I was raised in an equal opportunity family where I was expected to achieve—I would have something of value to offer the world. But with that said, I never heard the word “feminist” until college. I’ve never needed to say “feminist.” I’ve never had to arm wrestle a man—or woman—for respect. I expected respect. I demanded respect.
So why at forty-three am I suddenly fierce? Why do I find myself calling people on unfair practices? Is it peri-menopause? A drop in estrogen? Lower levels of oxytocin?
Or is it confidence? An inner zeal that has come from being beaten up by life but being stronger for it?
I bought a first class seat for a recent flight because I needed to work and needed the space—and heck, because I wanted to. Half the people in first class were women, traveling alone or on business. One of the women was a mom in her thirties. She was struggling to hold her wiggling infant while attempting to put her bags in the already crowded overhead compartment.
None of the crew offered her a hand despite the fact that the lead flight attendant was taking all the men’s jackets, and relieving them of newspapers, empty coffee cups and hanging garment bags. The lead flight attendant actually pushed past the mom, ignoring her as she headed to the back of the plane.
I couldn’t bear to watch the mom struggle, so I stood and helped her find a place for her bags.
Twenty minutes later the baby squawked on take off. The flight attendant glared at the mom and passed out ear plugs, apologizing for the unacceptable noise levels. She said this in front of the mom and the only thing she had to say to her was, “I hope he goes to sleep.”
Of course no one enjoys crying babies, but women are the ones that bear babies and nurse babies, and until men do, women are the ones who get the dirty looks and exaggerated sighs when babies cry.
An hour into the flight, the flight attendant came by to refresh drinks and when she saw that neither I nor the woman next to me had used our ear plugs she expressed great surprise. Smiling politely, I told the flight attendant that the baby had only shrieked a couple times and to be honest, I was uncomfortable with the way the mom and baby had been treated. Yes, we were all sitting in first class, but half of us were women, and as a woman, I didn’t like to see another woman singled out or punished.
The flight attendant walked away and returned five minutes later. She crouched at my side and gave me piece of her mind. How dare I criticize her? Did I have any idea how hard she worked? Did I know she was a mother and grandmother? Who did I think I was?
I looked at her a long moment and then asked very quietly, “Would you talk to a man this way?”
I don’t know why that’s the first thing that came to mind, but it’s where I am in my life.
The flight attendant jumped up and stormed off. She wouldn’t even look at me as I got off the plane.
The problem may be generational. She’s an elegant woman in her fifties, who probably thinks catering to the first class customer is to cater to men. But more and more women travel these days, and more and more executives are women. First class doesn’t belong to men, and first class service shouldn’t be defined by men.
The flight attendant’s job is to ensure safety and comfort during the flight, but she’s not making anyone comfortable if she’s ostracizing a woman.
Maybe I wasn’t raised with feminist rhetoric, but the language of feminism isn’t as important as our daily attitude and actions.
We women matter. And we need to be the first to offer another woman a helping hand. Or even a quiet, if uncomfortable, opinion.
Jane Porter’s 2006 release, Flirting With Forty, was picked by Redbook Magazine as its Red Hot Summer Read before being optioned as a Lifetime movie. Jane's new release, Odd Mom Out, is available now. Jane and her two sons live in Greater Seattle where she's working on her next novel. JanePorter.com