Buckle up, here comes June

Hear me roar

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I have fond memories of the Junes of my childhood. One in particular stands out. I distinctly remember walking to school, it was the last days of fourth grade and school was ending and I was so excited because I deeply, deeply hated my teacher with the white, hot, hate of a thousand suns.

Mrs. Whelan was the kind of teacher that students prayed they wouldn’t get. So would their parents. My mother had done battle with her a few times during the course of the year (as did the mothers of most of the class) and she too was relieved that this nightmare was soon going to be over.

The prior week had been an awful one, I had had a math problem, four digit subtraction.

The fact that I can remember that and not what I did yesterday gives you an idea of the trauma.

I had done the problem several times always coming up with the same answer and she kept marking it wrong. My parents even had a go at it, because I was sent home with the bloody thing, and they came up with my answer. My mom wrote a note to Mrs. Whelan (otherwise known as Satan) and asked her to check again. She did not and twice more that day sent me back to my seat to re-do the problem. On the third time she finally did the math herself and came up with my (the correct) answer. She glanced over at the teacher manual, said that it must be misprinted there and looked at me and said, “if you weren’t so bad at math all the time I probably would have checked sooner.” and sent me back to my desk. No apology for the two days of torture. Then and there is probably when I decided I would never be good at math, thus condemning me to a lifetime of math anxiety.

Anyway, I distinctly remember skipping my way to school that last day or so, which was a half day, thinking June was the best of all months. Butterflies, mom’s rose bushes, long days, street stickball until it was dark, long reading sessions and no teachers.

June was all about promise.

That is until recently.

I really could still love June. The heat isn’t oppressive yet, the schoolwork is done and filed away and there is a freedom that relaxes my usual stressed out school year self.

Now I dread it. I still love all the things I love about this glorious month, Long Island really is beautiful in June, but now everywhere I go I have to be reminded of the sad state my country is in. That might sound harsh, and I don’t want this space to become a vehicle for my political beliefs but as a person of faith and a woman concerned about how society views women my age it is a topic that I come up against again and again.

First off being proud of yourself for some kind of accomplishment or hard work or natural talent can be a good thing. Being proud of yourself because of whom you are sexually attracted to strikes me as an alarming degree of arrogance. I mean, what makes you think anyone should care? Dedicating an entire month is a sign of mental illness and forcing the whole country to participate is the beginning of out and out fascism.

Being force fed the idea that everything that makes me a woman and every womanly, female experience I have been through can be replicated by putting on a dress and fake nails while taking hormones is insulting, and I reject it entirely. It is a hill I am willing to die on.

It may come to that.

The world just feels that way.

Every cell in my body declares me to be a woman. My body has worked miracles that are not possible for men and no matter how many pairs of earrings or what kind of hair style, or how high the heels worn by a man - you can’t be a woman.

Even more than my visible femininity is the core of my being. The hormones that have created the possibility of life beginning when I was eleven years old. The discomfort and anguish (yes, anguish) that comes with those changes can never be your experience. This is for women and women alone.

The first flutters of life within me, the kicking and hiccupping of a child in my womb, the pressed up feet visible through my skin - this is for women and women alone.

The strength to push through the pain and exhaustion to bring that life (or those lives, yes, I’ve birthed twins) into the world. The sheer magnitude of that task and the flow of dopamine and prolactin when it’s accomplished - this is for women and women alone.

The days and nights spent with a baby at my breast while singing softly to soothe, the feeling when milk lets down and the relief to both you and your child. The miracle of providing nourishment to your baby - this is for women and women alone.

The pain of wanting to feel these things with every fiber of your being but being unable, that cross which is born with sadness but dignity - this is for women and women alone.

Even the changes that occur with age, the suffering of hot flashes and insomnia, weight gain and incomprehensible mood swings all marking another stage of life which God provides to release us to be available to the next generation. We are free of child care to be able to help our daughters, nieces, cousins, friends and community with advice and comfort in raising the next generation - this is for women and women alone.

To reduce these experiences to a costume that is filled with tuckable and binding things is the height of egomaniacal hubris. It makes me angry and sad at the same time. Sad because these people are being sold a bill of goods for no other reason than to sow chaos and division. They are being sacrificed on the altar of an agenda that is lifeless and despairing. People who have been created in the image of a God who treasures them are being told that they are somehow wrong and they need to be fixed in the most debilitating and inhumane of ways.

And now we have an entire month dedicated to the acceptance of this and other debauchery.

Pride is a sin but despair is no less offensive to God, who promises hope. So I will hope that the world comes to it’s senses, I will pray for those who are afflicted and those who encourage the affliction.

Mostly I will tuck into my own little bubble, enjoy June, my roses, the nature trails, the beach and my home and family. We will turn off the news, turn on some nice music and tune out the pride.