Vanquishing Churlishness
On International Women’s Day, I felt churlish and did not post anything celebratory on social media. I forgot, still partially existing in the pandemic world, to gather our students together in the gym to talk about the day. It was opportunity missed. Women—internationally and domestically--deserve more than one day. Equity for women cannot be achieved until equity for all has been achieved. None of us are free until all of us are free. Years ago, I heard Gloria Steinem speak about the way indigenous peoples used circles to promote equity. Men and women were considered equals. At Severance Hall, Steinem explained that idea that we cannot achieve real equity in bits and pieces; inequities for one group are inextricably linked to inequities for another group. There is much work to do to level the proverbial playing field.
Even in the terrific school I lead, I worry that we occasionally prioritize compliance over empowerment. We want our students to claim their voices but can be discomfited when those voices are too strident, too critical. Systemic change and resistance, throughout history, have often been spurred by young people The energy younger people have to fight for change is a source of inspiration, a reminder of why doing the work for change matters. We build on the efforts of those who have come before us.
The day after International Women’s Day, I visit the Kindergarten. The girls are eager to show me the rain forest they have created in their classrooms. They’ve made an enormous paper tree, cut out leaves, hung emerald tulle, created blue construction paper rivers. Olive shows me a jaguar resting on a tree branch and a pink river dolphin. Another little girl shows me a sloth. Leah explains she has asked the anaconda (made from many green loops) not to bite me because I am the Head of School. I thank her. While some are excited to show off their animals, others are coloring leprechauns, and Sascha invites me to join her in looking for one. How delicious to be young enough to believe a leprechaun might be hiding in the reading nook. Then, Olive takes me by the hand and pulls me into the hall.
“I wrote that by myself,” she declares, pointing, “in my own handwriting. On a pink banner, beneath a bulletin board full of portraits of women who inspire the girls, she has written: We honor EvrY Stroing Women in the Wrld Hray! She is so proud. I am proud, too.
The mission of our school is “To inspire each girl to fulfill her promise and to better the world.” Olive reminds me that it has always been the young who help society move forward. She is a little girl whose belief in a world where women inspire women is firmly in tact. I squeeze her hand.
“That’s amazing,” I tell her, smiling,
“My mom’s amazing,” she smiles, “She’s a doctor. She makes people feel better.”
Sitting at my desk later that day, it occurs to me that, Olive, too, is a healer. She has cured me, shaken me loose from my ennui.
My churlishness, I realize, is a form of privilege. That I can indulge in feeling dispirited is because other women have fought so hard for girls to be educated, for women to vote, to be elected to office, to be equal. There is no shame in needing a rest, but Olive’s belief in her mom acts like a tonic. I shake off my weariness and to keep moving forward--for Olive, for all the little girls yet to come. We stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before us; we have an obligation to carry as we climb. I have work to do—every day—in leading my own small school, in working to better the world.
