I'm Just Kidding!

My teen years were in the early 70s. It seems hard to believe now, but it was commonplace to tell jokes about how stupid women (especially blondes) were. I was blonde, with blue eyes.
 
If you grow up around men who denigrate women, however mildly and socially acceptable at the time, you absorb the idea that you are less than. Not worthy of much. I did.
 
In my forties, I began examining my past to understand why I was so insecure. I’d never connected the dots I laid out for you above. Once I started, more long-repressed memories surfaced, and it became clearer and clearer why I had no confidence in my abilities.
 
There were two exceptions to my insecurities. The first was—I was, and knew I was, a good mom. I was/am a good cook, hostess, and housekeeper, too. These things I know as solidly as I know that I breathe. It’s not a wonderment that these were my only confidence categories. I was raised to be a good mom, cook, and housekeeper. That was the expectation placed on me since toddlerhood. It was what I was taught at home. I make meals and desserts from scratch. I can sew draperies and clothing. I was taught to embroider, knit, and crochet. I read Emily Post and other columns about etiquette and hostessing hints, ever determined to excel at those things.
 
One of the jokes that, as I look back was typical of the time, now makes me cringe. As I stood listening to it, I remember clearly laughing along—far too insecure to challenge the basic notion or how I did or did not fit into that description.
 
So, here’s the scenario. And, remember, this is but one small, isolated incident out of a lifetime of programming and denigration. Not a purposely-done-by-my-parents programming, though. They were products of their upbringing and the societal norms of the time. They were (Mom still is) good people. Amazing people, actually, considering where they came from. They did the best they knew how.
 
My father and my high school boyfriend—who would become my first husband—were standing in the kitchen with me, just the three of us. I don’t recall what else was discussed, but somehow this joke happened.
 
Dad said to the boyfriend, “Do you know why educating a beautiful woman is like pouring molasses into a fine Swiss watch? Because everything stops.”
 
Boyfriend laughed uproariously with my dad. I laughed along, and I remember the glum feeling that went along. It wasn’t outrage or upset on my part. No, I believed the joke was correct. The glum feeling was a tired acceptance—I realize now—that the joke truly did describe my life and all I couldn’t hope for.
 
It takes a lot of hard work and diligence to dredge up old memories, counter them, and finally understand why and how the deep, deep insecurities were imbedded. Thank God, I did.

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