity leave. We wanted safe havens from abusive relationships. We wanted laws that would make marital rape a crime. We wanted the right to initiate and achieve a divorce, including a 'no fault' divorce. My generation of women fought to change these antiquated laws made by rich, old, white men. Because of us, women have access to birth control. Women can have credit without their husband’s permission. Women can expect and receive equal pay for equal work. Women can buy a house without asking anyone. Women can buy a car. Women’s health records are not available to their husbands, except with their permission. Women can serve in any position in the military and can take any job they are qualified to perform. We don’t have to be married or have children to lead full and rewarding lives. We can get a divorce. We can get help if in abusive relationships. We can talk about sex in the open. But I fear many of our rights are eroding, and we are regressing. Look at all of the anti-abortion laws or attempted laws today. I don’t care if you call me 'honey'. I do care if you try to tell me what I can and can’t do with my body. I can’t imagine being a man in today’s corporate world. I would never be alone with a woman for fear of the accusations and retribution. That is not what we fought to change and protect. We did not hate men. We gloried in our differences. We wanted equality, not dominion over men. I will not be part of the Me Too movement. They have lost sight of what we fought so hard to achieve. They are making a mockery of our work. Many don’t even know what we were able to change. They should read works by Gloria Steinem and Susan Brownmiller before going forward. More About Kitty Philips: After high school, she took a year off, traveled, and married. At 23, she found herself divorced and pregnant. As a single parent, she understood the need to find an occupation that would provide an income for life - and she knew it would not be in a traditional woman's job. Relying on her grandmother for her daughter's day care, she commuted to college in Daytona and earned a degree in computer science. After graduation, she entered her career as a programmer and met her husband, Jeffrey. They've traveled the world diving, horseback riding, and cooking. Along the way, she became a US Coast Guard Captain, a SCUBA intstructor, and Florida Master Naturalist instructor, and a chef. She and Jeffrey, and two horses, live in Tennessee and continue to travel. She is now a junior at Tennessee Tech, majoring in Environmental Science and Sustainability.  I've posted this tribute to my dad several times, but it's a good one & I think it deserves another post in honor of Father's Day. My dad passed over twenty years ago. He was a (as he would say) 'real kick in the pants.'
*** We only get one father—biologically speaking. But a dad? That’s a different story. For some people, Dad is the one who contributed his DNA to you. For others, it’s the guy who volunteered to step up and be the dad. I am thanking all dads, whether they’re blood-related or not. And as a tribute, here’s to them and their foibles. There are a few things I know for sure about dads. They like sports, especially football and—when Mom’s not in the room—cheerleaders. They relish a cold beer after mowing the lawn. They make the best tree forts. They believe winking at you erases a clumsy remark. They have deep, meaningful conversations with the family dog, but can’t cough up a word when asked by Mom to help explain the birds and the bees to their kids. They love steak. They wear T-shirts from their high school or college days until they disintegrate. They tell the same corny jokes year after year and laugh harder each time, ignoring Mom’s eye-rolling. They adore their children. My dad passed away twenty-one years ago. I question both his and my mother’s (very much alive) sanity. They decided to have a big family, wanted all six of us. I’ve raised three children and can’t imagine having had three more. I don’t know how my parents didn’t succumb to the temptation to lose one or two of us. In my dad’s wake, he left a legacy of events and stories that still entertain us. Tales about Hawaii after World War II, college pranks, and how he won my mother over from some other guy. Dad loved to dance. When I was little, sometimes I’d wake up at night and hear music. I’d sneak downstairs and find my parents on the sun porch doing a wild, swinging jitterbug to big band music. They were laughing, smiling—no, beaming ear to ear. Dad was cheap. He thought nothing should cost more than fifty dollars—ever. No matter how much time had passed since his find-a-nickel-and-see-a-movie childhood. He’d tip waiters and valets with quarters. As we grew older, we realized Mom always tucked extra cash in her purse for surreptitious purposes. He did get a little better with the tipping thing, but we all were prepared to leave a sweater on a chair as an excuse to run back to the table. He loved cute waitresses, and back in the days before political correctness (think Mad Men era), he’d pinch their bottoms and laugh, embarrassing us. Dad was a charmer, though, and the waitresses never looked angry. Really. I guess some people can pull off anything. My middle son inherited that gene. He’d never pinch anyone, but boy, one smile and whammo—he’s got the popular vote. My dad’s favorite drink was the Manhattan. Four parts rye whiskey to one part sweet vermouth with a dash of bitters and a Maraschino cherry. It’s etched into my brain because Dad taught me to make them when I was ten. These days, that would probably be considered child abuse. Heck, my kids didn’t learn bartending skills until they were at least twelve. Kidding. While Mom was busy preparing dinner for eight people, I’d fill the cocktail shaker with Manhattan ingredients and frost a martini glass in the freezer for him. When he came home from work, he’d sit at the counter and do the crossword puzzle, sipping the drink I’d served and talking to Mom. But here’s the endearing part, something I didn’t realize until many years later. He’d pluck me up and onto his lap and challenge me with some of the crossword clues. No matter what I’d answered, if it was the right amount of letters, he praised me and filled it in. (In ink. He and Mom always did their crosswords in pen.) After a few answers, I’d get bored, jump down, and go find a sibling to pester. Now, as an avid puzzle doer, I can only imagine what a pain in the rear it was to work around and ink over those incorrect answers. Before the internet, or even the concept of a home computer, dads relied on nudie magazines. Keeping them hidden from the wives and children was a big challenge. We kids always found the stash, however. We never let on, and we never told our moms. It was our only source of sex education. What we didn’t know was that all the moms knew exactly where they were also. Yeesch. Everybody just pretended they didn’t know diddly. As it turned out, to share the financial burden of keeping up with the latest issues, Dad had an exchange program going with the Episcopal minister (father of five) next door. They traded copies back and forth for years. I told you he was cheap. I miss him. I hope you have a dad in your life. He may not be the biological contributor, but love is not measured by DNA. Treasure every bad joke, every inappropriate or clunky comment, every moment they choose to spend with you. Appreciate the efforts made to cheer you on, lift you up, and lessen the pain, even if they don’t work. He cares enough to try, and it hurts him more than you know to see you go through life’s inevitable adversities. And don’t ever let him be all alone on Father’s Day. |
Author noteI believe the only way to get through the slings and arrows life throws at all of us is to find the humor. Archive
October 2019
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