Growing Up Female and Independent: From the Eisenhower Years Until Now

I had a unique situation as a child-I was a daughter in a prevalently feminine household. My grandmother ran a 120 acre farm and kept the house; my mother was a bookkeeper, the money provider, financier, and shopper; my uncle was grunt labor, mechanic and aggravation. My aunt, who left home as quickly as possible, was a career WAC. My grandmother got an allotment from the army, courtesy of my aunt.

Poverty was something I learned about pretty much close-up and personal-or so I thought. My wardrobe was limited. Neither my mother nor my grandmother believed in dressing a busy little girl in trendy clothing. I had lined jeans, sweaters, warm under-garments for most of the school year; for summer I had home-made shorts and tops constructed from pretty print cotton that came to our farm as sacks for chicken feed. I had one or two dresses a year for special occasions-such as school programs or attending Sunday school. Since I was an only child, my mother, aunt and grandmother were inclined to indulge me somewhat. I had plenty of books, toys and supplies for writing and doing basic artwork. There was plenty of food-maybe a little long on the side of home-grown potatoes, beans and apples-but it grew on the farm, and grandmother was very, very good at planning supplies. We got electricity and a new roof when I was six years old. Before that, we used kerosene lamps and put rain coats over the beds when it stormed. We got a telephone when I was ten. In order to watch television, we visited my great-aunt (one of Grandma’s sisters) when there was something special on-like a movie, holiday parade or Gunsmoke.

Home computers weren’t even dreamed of in those days; but I did wish we had television; I wished we could go to the movies more often; I wished we could have potato chips all the time and I could eat as many as I wanted; I wished that there was something in the house to drink besides water, milk and kool-aid. I hated hoeing the garden, and I got in trouble more than once for not keeping a good eye on the old red cow who was my special charge, and letting her get into the corn. For entertainment, I had books. Occasionally, I was allowed to walk a half mile to a friend’s house and spend a limited amount of time playing there.

In short, I was isolated, a little bit spoiled but expected to take responsibility for chores and for my own actions. I saw very good examples of responsible behavior by the females in my household; but had extremely limited contact with males. The men in my family didn’t seem to be very responsible; the women took care of things.

I started college in 1970-just at the tag end of the Vietnam War. College students were riding on the coat-tails of serious protests of serious issues. I attended one sit-in for the right of the boys enrolled in my college to have long-hair. We were assembled, lectured, and given to understand that since the college was a private one, they could set any rules they pleased-and those of us who didn’t like it could go away. Most of the students there were like myself-economically challenged young people who were working their way through college, so our protests died on the horns of economic necessity.

I changed colleges-I had been listening, you see. And there were other issues at that school that set my teeth on edge. I dated, I got pregnant. This being the age of liberation, etc. etc., I moved in with my boyfriend and we lived together for two years while my baby was an infant. That might have lasted longer, but my son’s father started using drugs, and that is something I would not tolerate.

I packed up my baby and my cats, and moved out. I learned very quickly about the seamy under-belly of poverty. I learned about being a welfare mom, about food-stamps, trying to hold down a job that didn’t much more than pay a sitter, about the hazards of baby-sitting other people’s kids. I learned what it was like to eat unsatisfying meals and to do without to feed my child.

I went back to college. I met a guy I liked, and married him. I learned very, very quickly that marriage doesn’t make a positive difference in your world if your partner has a hard time getting up to go to school, doesn’t hold a job and has a hard time confining his attentions to one woman. I dropped out of college, and we struggled to live. Never-the-less, I was with him for seven years and we had two children before he left with another woman. In that marriage, I learned that if I depended on my husband for support, I would be hungry. If I worked and had my own income, we would eat and pay bills.

I went back to college, and this time I graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in communication with an emphasis in education. By this time, it was 1984. Budgetary woes and “accountability” were hitting schools very, very hard; no one wanted a speech teacher with three kids and no experience. I remarried. It was a mistake. We were together seven years-and I thought it was good, till I learned that he was doing something completely illegal and unspeakable. I packed him up, moved him out. Fortunately, I had been working part-time; my children were all in school. I got a job, we struggled, but we survived and each year got better. I learned that it is hard, hard, hard to raise teen-agers, know where they are and feed them, clothe them, provide for their educational needs and keep them safe when you are alone.

So I re-married. He seemed like a decent guy. He talked the talk of being Christian really, really well. Well, some things aren’t really the doers fault exactly; I learned that his mood swings were clinical in nature. I learned that apparently he was neglected, abused and generally ill-treated by his parents. Maybe. Or maybe that was part of his illness. Instead of making rearing my teen-agers easier, his presence made it harder. We survived. The kids grew up, moved out, and I thought it would get better. But one day while I was at work, he packed his things and left.

It was a long, long while before it stopped hurting. Some things that happened during that time are beyond retrieval. Fortunately, my children still speak to me.

So…here I am: independent. I earn my own living, I visit with my children, I help them when I can and they help me with things that need lifted, moved or done that are beyond my strength. My time is my own, other than the hours I spend working. As a single person, that means a lot of hours-because our society is currently geared to a two-paycheck household. I’ve boot-strapped my way out of poverty into a lower middle-class income. I’ll probably never marry again. I cannot afford to risk income and possessions to another significant relationship. Do I regret this? Sometimes I envy those people who have made a successful choice and can boast of Silver and Golden Anniversaries; but for the most part, I am content with the decisions I have made. The marriages were made in good faith; I have my children and grandchildren about me. I have an income, I will have retirement. It is lonely now and then, but I have friends. It is enough.