Ms. Stephens Goes to Washington

On a lazy Sunday morning in late January, I was wrapped in a Betty Boop blanket in my favorite chair when I saw an online announcement for the Suffrage Centennial Celebration to be held in honor of the 1913 Suffrage Parade. My thoughts turned to the movie Iron Jawed Angels and I could see the characters planning and participating in that first parade. I could feel the excitement I experience every time I see the movie. I thought of Alice Paul, Lucy Burns, and Carrie Chapman Catt. I thought of all of the suffragists who came before them--Lucretia Mott, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony and countless others. I knew I had to make a way to get to Washington, DC for the weekend of March 1st-3rd. And with the help of birthday gifts and remnants of a tax refund, I did it. 

My boyfriend and I arrived in DC on Friday, March 1^st just in time to attend the UniteWomen.org Open House. We grabbed a taxi and headed to the party to introduce ourselves to an unknown number of strangers. Due to the hospitality of those in attendance and my interest in meeting new people, the evening was a success.  Of course, several glasses of red wine made it more enjoyable for all. How fun to gather with a group of intelligent and socially-conscious women for a photo and instead of saying, “Cheese,” someone yells, “Everyone say vagina!” And we did.

It was inspiring to meet the women in real life who had had only been pictures and words on a screen to me the day before. Unitewomen.org is an organization that started in 2012 to promote women's equality. I took part in one of the 55 rallies held last spring to discuss and defend women's rights. With determination, hard work, and social media, this group is making a difference and I am glad to be a small part of it. 

The next day, I attended an ERA meeting held at the offices of the American Association of University Women . Let me set the scene: a conference room filled wall-to-wall with women and a few men passionate about getting the Equal Rights Amendment passed and openly discussing the speculations as to why the amendment has yet to pass.

For anyone who does not know, this is the language of the ERA, “Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex.” I cannot believe we are still fighting for these 24 words.

I hurriedly took notes and made a to-do list for when I returned home. The main speaker was a young and passionate woman who provided us specific steps to take and messages to use for working toward ERA passage.  It was somewhat sobering to also hear women speak who have worked for ERA passage since the ‘70s.  I got the sense that they wanted to be recognized for their past efforts and refused to be excluded from the work to be done. 

Lori Stephens, 3-3-13

On Sunday, March 3rd, my 49th birthday, I marched with thousands of women in honor of the 100th anniversary of the Women's Suffrage Parade.


The original parade was held the day before President Woodrow Wilson's inauguration in 1913. Inez Millholland led the way riding a white horse. Crowds of onlookers (mostly men) eventually began verbally and physically attacking the women in the parade and more than 200 attendees were taken to the hospital. African American women had been required to march at the back of the parade in order to appease the wishes of southern attendees. 

Twenty-two of those African American women were the founders of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority whose first public action was participation in the 1913 Suffrage Parade. 

Delta Sigma Theta Sorority members honored their founders by coordinating and leading the way in the centennial march. I cheered on the Tennessee attendees as they moved through the crowd.

Every person there no doubt had their reasons for marching in the Women's Suffrage Centennial Parade. Some out of respect for the past and others out of recognition of the future. Knowing I "just had to be there" is the surface reason for going to DC that weekend to march. Each step of my old Nikes traced a step walked by a woman in a button-up boot. I walked for myself and for others. 

I walked in memory of every woman and man who fought for the right to vote in a war that should never have existed. I walked for Tennesseans Febb Burn and her son, Harry. She encouraged him to support women's suffrage in the Tennessee legislature and his vote was the deciding factor of the passage of the 19th Amendment.

I walked for my nieces, Shannon, Jenae, Olivia, and Emma. May they be aware and appreciative of the difficulties women before them endured for their benefit without having to endure those same difficulties. May they also make efforts to keep women from losing what was gained. 

I walked for my paternal grandmother who was a “Roxie” the Riveter during World War II. I walked for my maternal grandmother, Fran, who never fit in a traditional woman mold. I walked for my mother, Connie, who is always liberal in love.  I walked for my sisters, Sandra and Anna, with hopes for their dreams and potential to be fully realized. I walked for my sons with the hope that they understand the value of women and women’s history so that they can teach their sons. 

I walked in honor of my many friends in appreciation of the role each has played in my life--for every laugh and tear shared over the years. 

I walked because women have a history and a future. I am fully aware that there is still much work to do, but on March 3, 2013, I celebrated who had been and what was done. I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. And perhaps 100 years from now women will walk in honor of those who preceded them. Those who labored for equal pay. Those who worked to pass the ERA. Those who fought to keep others safe from violence. Those who bore the shame and blame of sexual assault yet put their all into the end of victim blaming.  Those who kept reminding everyone that women’s rights are human rights.  Women are not a special interest group. 

As I relish the memories from the Suffrage Centennial Celebration and contemplate my birthday and the future, two questions come to mind. How will my generation be remembered a century from now? How do I want to be remembered at the end of my life? 

The Making of a Feminist

I was sitting in the back seat of a white, 1974 Gran Torino station wagon, the model with the stylish wooden panels on each side. It was a sticky, southern summer day. The windows were rolled down and my long hair was blowing wildly. I wore my favorite outfit of cut-off blue jean shorts, a Welcome Back, Kotter t-shirt, tube socks with stripes at the top, and tennis shoes. Mom pulled the car in front of The Nashville Boys Club in Nashville, TN. She asked me to go inside to find my cousin so that he could come home with us. I obeyed, right after peeling my legs off the olive-ish green, faux leather upholstery.  I spoke to an attendant at the front desk and was allowed to go through a door where the boys were. Once inside the inner sanctum, I cased the joint, coveting what was not mine.  There were many activities to choose from, and most included balls of various varieties—basket, ping-pong, foot, soccer, and fooze. I stood at the edge of the basketball court with my arms folded, wondering, “Why is there no Girls Club?”

