I Had a Dream

In my 20s, I dreamt of a world where men and women were equals in every sense of the word. I dreamt that somehow, I would be a participant in that change, and would feel proud and accomplished that I had broken the chains of patriarchy and misogyny, at least in my family lineage.

Now, in my very early 50s, I’m exhausted, and terror-filled that I didn’t do enough. Is this how most women in their 50s feel as they come to the final chapters of their lives? Where there are more years and sunsets behind us than before us?

I had a dream, a vision, where I was standing beside a partner, one where we were each other’s biggest cheerleader, regardless of how the outside world viewed us. We would be misfits together, where our vision affected the collective, laying down firm ground for the generations to come. We would come to this point in our lives, our 50s, together, standing on the side of a mountain, overlooking the work we had done. We weren’t quite at the top, and probably wouldn’t see the apex, ever, in our lives, but we could be proud of the path in which we had participated, clearing a way that was too rocky and too brush-covered to see clearly.

From our vantage point, we peek carefully over the precipice where we’ve stopped to take a break. The breeze blows over our tired bodies, and breathes new life into our souls. We see others behind us, our children, grandchildren, friends and family, continuing to clear out the rocks and thick vines of the patriarchal entanglement. Our scythes are dull and nicked, but they’re still functional for what we have left to do. We exchange a knowing look, that we won’t be able to completely finish the job, but satisfied that we walked together to make headway.

The sun begins to set behind the mountain, and we know that our time is slipping through the hourglass of our lives. Do we stop here and rest, waiting for the others to catch up and spend time with them? Or do we plow forward until we fall from complete exhaustion?

Looking downward, we see displaced wolves who had previously hidden in the thick brush that blocked the path forward. They’re angrier than before, they’ve been exposed, and their mouths foam from their deep growling, still attempting to stay camouflaged while they wait for the right moment to attack.

My partner and I make the decision to stay in this spot. We will be the sentinels, calling out coming missteps and attacks. There will be some below us who will call us conspiracy theorists or crazy, because all they can see is the cleared path. They believe that everything that’s been set in place, will remain in place, or that it’s good enough as it is. After all, generations before were fine, right?

We set up camp here on this precipice, feeling both relief and guilt. We know there’s so much more work to be done, but exhaustion is deep in our bones. As sentinels, our hope is that there will be enough believers in our mission that they will continue breaking through the barriers, and maybe, just maybe, when we arrive to the next level, we’ll be given the privilege of seeing through the velvet night sky dappled with stars, that our torches were picked up, and the goal achieved.

This was my dream, my vision.

Unfortunately, on the edge of 30, I stepped too far into the creeping vines of patriarchy, and allowed myself to be pulled under. I had stopped to rest for a bit, believing that the work I had already done granted me this moment of reprieve. I believed that I was strong enough to fight off the wolves, and had untangled myself enough from the belief system under which I was raised. The vines, I thought, were just vines, and would provide shade, but instead, they were poison ivy.

It slowly began to cover my body, bit by bit, until I was too sick from fighting off the allergic reaction to crawl out. “It’s fine,” I thought, “After all, generations before were fine, right?”

I don’t remember exactly how I untangled myself, or if I even truly have. Will I ever? Have the vines permeated my soul and brain to the point that I’ll never absolutely escape?

The short answer is that no, in my lifetime, I’ll never escape the belief system that any of this work can be done without a partner by my side. Both because we need active participants from both men and women to fully accomplish the clearing of the bullshit that we’ve been fed since practically the dawn of time, and definitely as little girls; and because I frankly don’t trust myself and my voice. I, too, fear the calls from below of being a conspiracy theorist, a crazy, a radical feminist. Hell, it took me decades to wear the badge of “Misfit” without shame, and even now, I still hide behind a pseudonym.

While I’m still hacking away at the brush, it feels futile with this butter knife I yield (I don’t even know where I lost my scythe), and I mutter to myself that it would be so much easier to get this shit done with someone here beside me. It’s still entrenched in me, as if it were part of my DNA, that I “need” a male counterpart to motivate me to keep going, to give me approval, validation, and endorsement for what I want to accomplish in my lifetime.

After all, generations before were fine, right?