That month alone saw some news, front-page and not society-section,
that should have alerted the most ardent misogynists to this new tectonic shift
in our societal substructure. Signs were that, in the future, the feminine half
of our species would lay increasing claim to a place at the table so to speak.
Had men been paying attention, they might have noticed.
On the first day of the month, for example Gloria Steinem
published the first edition of a feminist magazine, "Ms." It featured Wonder Woman on the cover. Message delivered.
Less than a week later, the FBI swore in Susan Lynn Roley
& Joanne E Pierce as its first two female members. What would “Jedger” have
thought about that? One can only wonder.
The sports world began to take notice. Tennis star Billy
Jean King was drawing attention to women’s tennis, making a bunch of male chauvinists
nervous. Women golfers such as American Susie Maxwell Berning drew their own
share of attention.
In politics, Jean Westwood became the first woman chosen to
head the Democratic National Committee. A wag at the downtown men’s health club
wondered, “What next, some babe wanting to run for president?”
“Nah,” another said, “We’ll have a [adjective deleted]
president before we have a woman one.”
I paid little attention at the time, I was still fixated on “manly-man”
things. Yoko Ono broke up the Beatles with her quiet roar. Paul McCartney responded
by forming his own band, something called “Wings.” I gave it little chance of
success. In Northern Ireland and England, they were murdering the hell out of one
another. Sometimes I wondered if Matthew Arnold hadn’t nailed it when he wrote
that, “ … peace has left the upper world. And now keeps only in the grave.”
After all, we were still shipping full caskets home from South Vietnam.
All this time, I was an American male, and I had “laid down
my sword and shield,” so news slid off me as did concern of any decline in male hegemony.
What did I have to fear? I had a good job, and evenings saw me undergoing “groom-training,”
taught by Brenda, Vernell, and my neighbor. I had no time for so-called “women’s
lib.”
Tonight’s lesson centered on my script. “Three lines is all
you have,” Venell said. “How could you blow that? Let’s try again. She took my
shoulders, rather roughly I thought, and positioned me next to Brenda, who
seemed a bit out of patience. “Now,” said Vernell.
“I will. I do. And I wed you with …”
“Stop, dammit stop,” Venell yelled. “With this ring I do thee
wed.”
“Ya’ll are making me nervous,” I said.
My neighbor responded, moving in close to me, “We’re going
to make you think ‘nervous,’ Buster.”
I pointed at her blouse and looked at Vernell. She said to
her sister, “Button up, dammit, and don’t you own a bra?”
They made adjustments. I turned to Brenda for solace. She
looked at me with those sweet eyes that had so captivated me when I met her. “Don’t
screw this up,” she said. “My relatives are even coming down from Chicago for it.
You’d damn well better be ready, and, … look at me when I’m talking to you, …
sober.”
Such soothing balm got me through the evening. Later, I found
myself keyed up and not ready for bed, so I flicked on the ten o’clock news. I
sat in my most comfortable chair with a beer and waited for some indication that
the world was stable and level and I wouldn’t be facing any new challenges to
societal norms.
Then, there it was, like an oracle shouting “Get ready for
more.”
From war-torn England came another subterranean rumble. That
week had seen the international debut of something called a “Gay Pride March.”
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| "Sweetie, you don't mind if I call you Sweetie, do you? You screw this wedding up, and a ton of bricks will land on you." |
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