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What Follows is a true Letter and an Example to Inspire:

{Return to Sender}
An open letter confessional personal Herstory

Dear World,
I thought I was a feminist. I thought I was an activist. By all accounts it certainly seemed there was no other path for me to follow. I mean I came into you screaming and pushing boundaries. I was born into a gambling pool, the whole hospital wagering on my gender. Was that a joke? How did you think an impressionable newborn would respond?

I made my first noise, despite a snow storm (clever obstacle, but not enough to stop me), that Friday evening. Do you remember? I was the only girl born to my parents after four boys. The nurse who carried me to my mother wrapped me in a blue blanket. She thought she was funny- as if I had nothing to do with the color selection!

The year was 1971. You made my existence to be part of the first generation to hear that girls were equal to boys. A fact I didn’t need to hear, I was born with the knowledge. The catch was that only a seed of that thought had been planted. It was far from a nourishing crop that had sprouted and spread throughout your lands. And there I was embodying and therefore demanding equality. My steadfast presence seemed to unnerve, delight and confuse my parents.

I started voicing my inherent rights at a very young age, "Why should I have to wear uncom-fortable shorts under my dress when the matching over panties that it came with cover my hotchie chotchie completely? Shouldn’t the boys be made responsible to not look?!" What kind of a messed up paradigm did you create anyway- boys are allowed to be impervious to their perversions and girls are to be blamed and held responsible for simply having the body they were born into!

My endless questioning and insatiable appetite for the truth propelled me through my young life. You didn’t make it easy. Your hills were rocky and moon boots were not manufactured as sturdy as they ought to have been. My journey was lonely; I only found kindred spirits through research. I discovered the Chicago Eight. Yes, Eight. I keep Bobby Seal in the group. He was the one I could identify with the most as he was also screaming for himself. He was another minority forced further into oppression by not being allowed to speak.

A life as an activist began to take shape. I was hooked on taking down the man. I was determined to make you rotate with freedom. I observed real court cases, studied civil rights and worshipped Susan B. Anthony- clutching her recently minted dollar as a tangible mantra in my hand. During spirit week at my high school, I didn’t have to dress up on ‘hippie day’, that was every day for me. At my first job at a music store I told a fellow employee, "Stop thinking with your penis." I was adamant and militant. I rebelled against apathy and instigated political arguments. I rallied friends to take action- so much so they in turn gave me exhausted expressions of, "OK, Shawn Marie, OK." I was a participant in read-a-thons, walk-a-thons, dance-a-thons and scared my mother by volunteering for causes the world, you, were not ready for. Her fears had a foundation; she lived in you before Women’s Lib and still had not witnessed much progress. My father, who had gone back to college, tried to be supportive- he bought me Naomi Wolfe books.

When I finally got the chance to vote, I helped put a more liberal administration in office. As fate would have it, Tom Hayden was running for office! I was able to vote for a member of my beloved Chicago Eight! I thought you had brought me full circle, that all would align within you for justice and equality. I wore my ‘I Voted’ button respectfully, even in the face of the disdainful society with whom you are populated.

So, what the hell happened? I made it into my twenties and out into you, the great big world. Once I was away from the natural group socialization of school and part time jobs- I stopped. I slowly proceeded to live life in a manner that chipped away the inner connectedness of my inner being. I spent years moving from one place to another. Glorifying myself as a gypsy. Not residing in one place long enough to learn anything from it, to meet the people or embrace community. I didn’t turn entirely away from women; I couldn’t stop reading feminist papers from the seventies. I was astounded at what had transpired while I was alive but too young to fight. Yet, the feeling that these topics and thoughts may just as easily been written in present day, defeated me. All I could do was laugh to relieve the pain and fall back into a shell of avoidance. Sure, I would talk some fancy words, perhaps inspire others to action- but I was gone before I stayed long enough to be a registered voter.

I wasn’t hip enough for the Riot Grrrls. I was landlocked when the Third Wave surfed up. I couldn’t afford to go to Lilith Fair. I had no knowledge of Ladyfest. I was lazy and out of touch. I witnessed events that should have made my fists tighten in protest and my body thrown out upon you to take notice:
A third grader doing a report on adventurers and commenting on how there were no women adventurers because there weren’t any listed in the book the school had assigned. Her teacher was a female.
An eleven year old being convinced by her friends that having a boyfriend, wearing make-up and being popular were all that mattered. Her friend’s parents had told them so.

