Toby Girl

She came to me in a rush

Of circumstance

“Thanks Aunt Dee” my nephew said..

“It will just be for a little while.”

I knew she was special.

She licked my nose with long slurps

She pranced like a doe and ran like the wind.

Chasing a ball, her feet only skimmed the earth.

Her eyes would see right through me

And tell me stories we both knew

funny, and sad.

Together we laughed at the scardy-kat squirrels

that ran up the tree trunks when we walked by.

At night she'd curl up in my lap

All 55 pounds of her.

A dangling leg would always escape

hanging to the floor – a kite tail.

She would stare at me for long long minutes –

and I would scratch her bony head.

And that tail that tail

whap whap whap

happy whaps that knocked over everything on the table

and left red marks on my leg, that tail.

We sailed on the Sound, chased branches in the Hudson.

We had the time of our lives, my beautiful, forever friend.

Run like the wind in doggie heaven

I'll watch you and we'll smile together.

Memories of a Math Student - 1980

This week, the Fields Medal for Mathematics was awarded to the first woman ever. This medal is commonly called the Math Nobel Prize, and is the most prestigious global award in Mathematics. Maryam Mirzakhani, a Harvard educated mathematician and professor at Stanford University in California, was one of four mathematicians awarded the medal this year. Should we be surprised that it has taken until 2014 for a woman to be acknowledged with math's highest honor?

Flash back to 1980. I am one of two women enrolled in the mathematics major in a department of about 100 men at Ramapo State College, Mahwah, New Jersey. I'm 31 years old, mother of an 9 year old daughter and an 6 year old son. Ramapo cataloged me as “Returning Adult” because I was returning to college after marriage and motherhood, to learn to do something other than secretarial work, the only job I'd trained for since high school. Curious about computer programming I took an Introduction to Computer Technology course and I was hooked. With an eye on a good employment outlook, I quickly enrolled in more computer courses, but I still needed some advanced math courses for the Math/Computer Science BS. So there I was, in my final semester, sitting in a required Abstract Algebra course, trying desperately to comprenend the incomprehensible, knowing I absolutely had to pass this math course to graduate.

Defeated, I was about to throw in the towel and switch my major again when my math professor gave me the best gift he could ever give me. I asked for clarification of a concept in class. He turned to me, red in the face, boiling over. He yelled, no screamed, “Get out of my class! This class is for men, not for you, and I will not be interrupted by a “girl” again!” I was horrified, but sat down, literally cemented to my chair. He stared a minute, shook his head and went back to his oblivious chalk and talk. But I didn't hear another syllable of his talk because suddenly the “Rocky” theme song was playing in my head and kept getting louder and louder!! da da daaaaaaa...!! da da daaaaaa......!! da da daaaaaaa...!! da da daaaaaa......!! I would not give him the satisfaction; I decided at that moment I would not fail.

Through sheer grit and many all-night test practice sessions, I passed the course, I graduated, and I got the IBM computer programming job I wanted. Of course naively I thought I had left behind the 'all male, only girl' computer science imbalance. I was wrong. When I walked into work on that first Monday morning, I was one of two women in a department of 100 men – hmmm.

A recent New York Times Editorial states that there is “a striking absence of women” in the board rooms of technology companies and the numbers of women employed in software programming and computer engineering jobs has actually dropped since the 1990's high of 34% to 27%. With only a few exceptions, life at the top of technology companies is strictly a boy's club and probably will remain that way for a long time. I've been witness to the imbalance throughout my career in business and in higher education. Truth be told, way back in 1980, it was another math professor, also a man, who got me interested in computers. He noticed I liked algebra and suggested that I take a class called “Fortran IV”.  I signed up, and discovered that computer programming was like building puzzles in new languages, and provided me with a challenge I had never experienced before.  That professor continued to encourage me through every course where I was most often the only woman sitting in a classroom full of young men.

So if I was successful in my career choice, I thank the math teacher who encouraged me, but I also thank the math teacher who was a bigoted jerk. I succeeded because of one, and in spite of another. Bravo to all the teachers out there who mentor, teach and model, and boo hiss razz to those who don't.

Congratulations to Maryam Mirzakhani, for her super achievement, and congratulations to all the rest of us – the women and girls who continue, even in 2014, to swim against the tide of outdated opinions about what we should or should not be.  

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" I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life's a bitch. You've got to go out and kick ass.! "

-- Maya Angelou --

First Day of Summer

Inwood, Manhattan, 1959, the first Saturday of summer. School is out! I wake up around 7:00 am, fill a bowl with cheerios and a stir up a glass of milk and chocolate Quick. I gulp it all down in front of the TV watching Officer Joe Bolton, volume off. I find my brand new white keds, my new pair of shorts and white eyelet blouse, and silently get dressed in the kitchen listening to the quiet. No one else is stirring, so I carefully unlock and open the apartment door, slip out into the hallway and with a finger on the latch, quietly close the door. My feet barely touch the steps as I fly down four flights to the street.

There is still a chill in the June morning air, sun barely peeking between the buildings on Post Avenue. Though I'm shivering, I know I can't go back upstairs to get a sweatshirt. I'd risk waking somebody up and having to answer all those questions. So without a moment's pause, I sprint up five long blocks from Dyckman Street to Broadway, and then another four to Payson Park, close to the River Fields on the Hudson. Payson has a playground, with a stone house with bathrooms, and a “Parkie” as we called him. The stone house also contains several knock-hockey tables, and an assortment of balls, ping pong table, checkers games and minimal first aid supplies.

Payson is also the scene of weekly knock-hockey competitions, and this summer of my tenth year, I am unstoppable. My balance is shaky, I can't hit a softball, or hit the ball in a handball court, but boy-oh-boy can I play knock-hockey, and boy-oh-boy do I win! For those of you who are unfamiliar with this New York City staple, Knock hockey is a board game with two players, two mini hockey sticks, and a puck. The object is to slice, or slam the puck into the hole behind a block of wood at an opponents' goal.

