That was it, the last straw.
I went to my toolbox and got my safety lock. No one else except a security guard had the key, and it was considered a serious offense to ever cut a safety lock unless a department head gave his permission, so I knew this would not be treated lightly. Then I changed the sign to read WOMEN’S ROOM ON MONDAY, WEDNESDAY, & FRIDAY. MEN’S ROOM ON TUESDAY & THURSDAY. That seemed fair. I hung the sign and, it being Wednesday, snapped my lock on the door.
A fellow soon came along and demanded I let him in. I told him to wait until tomorrow. In a rage, he stormed off toward the supervisors’ trailer. By the time the foremen arrived, several other men were in line. My legs trembled in front of the gathering, but I refused to remove the lock.
The other managers demanded that my foreman get me under control. “Kathy,” he fumed, “these men have to use the bathroom.”
“Tell them to take the bus over to Building 165,” I countered.
“You can’t expect hundreds of men to go off the job like that,” he snarled.
“Then tell them to wait until— “I looked over at the sign I’d written, “Thursday.”
He looked at me as if I was crazy, then stormed back to his office.
But he must have done something back at that office, because the very next day a brand-new women’s restroom facility was delivered. We had won.
kathryn (“Where did you say you wanted that railroad car?”) roblee is retired after twenty-two years as a millwright, and feels it is important that people hear what it was like in the early days of women’s doing nontraditional work. She believes that women should always stand up for themselves, even if it is on trembling legs. She resides in western New York.
Davida and Goliath
jane colby
“How dare they. How dare they?!”
I stared in disbelief at the most recent issue of the British Medical Journal (BMJ). Not one, but three articles in the prestigious periodical had publicly trashed my research. The entire medical establishment of England seemed ranged against me.
They were attempting to discredit my five-year project. The one that had studied a third of a million school pupils; a properly peer-reviewed study that had been conducted with a famous microbiologist and published in a reputable U.S. medical journal; research that when I first went public with it, took top spot on the national newspapers and TV news networks.
You don’t believe it? Believe it.
Steeling myself, I sat down to flip through the pages of Britain’s top medical journal. The articles on us included one by a leading pediatrician alleging research bias, and an end-piece questioning my personal integrity and motivation.
“Oh yeah? Right, guys. We’ll see about that.”
This had to be put right, and now. Sure, I thought about my reputation, but mostly I thought, If I don’t fight back, who will take the kids seriously? Who will help them if I don’t? It’d be a daunting task to take on the medical establishment. Can I do it? I wondered. I had to think about it—for all of one minute.
If I could survive the same horrendous illness the children had, including the years of pain and disability, and if I could survive that harrowing two-day media frenzy of last May, when I first released the research results, I sure as hell could sort this.
What was their problem? Didn’t they want to know the truth?
Schools Hit by ME Plague, ran the front-page headline of Britain’s leading newspaper last spring. With that, the country’s top medics were caught with their pants down. That was what hurt. They should have known. They, themselves, should have done the study and fronted the cameras—not me. They didn’t take it kindly, hearing it from a writer and one-time school principal. Especially when they had been denying there was any problem at all. Now, smarting, they chose to attack instead of acknowledge the truth about this disabling disease.
You’re asking, What is this illness? What was all the fuss about?
I’ll tell you what. We’d discovered that ME (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis), also known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS), was much more prevalent than previously known. Our research proved that over half the country’s kids on long-term sick leave had it. And yes, it is a physical illness, not an emotional one. Brain scans and other tests have proven that. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome? It may have been given a pathetic name, and some outdated doctors may still refuse to recognize it, but ME/CFS is a devastating disease.
I know firsthand.
ME/CFS can be triggered by a number of things. I got it after contracting a viral illness related to polio. Then for twelve years I was in constant pain and bedridden, slowly moving from a wheelchair to a walking aid. I gave up my career as a school principal to concentrate on getting well. As I got stronger, I retrained myself as a journalist and, with a consultant microbiologist, spent half a decade investigating 333,000 schoolchildren. In the end, our study showed ME/CFS was the single biggest cause of long-term sick leave in British schools, bigger than cancer and leukemia combined. No other illness came close. In short, we’d found a cluster pattern, a plague, in our schools. And yes, it exists in the United States, and in South Africa, Europe, Australia, Japan, wherever. Thousands upon thousands of kids have it. Most of them aren’t listened to or believed when they say they are too exhausted to move, too brain fogged to think clearly, or in too much body pain to go to school.
But we listened. That was why we did the study. That was why I now couldn’t ignore the attacks. No one would take our work seriously if the BMJ said it was flawed. So I set out to make them admit it wasn’t. I began a campaign to get Goliath, Britain’s medical establishment, to acknowledge the health crisis at hand.
First we sent a strongly worded complaint stating they had published incorrect information. We backed up our claim with data proving the accuracy of our research. Then we threatened “further action” if a published correction and apology were not given. I followed up with resolute and persistent phone calls.
