In 1971 I was nineteen years old and had been married for two years already to a man I could best describe as a brute. We lived in a large Craftsman home on Capitol Hill in Seattle. The rent was $145/month. I was the breadwinner. Worked a kind of secretarial job on Mercer Island. “Good morning, Farmer’s New World Life Insurance Company. How may I direct your call?”
Marty, the only man I ever chose to legally marry, spent his days smoking PCP, (“Angel Dust”), which might have explained his cruelty to me. Or maybe he was born to it. He never deigned to find a job, cook a meal or do a lick of housework. Nor did his violence towards me surface until a few weeks after we tied the knot. I waltzed into that marriage without a clue.
I don’t recall there being any kind of support or services at the time for a woman in my situation, save speaking to our Catholic priest, which I did of course, because I was a good wife. I do recall that those conversations left me feeling unheard and totally helpless.
An older woman in my neighborhood, maybe all of 22, took me aside and asked if I wanted to go to a Women’s Liberation meeting with her. Something completely new but being whispered about here and there. I said yes and got permission from Marty to attend. I didn’t know what it was all about but any evening out of the house was a boon and spending time with a woman was unique.
The gathering was lively, in another Craftsman home down the street. Maybe 25 women crowded together in the large living room. They circled up intimately. I was by far the youngest. One by one, each told their story. And every one was completely different and exactly the same. The mood was supportive, attentive and compassionate. This was my wild and abrupt introduction to women’s lib.
When it was my turn, I faced these wonderful women with righteous indignation. So sure of myself and my place, I waxed on about how none of them could possibly understand the joy of marriage, the relationship between a husband and wife, and how wrong they all were wanting something different. I felt sorry for them all.
Not one of them argued my points. No eye rolling, smirks or open disdain. They all sat quietly and listened completely and wished me well. Angels!
It was near two years later when I finally “saw the light.” The light that I needed to get out of this marriage before he killed me. Then when I discovered my invisibility to things like credit after paying years of bills, women’s lib began to make sense to me. I was the poster child for the horse being led to water. I would not drink until I was ready.
Losing Gloria Steinem this week has brought all these memories to the fore. I’ve been able to make choices because of her. I’ve lived a fuller life because of her. I’m a better person because of her.
Thank you Gloria.
Yes, Diana, I was in that room with you, in spirit. My first husband was not a brute, but I never felt like I was what he wanted in a wife. I was working in advertising (I call those my “Mad Men” years) in Minneapolis and was invited to that same room in that same Craftsman house, by an intelligent woman named Ann. Where are you now, Ann? She began making sense to me quickly, though I was to remain under the influence of my charismatic husband — along with alcohol and an occasional experiment with drugs — for several years. What I remember was the blatant sexism in that office and one inexcusable moment in a bar after work that objectified a curvaceous woman on our staff.
The phrase that still rings in my ears from Ann was “We’ve been sold a bill of goods.” Thank you Gloria and thank you Ann.