I wanted to cry, "What, dear world, is still not being taught?" Yet, if these were still prevailing societal thoughts, I felt there was nothing I could do. I resigned myself to blaming you and decided it was your turn to tilt on your axis.

My inaction was internally justified. I convinced myself that I was living my life the way I wanted to live it regardless of what others thought. I was following the examples of the strong women characters in the film Antonia’s Line. (A movie I idolized for portraying a true feminism.) Besides, I wrote plays that had women in them, essays that explored personal growth and a one woman show concerned about sexuality. Heck, I co-founded a website that promised to be a movement!

All the while, behind your back, I was wallowing in a dirge of lethargy. Hiding behind words, smugly settled in a universe of one. Depressed that you hadn’t and were not going to change. I turned to the T.V. I saturated myself with an endless montage of banal images. I was questioning my sanity. I was making you disappear because you hadn’t been there for me, new and improved, when I wanted you.

After a series of commercials that contained ads for Snoop Dog’s Girls Gone Wild, some show called Are you Hot or Not and an invitation to view exclusive footage from the break-up of a couple that had supposedly found love on one of the Bachelor programs- a miracle happened. (You, prankster, you.) I received your wake up call from the last commercial in the break. It was for comic Wanda Sykes’ new show. The ad was a mini skit in which Wanda was a streetwise reporter covering the Joe Millionaire finale. Her last observation, before sending it back to the studio, was a question I wont ever forget,

"Are all the feminists in a coma?"

I blinked and stared blankly at the screen. I rubbed my eyes the way one might after being roused from a long numbing nap. I turned off the T.V. Your practical joke for my humanity shook me up. I was embarrassed by what I had become. I was so busy not caring what others thought that I had started not caring about what I thought.

Well, no more. I am back. You’d better grow a thick protective grass, for I am fueling up my anger for the fight ahead. I am taking the single steps that add up to sisterhood. I am ready to emulate real life, instead of celluloid, role models and possibly set some examples myself.

I went to the library, most definitely one of your finest establishments, to renew my soul. I checked out a stack of books on feminism- some classics to re-read and some just a few years old. There is no time for shame. I’ve got too much catching up to do. Letters of Intent edited by Anna Bondoc & Meg Daly, is my current favorite. It is beautiful. Full of strong united and varying opinions. Brimming with questions I hadn’t dared to ask. With each page I read I am closer to home. I want to stand tall and reach out. Band together your inhabitants. I want to put action behind the words I write. I want to live my Letter of Intent.

There are a lot of issues within and around you for me to face down. I have taken the challenge head on. I know I am getting back in the swing of things when I hear comments like, "How are you? Protesting the war not withstanding." Or, "Who was that woman you just mentioned? I never learned about her?" And my favorite, "Can men be feminists?" That is when I jump upon your soil to scream, "Hell Yes!" Look out, you glorious world you, I am just getting started.

I feel so close to my adolescent ragamuffin self, with her uneven pigtails, scabby knees and chin clucked at society- that part of me that wasn’t allowed on the cheerleading squad because I was too opinionated. I see my mother pointing out a frilly dressed complacent toddler while stating, "You were never a girl like that." I know now that’s a compliment. When I turned thirty my mother said, "I think you are going to like your thirties, Shawn Marie. And just think- you get to be in them for ten whole years." I’m beginning to understand exactly what she meant. When I mentioned to my father that I was thinking of writing a letter to the world- he asked, "Do you have the address?" We both laughed and as I finish this note to you I can hear my father chuckling with pride at his little girl who is whole-heartedly becoming the woman she was born to be.

Thanks for listening. I’m going to dig up that silver charm of you I used to wear around my neck and put it on a new chain. We need each other, you and I. Oh, and if I ever again get lost in the mail- or worse, eaten up and misdirected by the greater postal machine at large, please return this letter to sender.

Yours in Sincerity,
Shawn Marie

            
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