Today an old Helen Reddy song drifted out from the radio: “I Am Woman.” A song, no, more an anthem, of female strength and possibility, and the power of a movement built on that strength, that possibility. Today the song has become at worst a charicature, and at best an icon, an emblem. Either way, when I heard it, my heart leapt, and my mind embarked upon a journey back. This song has meaning for me, but not for the reasons one might think.
When my daughter started coming into her own just before her fifth birthday, that glimmer of self-actualization that comes with the promise of school, my husband burned a mix CD to play at her birthday party. My husband is notorious for this, the compiling of songs across genres, ages, to commemorate occasions. He has always done this, in the days of cassette recorders held close to a radio, before CDs, or the internet, before Kaaza and filesharing. He wrapped the CD in pink paper and bestowed it upon my daughter the week before her party. She loved it, and requested we play the CD ad nauseum, whenever music was appropriate, and even when it wasn’t. One of the songs on the CD was Helen Reddy’s “I am Woman.” I laughed the first time I heard it proclaim from the speakers of the stereo: “I am Woman, hear me roar, in numbers too big to ignore…” the humor inherent in the juxtaposition of my chubby bud of a flower, her round cheeks, small hands, innocence, with the concept of womanhood. And intertwined with the humor was the promise, the possibility, of full-fledged splendor in that bud.
One morning, I walked into my bedroom to find my soon-to-be five-year-old jumping joyfully in the center of our king-sized bed. She was achieving admirable height, the boxspring emitting a generous creak with each indentation of her feet in the bedspread. As she jumped she sang the lyrics of the Helen Reddy song, or her version at least. I leaned against the doorframe and listened. As she bounded up to the chorus I heard her proclaim, “I am STRONG, I am INVISIBLE, I am WOMAAAAN!” It took all my strength to suppress a laugh that seemed to begin at my toes and move up through my body, gathering momentum as it climbed. INVISIBLE. With the pure, unadulterated conviction of a five-year-old, my daughter had changed the meaning of strength for women everywhere. Rather than laugh, I walked to the bed and held my arms out, and she jumped into them. Later, at the park, I watched her on the swings. The word pulsed in my head in time with the rhythmic squeak of the heavy metal swingset. InVISible. InVISible.
When my daughter started coming into her own just before her fifth birthday, that glimmer of self-actualization that comes with the promise of school, my husband burned a mix CD to play at her birthday party. My husband is notorious for this, the compiling of songs across genres, ages, to commemorate occasions. He has always done this, in the days of cassette recorders held close to a radio, before CDs, or the internet, before Kaaza and filesharing. He wrapped the CD in pink paper and bestowed it upon my daughter the week before her party. She loved it, and requested we play the CD ad nauseum, whenever music was appropriate, and even when it wasn’t. One of the songs on the CD was Helen Reddy’s “I am Woman.” I laughed the first time I heard it proclaim from the speakers of the stereo: “I am Woman, hear me roar, in numbers too big to ignore…” the humor inherent in the juxtaposition of my chubby bud of a flower, her round cheeks, small hands, innocence, with the concept of womanhood. And intertwined with the humor was the promise, the possibility, of full-fledged splendor in that bud.
One morning, I walked into my bedroom to find my soon-to-be five-year-old jumping joyfully in the center of our king-sized bed. She was achieving admirable height, the boxspring emitting a generous creak with each indentation of her feet in the bedspread. As she jumped she sang the lyrics of the Helen Reddy song, or her version at least. I leaned against the doorframe and listened. As she bounded up to the chorus I heard her proclaim, “I am STRONG, I am INVISIBLE, I am WOMAAAAN!” It took all my strength to suppress a laugh that seemed to begin at my toes and move up through my body, gathering momentum as it climbed. INVISIBLE. With the pure, unadulterated conviction of a five-year-old, my daughter had changed the meaning of strength for women everywhere. Rather than laugh, I walked to the bed and held my arms out, and she jumped into them. Later, at the park, I watched her on the swings. The word pulsed in my head in time with the rhythmic squeak of the heavy metal swingset. InVISible. InVISible.
It’s not self-evident, but there is strength in that word. There has always been strength in it, although I had never realized it. All my life I feared my invisibility. All my life I have worked hard to be seen, to be valued, to be recognized. At times when I have not been granted this validation, I have acted out, subtly perhaps, in socially acceptable ways, but still. I am not alone. Women as a people have done the same, gone to great lengths to equalize the recognition, the visibility, between women and men. And successful women have become hardened in the process, steeled by their own resolve. InVINCible.
But then I think about the power of invisibility. The success of an equality that is so understood, so embedded in societal norms it is invisible. Or the invisibility of a well-placed microphone, a fly on the wall, an infiltrator within a movement. A clandestine effort, or an effort no longer needed, because the goal has been achieved, fully and without question. In these ways, invisibility is more a success, and stronger, than invincibility. Perhaps my daughter is correct in her unwitting assumption. There is wisdom in her alternative hearing of this anthem, her childlike sense of it. Perhaps, by the time she blossoms into womanhood, the anthem of her childhood, as she understood it then, will ring true for women everywhere.
I no longer fear my invisibility. I embrace it, combined as it is with my strength. I am strong, and when I am invisible, I am so with purpose, intent, and the power inherent in flying under the radar. Watch out, world, for what you can’t see can change you just as effectively as that which hulks before your eyes. Perhaps even moreso.
But then I think about the power of invisibility. The success of an equality that is so understood, so embedded in societal norms it is invisible. Or the invisibility of a well-placed microphone, a fly on the wall, an infiltrator within a movement. A clandestine effort, or an effort no longer needed, because the goal has been achieved, fully and without question. In these ways, invisibility is more a success, and stronger, than invincibility. Perhaps my daughter is correct in her unwitting assumption. There is wisdom in her alternative hearing of this anthem, her childlike sense of it. Perhaps, by the time she blossoms into womanhood, the anthem of her childhood, as she understood it then, will ring true for women everywhere.
I no longer fear my invisibility. I embrace it, combined as it is with my strength. I am strong, and when I am invisible, I am so with purpose, intent, and the power inherent in flying under the radar. Watch out, world, for what you can’t see can change you just as effectively as that which hulks before your eyes. Perhaps even moreso.
2 comments:
Jenn, saw you were browsing my blog today (you are invisible, yet somewhat trackable). Funny our last couple of posts are both about five-year-old daughters and beds...
Busted!(lol) Do you have some odd x-ray vision? You highlight an interesting coincidence in our post topics. My five-year-old bedjumper is now a 10-year-old who, in some ways, will always be part five-year-old to me! I found your link on the blog of a mutual friend and wanted to see what your space was all about. I like what I see! I enjoy your posts, their intelligence, and your obvious love of your children. I plan on visiting regularly. I hope you will pay an occasional visit to my blog as well.
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