Several times in the past few weeks, an old memory has revisited me. Many years ago, when I was married and had small children, I drove an F-150 Supercrew pickup truck. The 3 series BMW I had when I first got pregnant proved impractical for car seats. So I inherited my husband’s work truck, and he bought a new one. Actually, he bought a couple trucks that year before settling on a brand new van.
I was driving the F150 away from Safeway after grocery shopping when another pickup sped by the narrow lane behind the store and hit my side mirror, knocking it loose. The driver got out, as did I, to assess the damage. He sloppily stuck it back on, noting the scratches, and said something like, your husband won’t mind. It’s no big deal. He got in his truck and drove away without another word.
There was no previous mention of my husband, and he did not see the pink slip to the vehicle I was driving, but what bothered me most was that I did have a husband, and the truck was in his name, and he didn’t mind if I was driving around in a vehicle with fresh new damage. To that man, and also to my husband, what mattered to me in that incident didn’t matter at all.
I hated the truth of being in that position. I’ve thought about that moment many times over the years and relished my escape from it. I cannot escape being surrounded by patriarchy in our society, and I cannot stop those who support our new president from minimizing, silencing, talking over, or assaulting women. But in my personal life, in my home, in my car, in my workplace, I have a lot of agency, I have power, and my voice is listened to and valued. I celebrate this. I celebrate where my legs have carried me.
Now I’m going to put on my favorite sweatshirt that says, “They didn’t burn witches, they burned women.” This is nothing new. And I’ll watch some TV with full control of the remote.