Women and solidarity

Let me tell you a story from a while back. I had the opportunity to visit a coworker’s mother’s home in a village in Central Africa. Her mother and a few other women were chatting, cooking, laughing all very amicably. The home was warm and welcoming, with plenty of laughter and bonhomie.

It seemed as if all the women lived there. I assumed they were sisters. But my coworker did not call them Tatie (aunt). Instead, she referred to them as Maman, (which is mom, or a term used in Africa, to address women in general).

So I gave up efforts at detective work and asked my coworker who the women were.

“My father’s other wives,” she replied nonchalantly.

I tried to instruct my eyes to not widen (in vain, I’m sure), and sputtered words of confusion despite knowing that polygamy was legal in the country. I probably stared some more and commented on how well they all seemed to get along and how much they seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

“Ah yes. Now that my father is dead. They are the best of friends,” my friend said with a laugh. “You should have seen them before – the backbiting and jealousy…”

I was processing the information, trying to imagine the competition and the back stabbing. Trust a guy to come in between a bunch of perfectly compatible women, thought my naïve 20-something-mind. Naïvete’ apart, I knew it was not purely the man in question; it was a choice the women made.

It is a choice all women make.

A choice to choose something/someone else before the solidarity.
A choice to allow personal insecurities to rule before the solidarity.
A choice to put another woman down before the solidarity.
A choice to back bite, and exaggerate and create camps.

A group of women in harmony can bring so much solidarity and strength to one another. Which is exactly what I saw in this house. My friend commented how she was never worried about her mother since the “other wives” lived with her and would look out for her and look after her.  

Agreed this situation was somewhat extreme, and I cringe at the thought of being in their shoes. So given that most women we know don’t share a husband, is there perfect solidarity? You wish... Like it or not, most women have felt a sense of groundlessness when such solidarity is shattered.

I am surprised to encounter it as I get older. It seems so high schoolish. Interestingly, I eshewed such drama in high school itself. So as with everything, can I ascribe it to low energy and low level of socialization and energy to maintain connections. Who knows. I thought it unlikely I was making any of the above "choices". But I did find another: A choice to close up to not get hurt, before trusting the solidarity.

Hmm… more on that later, I suppose. But fact remains that women can be much strength to one another, as they can be their own undoing.

Interesting how I got thinking of this story in the first place. There was an email thread between a group of friends. I sent a reply (and a funny one, mind you). Only I managed to jumble information from three different emails (that I’d probably read in the same breath). It made no sense.

I realized what I’d done and sent another email saying I had been silly. My friends showed support and kindness in their replies. Ready to laugh it off, I replied (copy/pasting part of the note):

So glad for a supportive group that doesn't judge the ahem... somewhat dubious mental state of some of its members :)
Sigh... And this may not be the last time this happens either... :)

Even if I deflected the matter with humor, I truly appreciated the solidarity. I also knew it was a safe enough place for me to send such a note.

And even if this matter was silly and small enough to not take to the grave, it somehow reminded me of the story from long ago in Africa.


And if you’re reading this, hopefully it may remind you of the strength and support women can find in each other, if we choose to.  

What is the price we pay?

My friend was recounting stories about her aunt who is quite the superwoman. The stories were certainly admirable, but then she mentioned how being a superwoman came at a price.

I paused. I agreed. I have thought the same quite often (from the time I was a youngster even) and figured writing may help. So here goes.

As a youngster, I was confused by the fact the Mahatma Gandhi had a strained relationship with his son. Here was a man loved by millions; yet his son distanced himself from him.

I was confused by the fact that Maharshi Karve, who did pioneering work in the field of women education and empowerment, had a difficult and strained family life. Was it only due to the societal backlash for the reform he was trying to bring about?

His reform was in the city where I grew up, and possibly the reason why women of several generations before me were educated. Nonetheless, I thought it was sad that his personal life and the personal lives of many such visionaries were so strained.  

Now that I’m no longer a youngster, I’ve grown to accept that greatness often comes at a cost. I now wonder if the great ones and their families simply make their peace with it.

And then, what about the not so great? Don’t know about you, but I have no claims to greatness and I certainly cannot compare myself to great people of the past with great causes and visions.

