THE NARRATIVE ARC
Misogyny Is Woven into My Memories of Childhood and Motherhood
When ‘protection’ is really control
My mother is six months pregnant and blooming with her fifth child. Despite a day of calming crying kids or stopping others from swinging from the rafters, she is resolute and sedate.
Unlike the ruffly, almost childlike, maternity clothes of the 1950s, she wore a stylish sleeveless khaki jumper and sandals. I counted as she slid her signature gold bracelets past her wrists, and I surprised myself with a quick intake of a breath of pride that caught in my throat.
She pulled her long blonde hair back in a casual chignon. Application of her signature red lipstick satisfied a quick look in the mirror. She picked up her bag and called, “I’m off.”
Her destination
She was on her way to church to do her duty, teaching a Catholic religion class to ninth graders. I knew this role wasn’t a thrill for her, but I loved it. At the end of every class, students took short multiple-choice tests and handed them over to my mother, who handed them over to me.
I was her assistant teacher, in charge of correcting and recording the tests. Having lived so long on the wrong side of a red pencil, I got a charge out…
