I recently took a very masked and socially distanced trip. It was the first time I had really ventured out into the world at large since the start of the pandemic. I spent the first part of my travels thinking that the epidemic had made everyone more polite than usual. I was offered seats, had doors opened for me, and in one instance, help carrying my bags. All of a sudden I realized that this excess of politeness was due to my newly grown-out grey hair. It is actually more white than gray, and I stand out like a beacon when in a line or approaching a door.
When I went off to college in 1961, the word feminist was just starting to gain momentum, and the entering freshman class was assigned The Feminine Mystic by Betty Friedan to read. There were some lively discussions when we reached campus with some of my classmates declaring that they would no longer let men open doors for them or assist them in any way.
Let me make it clear here that I grew up with a lively sense of the limitations that society placed on women. My mother was widowed during World War II, and was left with a young child (me) to support. She was very interested in International Relations and took classes at George Washington University in Washington, D.C. to prepare herself for the Foreign Service exam. In those days it was a grueling three day test, with a required proficiency in a foreign language. My mother was fluent in French so it was just the rest of the exam that was a challenge. When the results came back she had not only passed, but had achieved the highest grade on one part of the exam, a record that would stand for a number of years. The last hurdle was an interview with a panel of active duty Foreign Service Officers, a mechanism put in place to make sure than no one they did not deem ‘appropriate’ could enter the club, no matter what their qualifications. A young, attractive woman was not three older males idea of who should be admitted to this club and they failed her, with a staggering statement that would never fly today. They told her that she would make a “lovely” Foreign Service Officer’s wife. That tale reverberated around my house for years.
But back to that nice young man opening the door as I struggled to manage a rolling suitcase, purse and carry-on bag. I do not feel in the least diminished to breeze, or at least stagger, through that open door, and I was careful to warmly thank him. I want to see women on the Supreme Court, in Congress, at the doctor’s office and flying my plane. The fact that someone opened the door for me does not mean that I am less than. I am, simply, an older member of society that appreciates the fact that those who are younger than I am are willing to lend a hand.