Procrastadabbler

It’s the night before Thanksgiving and I’m in a rotten mood. We’re driving to New Jersey tomorrow to spend the day with my husband’s family. That’ll be fine. I like my sister-in-law and her family, as well as my brother-in-law and his son. They’re fun and easy to be with. So it’s none of that family angst thing.

I’m just in a plain rotten mood because I’m tired of always being pleasant. I’m tired of having to listen and be respectful of differing opinions. I’m exhausted and I want to tell people when I think they’re being jerks. I’m tired of being nice. And maybe I’m a little bit angry.

Yes, angry that I expect so much of myself that I can’t relax and when I do I feel as if I’m letting myself down.

Yes, dammit, I’m wallowing here and I’m ok with it. It’s one night. I’ll be better tomorrow. But honestly, I can’t wait until this semester is over. I’m a mess.

So now let me “relocate the personal” as Barbara Kamler puts it. What I describe above is I think endemic to women of my generation. I was raised to be a pleaser. It was how I survived. If I angered someone, it put me at risk of being cast aside. If I acted the way I often feel, and said the things I often think, I’d be considered a bitch. Once, when I stood up for myself in a workplace (because of sexual harassment), I was called a prima donna. All I asked was that the others in the office (all men) take their turns answering the phone. And I had the nerve to ask for an ergonomical desk set up (which I never got. Instead I got the early stages of carpal tunnel.) I never pushed beyond that because I was fearful of losing my job. And I believe that’s how many women of my generation were raised. If we spoke up, we were in danger of losing our jobs, or our friends, or love.

At the same time, feminism and the changing economy raised expectations for us. We were told that it wasn’t enough to stay home and take care of families. We were expected to be in the work force. We were expected to do it all, and keep smiling while we did it.

It appears that some of those expectations are more realistic now for women of the new generation. God I hope so. I’m fifty and I can’t keep this up any more. I can’t keep smiling through the crap that people keep throwing my way. I’m tired of living in fear of bad student evaluations because I have the guts to tell a student that her paper is poorly written and she needs to do a better job. I’m tired of always having to please people.

In my writing, I discuss the ways in which children of the working class and poverty are marginalized. I want to improve the life chances of children of color. I have examined my complicity in white privilege. But what I haven’t considered yet is the oppression I have internalized. It is gendered and classed and needs to be named. I can’t keep living this way. Nor should anyone else.