For years I told my stories.
Younger women friends indulged me. They were patient and careful with me. I’m an elder so I’m entitled to that tender care though I never asked. They listened to me like I was an old storyteller dressed in heavy robes, holding a carved walking stick, and looking out through rheumy blue eyes. They gathered around until a better attraction came along. Something that was post-feminism, more current, shinier, and certainly more relevant than my tales of old hurts and disadvantages. They wandered off after the magic of Lean In, bored with my stories of standing up. It is nothing to stand up, they thought. We are already standing up.
I clung to the past because it shaped me. I am this because of that. The history of the women’s movement is still hanging on clothes in my closet, it is that real to me…
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