It took six months, but finally, once again, I was staring in disbelief at the prestigious BMJ. This time it was what I wanted to see. My tenacity had paid off: Journal Was Wrong to Criticize Study in Schoolchildren, ran their headline.
With that apology, our research was affirmed, thereby helping the country realize the critical role ME/CFS played in our children’s health. In addition, I, as co-researcher, was recognized; I was made a member of the UK Chief Medical Officer’s Working Group, as well as Children’s Officer for a noted national charity. But the icing on the cake came the day the esteemed pediatrician who had originally attacked me in the BMJ now publicly introduced me.
“We know,” he said, “that ME/CFS is responsible for more long-term sickness absence in schoolchildren than any other disease. One of the authors of the paper is sitting here beside me.”
I smiled and got ready to speak.
jane colby ([email protected]) is author of ME—The New Plague and Zoe’s Win, a family book on ME/CFS (both with Dome Vision). She supports sick children through her work with Tymes Trust in Essex, England. This international organization works in partnership with www.youngactiononline.com, Jane’s website, which has free info on ME/CFS. Together they send a free quarterly e-zine (e-Tymes) to their overseas members. Jane no longer uses a walking aid; she now simply floats along on her solid reputation.
For additional information on Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, contact:
The CFIDS Association of America
P.O. Box 220398
Charlotte, NC 28222-0398
Toll-free Info Line: (800) 442-3437
Resource Line: (704) 365-2343
Fax: (704) 365-9755
E-mail: [email protected].
Website: www.cfids.org
Taking Up Tools
elizabeth young
When I was growing up, no one could get away with telling me I couldn’t do something “because you’re a girl.” In fact, if someone wanted me not to do something, that was the worst thing they could say: It practica
lly guaranteed I’d run out and try to do it.
One summer day shortly after high-school graduation, my father asked me if I had any male friends who wanted to make a bit of money. Doing what, I inquired. Helping him shingle the roof, he replied. Immediately I bristled. “Why does it have to be a male friend? Why not any friend, even a female one?”
My father looked surprised. “Because it’s carpentry,” he defended himself. “I need a helper who can do hard work and isn’t afraid to get dirty.”
“What! A girl could do that, too, you know. It’s not a male prerogative.” My own father. I was incensed.
“Fine,” my father challenged. “You help me then.”
Whoops. Walked right into that one, didn’t I?
Now I was stuck. I did think girls could help shingle roofs, but I hadn’t meant myself specifically. I was a skinny, fragile-looking girl who generally lacked athletic skills. And at that time I was even weaker than normal. The whole reason I was around the house that summer was because I was recovering from a bout of mononucleosis. Mono had sapped so much of my energy that a recent attempt at nature-walking with some friends resulted in their having to carry me back.
But even at the best of (healthy) times, there was something more—I was afraid of heights. Anytime I got too far off the ground, my knees wobbled, my mind spun, beads of sweat sprung up all over my sticky back. My phobia was so bad I couldn’t go over a bridge or climb a ladder without visualizing in disturbing detail my flailing body plummeting to an ugly death. And my fear made me shake, making it even more likely that I would fall.
Exhaustion and vertigo—not a great combo for roofing.
I knew my father would let me back down, but then I’d look as if I was just shooting my mouth off. Pride? Ego? Pigheadedness? “When can we start?” I asked.
In the beginning, it was plain that my dad did not expect me to last long. He wanted a helper to carry shingles up onto the roof, while he stayed on top and nailed them in. For anyone who hasn’t lifted roofing shingles before, I can tell you that they are extremely heavy and awkward to carry—unless you have bulging arm muscles and a strong back. Then you could simply throw a whole package of them over your shoulder and haul it all up the ladder at once. Not me. I could only carry a few individual shingles at a time and still manage a free arm to hold on to the ladder. But my dad was stubborn enough to let me keep going until I gave up, and I was stubborn enough to refuse to stop the job I started.
Of course the first time I got high up, my whole body shook, dangerously rocking the aluminum ladder I was standing on. My dad helped me wedge the ladder extra-tightly, and then with trepidation I tried again. Hey, I can make it up, I discovered, as long as I don’t look down.
In the end, we were both impressed. I was sore and tired, but kept up enough of a pace that eventually I loaded so many shingles on the roof I could even join my dad in nailing them in. (To ease my mind, we tied a rope around my leg and anchored it to the roof.) To my surprise, the work was satisfying and my fear of heights began to recede. To my father’s surprise, not only did I get all the shingles onto the roof, but I was also quite good at installing them.
What began as a simple challenge bore fruit for many years. My dad retired when I was in university, and together we started a home carpentry and renovation summer business. It lasted three years. We received so many jobs through referrals from happy customers that we didn’t even need to advertise.
During those years, I was continually amazed at how many old stereotypes people still applied to the carpentry field. On jobs and in supply stores my very presence brought everything from raised eyebrows to outright stares. I got the impression that many men thought the ability to use power tools was linked somehow to the Y chromosome. Several dismissed me as a “Tool Time Girl” (thanks sooo much, Tim Allen, for having scantily clad women hand you tools on your TV show). “You don’t look like a carpenter,” is something I heard a lot (in other words, you are too pretty, too femme).