Yet, I believe we pay a price. Many of us. For the things we do, for the dreams we chase, for the sacrifices we make, for the strength we show, for the purpose we see, for meaning we find, for responsibility, for courage, for love, for truth…

At the risk of offending physicists all over, I wonder if Newton’s words hold true here as well…
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Sense of purpose, meaning, commitment to a cause, love, joy, self identity, relationships, fun, realizing potential, responsibility, ambition… the list could go on.

In chasing one, do we lose another?

You and I both know that the trick is balance. You and I have both heard about striking the right balance. Does the balance tip over when we go beyond what is in our normal and natural stride or capacity to do so? It may be about chasing a giant dream or it may be something as small as smiling when we really don’t feel like, or staying strong when we feel weak.

And even when we know, can we give ourselves permission to not be so, even if we feel so? And for each time we do so, what is the price we pay?

Would a simple awareness of this phenomenon be the first step? But again, is such awareness even possible whilst we are in the throes of chasing a dream, rising to responsibility, staying strong, being focused, doing the right thing? Will it hit us only later, much later?

Sigh… this is getting gloomier with every word I type. Honestly, the purpose was to figure it all out. Sigh…

Perhaps an awareness of the price we pay is not possible. But an awareness of the things that matter to us is. And that seems like valuable information.

Perhaps an awareness of how fulfilling or important or meaningful doing something is can help us determine our need to do it, even if it is at a price. For the resulting happiness has go t to mean something right?

And perhaps, acceptance of the fact that we won’t do everything right, even if we do our best; that we will pay a price for some of our actions of today, may help

And perhaps, in chasing our dreams or doing the necessary, or the right thing, listening to the little voice that reminds us of the true big things that matter, may help.

And perhaps letting go of a few things, when we feel the price we will pay is too much, may help, even if it feels uncomfortable or unreasonable to do so today.

Weak spots: Do they make us weaker? Stronger? Both?

Each of us has a weak spot. Very often, this weak spot is a person. Someone we love, this weak spot walks about blithely unaware of the effect they have on us. 

Despite my limited wisdom and experience, and lack of any psychology degree, I will go ahead and make an uneducated inference. For most mothers, the weak spot is their child/children (it may be all of them, or one in particular); for the husband, it is the wife. You see the loop here? I am not suggesting that dads don’t care about their kids, I am speculating weak spots that sometimes leave us vulnerable. Besides, I imagine most of us can have several such weak spots to varying degrees and relationships.

These weak spots are sometimes our unraveling. They leave us susceptible to vulnerability and emotion. They prevent us from thinking clearly – the heart takes over the head; emotions take over rationality. Yes. These weak spots are often our unraveling.  

Let me narrate a recent story. We went to Mexico on spring break with a few families. As luck would have it, I got sick on the flight there. Not wanting to be hospitalized in Mexcio, many hours of pain later, I decided to fly back. Alone. My husband decided we should fly back. All three of us.

I would not hear of it. All I could see was a nine-year-old’s disappointment at having to cut short “the best vacation ever”. All I could see was a nine-year-old’s crestfallen face when her friend’s returned later and recounted adventures. All I could imagine were hurt looks, reproachful glances, even a relationship bruised forever.

I was devastated. Not by the pain or discomfort, or the cutting short a vacation… no, the pain didn’t come close to the guilt I felt. 

I firmly told my husband I was going to travel back. Alone. Now, 38 hours of pain will turn anyone into a growling lion. And my husband knew better than to argue with a growling lioness. *grin*

This story fortunately comes with a happy ending. All set to head to the airport in the morning, I suddenly started to feel better at 3 a.m. Quite cheerfully, I woke up my husband and told him to turn off the alarm since I was not going to leave in the morning.

But the episode got me thinking. Of how fragile we are. How fragile we make ourselves in situations. And the reasons/ the persons for whom we do so.

I wrote this yesterday. I didn’t post it. Well, simply because I haven’t posted in ages, but also because it felt as if something was missing to the overall thought. Or perhaps, the whole idea of a loved one causing unraveling bothered me.

Then I realized that if these weak spots are our vulnerability, they are also our strength. Most of us can recount acts of pluck, courage, tenacity, done in a moment for our weak spots. Actions we would otherwise have never done or even considered ourselves capable of.  My flying back alone was an easy one in the overall scope of things and overall scope of experiences.

For after all, even if these weak spots can sometimes leave us feeling helpless, they come from a place of immense tenderness and love. How can we always remember that?

For wouldn't that result in more gentleness rather than unraveling? And that seems appropriate, given the tender space they stem from.