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When I was in Grade 7, my English teacher assigned our class the task of writing an essay on our favourite song lyrics. Heavily influenced by my sister-in-law’s Beatles obsession, I chose “Woman” an anthem to Yoko Ono by John Lennon.  I chose it because it is a beautiful song and lovely to sing to, but also because the lyrics fascinated me. 

“Woman, I will try to express

My inner feelings and thankfulness

For showing me the meaning of success

Woman I know you understand

The little child inside of the man

Please remember my life is in your hands” (Lennon, 1980).  

Perhaps it was this song that lit a spark for the interest I would later take in feminism, but as best as I can remember, deeply listening to this song was the first time I had heard any kind of message that hinted that women were strong and influential and that men could be vulnerable and need help. 

I had so many questions then, some of those questions I still ask.  What did it mean to be a woman? Would I ever be seen as a woman?  Was I capable of being a woman?  As a six year old girl with a disability, I lived with a decidedly different set of developmental, social and biological expectations than non-disabled girls my age seemed to experi­ence as they grew up. Among other things, it was assumed that I would always need someone to look after me; that I would not live independently; that I would not finish high school, go to University, find a job, date, marry; and certainly not have a sexual relationship, have children, and be able to look after those children.  This typical asexual status, often attributed to people with disabilities comes from a belief that we must not have the same quality of life as people without disabilities.  And if you do not have physical or mental competence and no quality of life, it is believed then that you are not a whole person, and in my case, a whole woman.  

I can tell you that it is incredibly difficult to live without that sexual identity.  As a child, I was seen and treated as maybe a “cute kid” but not as a “pretty girl.”  As a teenager, I struggled to feel like a “real” girl and looked to dresses and long hair and for the attention of boys to make me feel like I was female.  As an adult woman, I still sometimes question my femininity, my womanhood.  Even now, with two children as testimony to my reproductive skills and a partner who has loved me for over twenty years, I still feel a twinge of displacement when I enter a lingerie store or ask my hairdresser to make my hair look pretty or put on lipstick.  And it makes sense that I still sometimes feel like an imposter sometimes because it is not a man or children; it is not lingerie or pretty hair that makes a woman.

So what does then?  What does make a strong woman?  Well, I think of my mother, who gathered strength and courage to raise a disabled child without a role model for either herself or me; who questioned the doctor who prescribed me valium at the age of 8 for my spastic legs, and then after doing her own research into the effects, flushed the entire contents of the pill bottle down the toilet, and held me when I went into withdrawl;  my mother, who acted as my advocate more times than I probably am even aware of; and who now, almost 3 years after my Dad’s death, demonstrates every day how being strong means both being tough and resilient and adaptable, but also vulnerable and fragile and sad sometimes.  And arguably most significantly, her strength to me is how she is learning every day how to live in the world and in her home without the man she loved deeply, and who loved her back, for most of her life.

I think of my paternal grandmother, who just turned 102, and is as sharp and funny as ever.  And I think of my maternal grandmother, who was the smartest and most gifted woman I ever knew, and who I still think about all the time.

I think of my fellow girlfriends with various disabilities, who although they are living very different lives, are in their own ways making great and positive changes in the ways the world sees disability.

I think of my cousins and friends living with breast cancer; my sister-in-law who is working out how to parent her son who has autism; and my great-nieces who are just beginning to understand what potentials this life has for them. 

I think of other women in my life, those struggling with divorce, single parenthood, being single, making career changes, starting businesses, going to University, getting their degree, learning how to be a step mom, caring for their aging mothers, earning their black belts, adopting a child, adopting a dog, learning a new language, adjusting to a new country, training in their sport, dealing with depression, finding time to volunteer, finding God, growing old; growing up; recovering from surgery, recovering from violence, coping with a sick sister, learning to play the guitar, dealing with being laid off, raising great children, and balancing work and home.

I think of someone else too: my daughter, who is my favourite woman.  I used parts of this blog entry in a speech I gave for International Women’s Day 2 years ago.  She was five then, and when asked me what I was writing about, she said, “What about me?  I am a strong woman!”  I smiled and said, “Yes, you are.  What makes you strong?”

Her hair like a lion’s mane around her head, and wearing an outfit that makes me want to place a badge on her chest that says, “I dressed myself!” she crossed her arms and said quite seriously, “Can I say whatever I want?”

“Yes.”

“I am strong because I have my own power and I can do what I choose.”

Wishing you a Happy International Women’s Day that is as beautiful as you are,
hk