Gioia De Cari, writer, performer, reformed mathematician

I started thinking about this last week, when I attended Gioia De Cari’s wonderful one-woman show, Truth Values: One Girl’s Romp Through M.I.T.’s Male Math Maze.  Her autobiographical show follows her experience as a female PhD candidate in the elite boys club of the M.I.T. math department and explores what it takes to be a professional woman in a male-dominated area. The sexism she experienced — albeit several years ago — was extreme. The show was funny, caustic, poignant, and like all good theater, it got me thinking.

Bad Boundaries

It got me thinking about my own study and work experiences. I dealt with sexual harassment, which started with the married university professor who asked me to spend the weekend with him when all I wanted was advice on a term paper. He continued to pursue me, biting my shoulder in the middle of class when no one was looking, among other numerous, inappropriate actions.

It got me thinking about my married boss at my first job who asked me to sleep with him — suggested in a much more crass way — and who took every opportunity to touch or fondle female employees. (Fortunately, a complaint was finally lodged, an investigation ensued and he was fired from his position, but the reason he was terminated was never publicly stated to protect his reputation; there’s a good chance his behavior continued.) It got me thinking about another boss, also married, at a prestigious NYC public relations firm, who spent an alleged business dinner trying to convince me to have an affair with him (the fact I was then happily married did not seem to make a difference). And it got me thinking about how many other times boundaries were crossed by men who were “above me,” their sense of entitlement made evident, their disrespect barely concealed.

Anger and Inspiration

Don’t misunderstand me — this isn’t a rant against men. Most of this happened 25 to 30 years ago and the situations in universities and the workplace are improving, although there’s still a ways to go. It’s more a rant against silence. Through it all, I never said a word. I just accepted their behavior (but, for the record, not their “invitations”) and tried to avoid their advances. I didn’t want to question authority, cause trouble, or God forbid, draw attention to myself.

But these days, it’s harder for me to stay quiet, particularly as I watch my niece and all my friends’ daughters prepare to join the workforce; as I read about gender inequalities in our country, in economic and political power; and, further from home, as I read about the Afghan woman who was killed by her husband – and, incredulously, by her mother-in-law — because she bore only daughters. An anger I didn’t know before is rising. I’m glad.

Shout Out Loud

Footsteps to follow in

In my 20s, I didn’t think I had a voice. Now in my 50s, I have a stage.  Other women playwrights provide inspiration, like Gioia De Cari, above, whose work prompts meaningful conversations, and Eve Ensler, whose work The Vagina Monologues started an international grassroots movement — V-Day –  to stop violence against women. She describes herself as a playwright, performer, and an activist.

Some folks bristle at the word activist, which can conjure up images of outbursts, disruption, people making us feel uncomfortable by forcing us to confront issues we would rather dismiss. But activists can help bring about important changes. As a dear friend of mine who’s confined to a wheelchair once said, “The last thing I want to be is in a room full of handicapped activists — but they do get the sidewalks fixed.” I don’t qualify as an activist yet, and I’m not sure I ever will, although my show, I Will Be Good, does speak to some women’s issues. In my next production, however, I plan to speak louder, maybe even shout. I encourage you to do the same.

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Dog Escapades

Andy, in a more restful pose

We shouldn’t be surprised. Over the years, Andy has eaten two feet of sheet rock (he’d sniffed out a baby squirrel that had fallen behind our bedroom wall and then presented it to us in our living room); more than 1/2 pound of gourmet salami, which he consumed in the three minutes it took me to greet our dinner guests at the door (I kept looking under the couch thinking the salami had somehow rolled off the coffee table); and in one legendary episode — please stop reading if you are easily offended — numerous feminine hygiene products, which miraculously did not need to be surgically removed (according to our wonderful vet, June Sailor O’Day, dogs ingest these products with great regularity, but instances are not openly discussed for obvious reasons; this blog dares to break the silence). This brief list just scratches the surface. At one point, I think we were running a tab at the emergency vet clinic.

These escapades are what we’ve come to expect owning Andy and my husband and I don’t care. We don’t care because when we come home, he greets us like we are Lazarus rising from the dead. We don’t care because when we argue, Andy sits between us and waits patiently for us to return to our senses, sometimes nuzzling us to get on with the forgiveness. We don’t care because when we watch Andy run — filled with absolute, pure joy — his pleasure reminds us of the happiness small things bring, no matter what large drama, real or imagined, we might be tackling.

Dogs Deliver

My husband and I have been married for 13 years and Andy’s been here for 11 1/2 of them (we adopted him when he was just 2 1/2). There have been days when given the choice between my husband or the dog, I would have chosen the dog. I can say this because given the same choice, there have been days when my husband would have chosen the dog, too. Andy, and most every other dog on the planet, gives us what we all crave — unconditional love, attention, and loyalty. Plus, he is a very good listener. Andy joins me in the studio every day and he’s heard me rehearse my one-woman show I Will Be Good at least 100 times. He seems to enjoy it.

I think dogs really do feel joy as well as other emotions and writer Larry Brown agrees with me. He’s quoted in a wonderful little book called Southern Dogs and Their People, which I found in our fabulous independent bookstore, The Toadstool Bookshop. The book is a collection of quotes from Southern writers about dogs, and in it Brown writes about his dog, Sam:

He’s an excellent mole dog…We have a lot of fun with him and one of the  things we do to him is pick up Pooch, our other dog, a white beagle, and hug him and push Sam back, and before long he’ll perform these incredible leaps four feet off the ground…It’s really enlightening to watch it and wonder about the emotions of dogs. It’s pure jealousy, and you wouldn’t think a dog would know jealousy. It opens up other ramifications, like, do they know heartbreak? And loneliness? And angst? I think they do. I think they know fear and greed and love, impatience and uncertainty.