This question was the spark that lit a curiosity that ignited a passion that still burns in me today.

Back then, I was still learning what it meant to be a girl—the expectations and the limitations. I did not realize I was learning my gender role. I did realize early that acting like a lady was zero fun and highly uncomfortable. I usually chose to play kickball outside instead of dolls inside. Dresses, those God-awful Mary Jane shoes and hosiery were blessedly only Sunday attire and were strewn on the bedroom floor within minutes of getting home from church. I had a Barbie that I renamed Pat, which I thought sounded strong and independent. Pat worked in an office and lived in the dream house alone while Ken lived in the toy box. (Pat? Really?)

Based on what I was taught in school, the only history that mattered had to do with wars and white men.  A handful of women and “minorities” ever did a damned thing but start an underground railroad, sew a flag, and make all kinds of cool stuff out of peanuts. Male generic language was still the norm, so I was to accept that “he” or “his” could also mean “she” or “hers.”

I remember watching the TV shows The Bionic Woman, Charlie’s Angels, and Policewoman. The female characters were different from Carol Brady and I liked it. (Looking back, I see that those women were all hot and white and little diversity existed in the media.)

At home, my mom was not bionic, but she was not lacking in amazing feats of resourcefulness and creativity. She could (still can) take a few groceries and whip the ingredients into a tasty and aesthetically pleasing dish. She could (still can) take old draperies purchased at a yard sale and turn the material into Halloween costumes and decorative pillows. She was not an angel; she was not a strict law enforcer. Mom had dinner on the table every night and the scent of warm cinnamon rolls always hung in the holiday air. She earned her own money from various business ventures and submissive is not an adjective I would ever use for my Mom...ever. Yet, she always pushed herself (still does) to the point of exhaustion to show her love by being what our culture and Proverbs 31:10-31 would require of her sex.

My Dad was a singer and musician and “gigs” were often out of town. When he was home, he took time to play with me and my brother and sister—really play, using our imaginations, laughter, and affection. And there was always music. He did not build stuff, unless you count a tricycle he assembled at Christmas when I was a toddler. The front wheel fell off before our breakfast of warm cinnamon rolls.  He did not ride a motorcycle; he chose a Motobecane bicycle instead. He was not super macho or aggressive, but he pushed himself to the point of homesickness to show his love by being what our culture and I Timothy 5:8 would require of his sex.

Although I had a fondness for Helen Reddy’s I am Woman, I do not remember hearing much about the second wave of feminism roaring through our country. I do remember continuing to have feelings and beliefs and questions about the way things were. “Why can a boy do _________ and I can’t?” grew into, “Why are there so many double standards for men and women?”

As a young adult, I was told (by a man) it is worse for a woman to lose her virginity than it is for a man. I was told (by a man) that I was “ruined” because I had a baby at a young age. Thanks, is my son’s father also ruined? There were always conflicting messages being hurled at me from every direction. Look sexy! Don’t have sex!  Make him want you! Tell him no! There was some idiom about milk and cows. And as it turns out, I am lactose intolerant. There were rules and regulations for being a woman that seemed to be part of a super secret manual written by the ghost of Southern woman past.  Heaven forbid I wear white shoes before Easter or after Labor Day. And bless my heart for thinking my dreams or my potential deserved as much attention as a man’s.   

I progressed to stating that I had a feminist “streak.” I recognized and criticized double standards. I do not remember if I knew the word sexist at the time, but I knew when something did not feel right. I used such tentative language as “streak” because I did not understand then what the word feminist meant, but I knew it had a negative connotation. Don’t all feminists hate men? I loved men. Several. Many even. And if I professed to be a feminist could I still wear cute sandals and an un-singed bra? 

When I went back to school in my 30s, I learned that women had actually contributed more to society than I ever knew. While I was glad to learn this, it also pissed me off that so much had been left out of my history books as a child.  Women invented, created, developed, and healed.  I learned about the different waves of feminism with different groups and different objectives. There are also male feminists. Who knew, right? Feminists are not all pro-choice and anti-men. Feminists are not all anything, although stereotypes abound. A stigma still desperately clings to the word with a fervor that dismays me. I often hear women say, “I am not a feminist, but _________”, followed by the insertion of a concern or complaint about our culture, a policy, a law, a workplace occurrence, or a horrific local, national, or global news story.

Thankfully, The Nashville Boys Club is now the Boys and Girls Club. I remember seeing for the first time that “and Girls” had been added to the sign on the building. I smiled knowingly. Change does take place. Renaming a building is not much different than renaming oneself. It takes time and most likely takes a fight.

I now not only claim the label of feminist, I have chosen a definition to match; never let it be said I cannot accessorize. There are many positive and negative definitions from which to choose. I borrowed the definition from author and activist bell hooks (lower case on purpose).  “Feminism is a movement to end sexist oppression.” Let that marinate a moment…not just women’s oppression? Men also experience sexism and whether it happens to men or women, let’s call it what it is. Sexist oppression. Sexist messages are tightly woven into our culture and communicated publicly and privately and range from comical to costly, leading to losses of livelihood and lives. I am passionate about studying the causes and effects of these messages.

So here I am with a blog, a label, and remaining questions about sex, gender, communication, and culture.  I learn. I teach. I learn some more. I am a woman. I am a feminist. No streaks. No excuses. No apologies.

This is my wave of feminism and when I drive by The Nashville Boys and Girls Club, I still smile.