4 Practical Lessons Learned Without Male Mentors
A girl growing up with no fathers, no brothers
As a youngster, there was a lot I did not know about the male species. It’s not like there was a class I could take or book I could read in the 1950s.
My parents divorced before I was in kindergarten. I grew up with two sisters and my mom until she married a man who had a daughter. We became a household of five females with an occasional male presence.
My mother’s second husband never pretended to be my father. He and my mom constantly split up. Living in separate homes, separate cities. He preferred being on his own.
I didn’t know much about boys, young men, or old coots. A disadvantage which became more pronounced as I entered adolescence. Here’s what I wish my younger self had known:
Lessons in anatomy
I had no idea of the male body. Nor should I have as an elementary school girl. Maybe that was a blessing.
When a pervert flashed me, I did not feel traumatized.
I didn’t recognize what he “pulled out” to show me as he sat in his car in the parking lot of our local shopping center.
It was the 1950s. Parents did not teach kids to fear strangers. Instead, our parents raised us to respect and obey our elders.
So when the man called out, “Hey little girl, can you help me?” I went over to his car window. My two sisters stayed about 10 feet away.
I don’t remember feeling fear or shock, which probably disappointed him.
All I recall is the police coming to our home. They asked me to tell them what I saw. I struggled to describe “it.” Something I’d never seen.
But I clearly remember my comparison. “It looked like a thimble.”
I knew hand-stitching, sewing, embroidery. I picked up a needle, thread, and a thimble before I could read. The shape of a thimble was the best comparison I had at that age. I chuckle now. I suspect my description would have highly disappointed the perv.
Lessons in vocabulary
During one of the many epic rows between my stepfather and mother, I intervened. I was a teenager. I sensed danger. He looked on the verge of hitting her, although he’d never struck her before. But if that was the case, I was determined to be the target, not my mom.
So, I stepped between them and shouted “bastard” as he walked out the door. It was the only curse word I knew.
My stepfather’s response did not phase me. Again, saved by my naivete. He stopped cold, turned around, pointed his finger at me and yelled at my mom,
“You’ve raised the most vicious little c — t I’ve ever met.”
I remembered the word, but I didn’t know its meaning until years later. My stepfather is the only man who has ever called me the “C” word.
Lessons in biology
In college, I had only one boyfriend. It was a brief encounter, only a few months. But he asked me to move in with him. A promise never fulfilled.
We had grown close, quickly. Our relationship was on the edge of intimacy. I distinctly remember one evening exercising together on the living room floor of his apartment.
Our joint stretching session turned into a tickling match, laughter, wrestling. He pinned me. I could not move. A surge of excitement. I expected a kiss.
He abruptly stood up. “I’ve got to take a shower,” he said, and headed directly to the bathroom.
Left dumbfounded, sitting on the floor, I wondered, what did I do wrong?
I waited for him to finish his shower. When he reappeared, I said goodbye and left without receiving an explanation.
Later, I learned men used cold showers to slow or stop their sexual excitement. If I’d known then what I know now, I might have asked to join him in the shower.
Lessons in etiquette
I once worked with a male colleague who always looked at my breasts when we talked. Never my face, only my bosom. It was unmistakable, unprofessional and uncomfortable.
I was married, employed as a researcher and producer at a local television station. I shared an office with this colleague, who was also married and had children.
My office-mate was not my direct boss, yet he held power over me because he was the news director’s favorite. I had no quarrel with the “favoritism scenario,” I couldn’t. It was all too common in newsrooms.
But his “boob talking” was too much. I tried, but failed, to ignore his blatant harassment.
So, I talked with my husband about my predicament. I could always count on his wise counsel.
“Just quit, we don’t need your paycheck,” he reacted.
A surprise response. He then offered to go down to the station and “teach that young man a lesson.”
My husband felt insulted on my behalf and became upset as a spouse when he learned about the harassment. He was powerless to do anything. One of the few times in our 42 years together, he acted emotionally, not logically.
Unfortunately, if a woman went to management with such a complaint (then and now), they risked their job. The bosses would appear to take action—a reprimand or “talking to.” But inevitably, within a few months, the woman would be out of a job.
I never went to management.
Instead, I adopted my harasser’s behavior.
The next time we talked, and he fixed his gaze on my breasts, I looked down and stared at his crotch. My eyes were as steadfast and as penetrating as his.
It only took once. He never stared at my chest again.
Lessons learned
Innocence can protect you. Words can never hurt you, especially when you don’t know their meaning.
Ask to join in a shower if the opportunity presents itself.
And when in doubt, stare at a troublesome man’s crotch. He most likely will back away without a word or at the very least, he’ll think you’re a loon and quit messing with you.