I knock on the Parkie's door and ask for a knock hockey set up. He looks at me with a suspicious sideways stare, and says carefully, “sure thing”. The day has barely begun, and the park is empty except for the little brown eyed girl in shiny new sneakers. He actually scratches his head as he considers the request for one brief moment, then disappears into his house to gather the requested sports equipment. I wait for him to set up the game and intently begin my practice. Suddenly a boy about 11 or 12 comes skating into the park and screeches to a stop in front of me. I look up into his face, red and sweaty. “Wanna play?” I ask. “With you?” he says. I give him an exasperated look, hands on hips, as he proceeds to pull the leather cord around his neck holding his skate key over his head. He plugs the key into his roller skates and kicks them off. He doesn't know what he is in for.

Summer has officially landed!

Will Catholic Children Ever Be Safe?

Here is a chilling documentary of the state of child sex abuse in the Catholic Church.  Priests have been punished, but what about the Cardinals and Bishops who kept silent and protected them.  What has been done to protect our children in the future.  

Read the whole story:

The Shame of the Catholic Church

Barbie Dolls

Has anyone else noticed that women news anchors and meteorologists on the network news programs are looking more and more like Barbie Dolls? It is an interesting phenomenon I've been unscientifically cataloging for a while now. Tight, short, sleeveless dinner dresses that are stretched to fit over Spanx-molded figures; sky-high crippling heels, Farrah Fawcett hair (that style is back again?), blackened, sparkled eyes and fat, juicy, nude-today, red-tomorrow lips. They hobble to their seats and tug at their skirts when they sit down and cross their legs. (Yes, without question they cross their legs). Most are very young, very beautiful, flawlessly polished for TV, and all look amazingly identical! One morning recently, a financial analyst reporting from the floor of the stock market distracted me from her story by repeatedly blinking her two inch long false eyelashes and whipping her hair away from her eyes, as she reported on DOW futures. Yes, Barbies are everywhere.

I am not the fashion police, I am not opposed to makeup and dressing up to go out partying. I am only a TV viewer who notices that lately glamour trumps serious news reporting. Well, actually, a lot of things trump serious news reporting these days, but the Barbie phenomenon has caught my eye. I wonder if the women choose their dresses, and hairstyles, and makeup, or if they are told to look this way by their program producers. More to the point, must they have the "Barbie Look" to get the job, to keep the job? It is an observation that sparks my memory – Working Girl, 1968.

Back in the late 60's and early 70's my typical work dress was a short skirt and high heels – it was required and expected. Well, at first the length of my skirt was more about being a just-out-of-high school girl. But I also quickly picked up on the deliberate head to toe gaze I was subject to at every job interview, the check off or note written down on my resume after the creepy appraisal.  I knew the short skirt helped, and I needed the job. So I wore flats on the subway and walking the city streets to work, carrying my high-heels in my tote bag, changing into them in the bathroom in the lobby. I would not even ride up on the elevator at 30 Rock in flats as it was frowned upon by... well, by everyone. I remember doing the same with boots and slacks in winter and during snow storms... but still changing in the bathroom because we were not allowed to wear slacks in the office. Did you hear that? “not allowed” Our dress code was a condition of our employment – dress as you were told, or be fired. I needed the job and the paycheck, so I dealt with it.  

What I'm saying is, back in the day, women were told what to wear, and how to look and we obliged, much the same as men were expected to have a certain look based on their position and career.  Men, however, were expected to look professional, successful, and well-groomed. In 1968, women like myself were expected to look feminine and alluring, and to dress to appeal physically to the men in the office. Today, in 2014, are the women of the prime-time news shows expected, or required to look sexy and alluring to get ratings; to keep their jobs?  

This week one of my personal idols and feminist mentor, Gloria Steinem, turned 80 years old. The founder of MS Magazine, feminist, journalist and social and political activist, Steinem demanded, in a calm and thoughtful way, that we take a look at the way women were treated and discriminated against in the workplace. In the 60s and 70s she was instrumental in getting sex-discrimination and sexual harassment legislation passed so women could begin to be viewed as equals. Hard to believe, but that was half century ago!

OK, I admit I have always been your basic feminist nightmare – the family member starting inappropriate arguments at the Thanksgiving table, the employee challenging new hire protocols, the NOW Officer starting trouble in the conservative suburban town where I raised my kids. Though I never had Steinem's finesse or calmly convincing manner, I sure have always shared her passion fighting for women's rights. We fought hard and long so women could compete equally in the workplace, in our role in the family, and yes, in the way we dress.  I do not want to challenge a woman's right to self-expression in any way.  But in my world, my real world, I find it improbable that the brilliant, capable, creative and outspoken women and girls I know, young and old, would ever want to look like Barbie.  In my world, they are authentic.  They take their work, their families, their relationships, and their friends seriously. They work hard, they play hard and they like fashion and looking good. They make decisions and they embrace their choices; they exude a confidence and happiness which is beautiful to be around -- they are beautiful. 

So, still a hopeful feminist in her third third of life, I hope we (Gloria and I) have in some way made 2014 a better year to be a woman. I hope my granddaughter will be hired for her talents and her integrity, and I hope one of these days I will tune into the nightly news to discover that our news anchors have decided to ditch Barbie. It's just not the 1960s any more.

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If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.

Virginia Woolf

Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/v/virginia_woolf.html#sllW3mrqQK3c1Reo.99

If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.

Virginia Woolf

Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/v/virginia_woolf.html#sllW3mrqQK3c1Reo.99

If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people. --  

Viginia Woolf