The Best Kind of Company

My husband and I are keenly aware our days with Andy are growing shorter. He’s 14, for goodness sakes, and while we know Jack Russells who’ve lived to a ripe old age — Josephine, who lived to be 20, and Ruby, who is still with us at 16 — each day with Andy is a gift. Our neighbor, who recently had to put down his beloved 12-year-old lab, Harry, knows the gift well. He and Harry had a ritual, where our neighbor would give Harry part of his toast each morning. Recalling their time together, our neighbor simply said, “I’ve had a dozen dogs over the years, but none was quite like Harry. I don’t think I’ve had a whole piece of toast in 12 years.”

Fortunately, Andy seems to have escaped the dangers that eating an entire chicken carcass can bring and hopefully he can stay out of trouble for a while longer. As I write, however, he sits next to me, stomach still gurgling, gazing out the window at the squirrels, and quivering as he anticipates his next chase.

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For me, a kind of retail hell

I went to T.J. Maxx the other day, the store that offers designer clothing for substantial savings. I’m not wild about T.J. Maxx, because it’s big and chaotic, filled with abandoned carts and endless racks of clothing sliding halfway off their hangers. Plus, there’s no one to help me decide what I should buy. I’m forced to trust my instincts. But I had a gift card and was feeling sturdy, so off I went.

The Challenge

I need some clothes for a meeting in NYC with The Moth, where I’ll be one of three performers training corporate executives how to tell stories. I’ll just be observing, but it’s my first meeting and I want to make a good impression — to look creative and confident, a perfect blend of business and the arts. I’ve spent the last 20 years trying to blend my business self and my artist self into one authentic, integrated self and there’s no place where that battle rages more openly than in my wardrobe. Finding my authentic self is hard; dressing it is exhausting.

Lately, though, shopping’s been easier. As I get older I know more about who I am and what I want. I’m actually starting to trust my instincts, both in fashion and in life. But I still need the occasional push out of my comfort zone, some reassurance around more adventurous choices. Plus, I live in New Hampshire — described by a close friend as a “fashion-free state” — so I’m often clueless about the latest trends (although I hear L.L. Bean flannel does have a timeless quality).

The Doubt Begins

I’m standing in the T.J. Maxx dressing room, looking at myself in the mirror, thinking the well-priced dress I’ve chosen is the perfect blend of artsy and corporate. At last! My integrated self made manifest. I can really trust my instincts. Then, I start to second-guess myself; the doubts creep in. Is this dress too young looking for me?

a definite Glamour don't

I need someone to validate my choice, so I ask the T.J. Maxx girl in charge of the dressing room for her opinion. She’s about 18 years old and I think, she’s perfect. A young woman who knows what’s in and what’s out. She’ll help me make an appropriate but bold fashion choice for my meeting. I ask her, “Do you think this dress looks too young for me?”

“Not at all,” she says.  “I think it looks great on you.”

Score one for my instincts! Then I think, wait, she doesn’t know how old I am. She needs to know how old I am to really know whether this dress is too young for me. At a Christmas party this past December I was told I look 35 (which had me riding high for days, I’ll admit). If the T.J. Maxx girl thinks I’m 35, her whole point of reference is wrong. She needs to know I’m 51.

The Moment of Truth

So I ask the aforementioned 18-year-old T.J. Maxx girl, “How old do you think I am?” She says, “I dunno, 60?”

She actually said the number 60.

skin after long-term exposure to a wood stove

Now, there’s nothing wrong with being 60, of course, unless you’re 51, and your ego is expecting an answer of around 35 or 40. I’m thrown way off balance. Then I think about it. I know I look like a lot of things — for instance, a lot closer to 51 then 35 — but I’m pretty sure that age 60 is not one of them, even if it is winter in New Hampshire and the wood stove can make my skin look like those old women carved out of apples.

I self-correct and right myself. The issue here is one of perspective. It reminds me of when my husband — who has no sense of time or weight — was buying me a pair of snowshoes. When the sales person asked him how much I weighed, he said, “I don’t know, about 150 pounds?” Now, there’s nothing wrong with weighing 150 pounds, of course,  unless you weigh 125, and you know that soon enough you’ll be overweight, and you’d like to get some credit for being in good shape while you can.

It’s Not Over Til It’s Over

To this young woman, and many others of her generation, the concept of age is baffling. Life after 30 is a wasteland, so you might as well be 60, and leading a middle-aged life of limited expectations. A dear friend who’s in her mid-50s and boasts the body of a very fit 30-year-old was recently buying a pair of fashionable skinny jeans. The 20-something sales girl said, “Wow! I didn’t think you would look so great in those!” Several years ago, as a mature art school student, I had an 18-year-old classmate respond to my paintings by saying, “Don’t you think those images are just a little too phallic for you?” as if now, in mid-life, sex was a thing of my past.

I thank the T.J. Maxx girl for her help, trust my instincts, and buy the dress. By all accounts, I look creative and confident, and make a good first impression. Hey, I may be 51, but I am just getting started.

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