My sons (and everyone else’s, too) were born with a brain and a heart, the ability to make choices, and the power to treat fellow human beings, male or female, appropriately and respectfully. Even in private. Even when no one is watching or listening. Even when there’s no chance of getting caught. To expect or accept anything less from my boys would be disrespectful and degrading to their characters, their potential.
Instead of simply teaching our sons that girls are meant to be protected, we need to get them excited about helping to create a world where girls don’t have to be afraid anymore. We need to make it very clear to our sons that they are not just doing women a favor by standing up against sexism. They are actually fighting for a stronger, smarter, kinder world, one that is possible only if women are treated equally. Let’s raise incredible guys who will know their worth as decent, responsible men and capable, involved, loving dads. Raising real men starts in our homes. It starts with us.
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YEARS AGO, I watched my four-year-old daughter playing in the living room. She was sassy and bold, yet kind and sensitive; she was opinionated yet open-minded. And so brave. So very brave. And I thought: I want to be like her when I grow up.
Since then, whenever I find myself in a dilemma, I ask myself this question: If my daughter faces this situation someday, how would I want her to handle it? Somehow the answer is always clearer when I try to channel my daughter. Because I want better for her than I’ve ever wanted for myself.
If I could go back and ask that question at all the moments in my life when I found myself stuck in scary situations, I would have handled them better. And though the pain might still be there, the healing would have come easier and more quickly, because at least I would have been confident in my own response, clear about what was within my power and what was out of my control.
As parents, it comes so naturally for us to love our children and want the absolute best for them, but it’s not as natural to want that same extraordinary goodness for ourselves. It’s easier for me to speak up for myself now that I’m a parent, because every time I shine a light on evil and injustice, I’m not just doing it for myself; I’m doing it for my kids. It’s easier for me to let go of shame and guilt and stop beating myself up over the couldas and shouldas, because I don’t want my children to carry those burdens, and I know they are watching and listening closely.
We need to teach our children that when another human being is treated as less than, standing by silently isn’t neutral; it’s destructive. Instilling those values requires honest communication from a young age, and we shouldn’t wait until our children are grown to teach them about equality and respect. Sitting them down for a serious talk every once in a while is useless. The serious talk needs to be an ongoing two-way conversation in which we help them find their own words, so that when the time comes to speak up, they aren’t silent.
Whether we’re prepared for the responsibility or not, we are the most powerful influence on what the future of this world holds. We are not just raising our kids. We are raising someone’s future spouse, possibly someone’s parent, someone’s employee, someone’s boss, someone’s neighbor, someone’s closest, most trustworthy friend.
It starts with us. And I, for one, am done being silent.
Seven
Cynicism Interrupted
When I was single again, it seemed like everyone in my life was trying to set me up with their friend or doctor or old college roommate. One birthday, I got a gift card from a friend for a beauty salon, and while I was lying on a bed, legs spread-eagle, getting a bikini wax, the nice woman ripping hair from my lady parts started telling me about her single brother who was really good with kids. (Some unsolicited advice for anyone whose job requires them to work near a vagina: work might not be the best place to talk to your clients about how romantic and sweet your brother is.)
It was as if the entire world were determined to find me a man. I guess that’s the cool, movielike thing to do: set the single mom up with her Prince Charming. Or maybe people just saw me as their charity case, and getting me a date was the one good deed they felt sure they could reasonably accomplish.
But I wasn’t looking for Prince Charming. I wasn’t even looking for his valet. Having a relationship seemed like more work than I wanted to heap onto my already overflowing plate. No man was going to be able to handle my chaotic life.
I was so cynical after my divorce that I didn’t believe any married people were genuinely happy together. Couples would come into the restaurant where I worked to celebrate their anniversaries and I’d congratulate them with the required-to-ensure-a-good-tip “Wow, twenty years! That’s amazing! So happy for you!” But when I finished pouring their champagne, I’d head back to the kitchen thinking, Twenty years?! Those two must be SO miserable. I just assumed all long-term relationships sucked and that any duos who appeared joyful were faking it.
Nevertheless, out on some dates I went. Occasionally. But most of the time, within the first fifteen minutes, I regretted agreeing to go out. I regretted showering for the date. (Showering is a luxury when you’re a single mom to two very young kids. You can’t waste that kind of time, or water, for just a mediocre date.) I regretted asking a friend to watch my kids so I could waste some poor guy’s time. Or if it was the weekend, I regretted not using the hour lunch break between my two jobs to take a nap or do something for myself—something, anything, that didn’t include a pointless date.
It’s not that there was anything wrong with these guys. I met an ER doctor who humored my requests for stories about the strangest things he’d pulled out of people. He was handsome and kind and what many women would have described as “a great catch.” Another guy seemed perfectly lovely until I learned about his infatuation with and complete commitment to the raw food diet, which was a problem because carbs are one of my love languages. And with yet another guy, I’m convinced we could have been lifelong best friends if we had just avoided complicating that by trying to date.
I just wasn’t in a place where I could see myself fully committing to anyone. I wasn’t into the idea of a boyfriend. I wasn’t into the idea of love. I was perfectly content for the only romance in my life to be my committed relationship with cynicism, and I didn’t want to allow anyone to get in the way of that.
One day at the restaurant, my coworker Daniela and I were planning an evening out at a karaoke bar. We were ironing out the details when Philip, an interim manager, passed by, so we invited him to come along.
Everyone liked Philip. He’d been with us for only about six months, taking over while the owners worked on a new restaurant, which was under construction. But he’d quickly won over all the staff. He was smart and kind and positive, but not in the nausea-inducing, fake way I was used to seeing “positive” people behave. He was also dependable and reasonable and rational—characteristics most people appreciate, especially in a boss. And he was the best at handling the most annoying customers.