When men told me that I don’t look strong enough to do the “masculine,” physical side of the work, I smiled sweetly and said, “Like any highly skilled carpenter, I sometimes hire unskilled help to assist with heavy manual labor. Are you looking for a job?”
Unfortunately, many women I’ve worked for are just as guilty of gender-typing the work. They exclaim, “It’s just great you won’t have to rely on a man to do stuff around the house.” But they make no effort to learn how to do it themselves.
Women, put your hammer where your mouth is! Take up your tools! Believe me, if I can do it, you can, too.
elizabeth young ([email protected]), no longer a carpenter by profession, is still a proud handywoman who digs power tools (“Pass the saber saw, please”). As for her phobia of heights, rock climbing is now her favorite hobby—from inside the gym to outdoors in New Zealand and Thailand. Her home base is Toronto, Canada.
Just Don’t Do It
adrienne
Last year I was in kindergarten. After reading time, the gym teacher, Scott, would take us outside to play. He had us play dodgeball in two courts, the girls’ court and the boys’ court. He said it wouldn’t be fair if we all played together since boys were stronger than girls. That made me mad. I’m very strong, stronger than a lot of boys, but Scott made me play with the girls anyway.
One day when Scott told the girls to go to the other court, I said no.
I said I was going to play dodgeball with the boys. Scott got angry and said if I didn’t go to the girls’ court, he’d send me to the principal’s office.
I still said no.
It was scary because I had never been in trouble before, and I felt bad, but I still wanted to play dodgeball with the boys.
Sitting in a corner in the principal’s office, I started to cry. Principal K asked what was wrong. I told her Scott wasn’t letting me play dodgeball with the boys because I was only a girl. I told her how much I wanted to play with the boys, but that Scott got mad when I asked, and then got me in trouble. Principal K said Scott wasn’t being fair. She took me back outside to my class and told Scott he had to let us play in whatever game we wanted.
After that I got to play dodgeball with the boys every day, and Scott couldn’t stop me just because I was a girl. I know that girls are as good as boys. If anybody tells me they aren’t, I won’t believe them, because they are liars. None of them can stop me from doing what I want to do.
adrienne, a five-year-old athlete, thanks her cousin, Erika, for helping her write this story.
Transforming Hate
krissy
I drive on I-90 almost every day on my way to work. There has always been a lot of graffiti at one particular spot where a suburban road crosses over the interstate highway. Last summer someone spray-painted some anti-Jewish B.S. on the cement embankment, including some Nazi swastika-shaped designs. The first time I saw it, I almost drove off the road, I was so stunned. Surely, I thought, the state police or someone will sandblast it off. But more than a month went by and it was still there.
I was raised Irish-Catholic, taught to do what needs to be done. It was Mom: She drummed into us kids that “we cannot allow ourselves to forget that we had to come to this country because we were oppressed and starving. And don’t,” she’d always say, “forget your neighbor who might need a hand, too.” I don’t know, I just never saw my mom too tired, or too timid, to do the right thing. So when no one seemed to be getting rid of that crap, I decided to do it myself.
I got some paint and rollers together, grabbed a friend, parked on the side of the highway next to the graffiti, and painted over it. Cars slowed down as they drove by, but no cops or troopers showed up. Just in case, my friend had worked out a plan for media and bail. But I didn’t care; I was only interested in getting that hateful message gone.
A couple of weeks went by before another anti-Semitic message with even more obvious swastika shapes appeared. This time I didn’t wait a month. We decided it was dangerous to park on t
he busy highway (like we had last time), so for this second round, we drove on the street that crossed the highway and parked near the bridge. We walked along the road, climbed a high fence, and hiked down a steep hill to where the graffiti was. We painted over the hate-speech and transformed the scary designs into flower shapes. While my friend returned to the car, I walked to the highway overpass. I fished my arm through the guardrail and fence and wrote SHALOM in big letters on the overpass. Now all the cars drive under a big greeting of peace.
krissy says she was raised by a wonderful, working-poor, Irish-Catholic woman who taught her to care deeply about this world, not just in thought but in action.
Digging for Dough
amy richards
Gloria Steinem refers to fund-raising as the second-oldest profession—that is, second to the other great female industry, prostitution. Interestingly enough, both sex and money have historically been considered “unfeminine” and not good for “good girls.” Besides the fact that sex and money were to be restricted to men, most of us were taught they were simply private matters. Weren’t we all told that it’s rude to ask someone how much money they make?
Well, I guess I’m rude, since I spend a good deal of my time and energy asking for, raising, and learning the real power of money. But then again, I understand these things as necessities in making social justice a reality.
I came to the task of asking people for money (because, really, that’s what fund-raising is) entirely by accident. I was cofounding the Third Wave Foundation, a national organization for young feminist activists, and working on our inaugural project: fanning 120 organizers across the country to register voters in underserved communities. Mid-organizing, it became apparent we needed about $100,000 to execute the project.
That Takes Ovaries! Page 15