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Some secrets of the sisterhood
By Deborah Taylor-Hollis
I'm having a hard time with affirmative action. I can't decide if I should be for it or against it. Should I support quotas based on race, sex, age or economic need to balance populations at every public institution from universities to police departments? Should I demand a return to blind admissions and hiring based on nothing other than "the best (man) for the job"? (Which frequently ends up being based on the subjective likes and dislikes of the interviewer and where the level of competency is based on criteria of information, education and experience that are exclusively white, Anglo-Saxon and male.)
Why am I in this conundrum? Even though I, a woman, was lucky enough to land the job of my dreams because of my sex, I am raising a son. A white, Anglo-Saxon male. As the new millennium reminds us, the future is tough out there, and I should embrace every special opportunity to help my son get ahead if I want him to succeed in the coming century.
It's just one of the conundrums I'm sitting on here at Raising-a-Boy Central. As a female (without any male siblings), I am uniquely unqualified to raise this child, having absolutely nothing to base my decisions on and veering wildly between general information and female intuition. Just how is a mom supposed to react when her son gleefully shows off how he can now burp "The Star-Spangled Banner?" Although I'm gratified he not only knows the song but knows what it's about, I'm mortified by his choice of verbal reproduction.
There are some things boys do that girls just seem to pass by--like the nose picking and the potty jokes. The girls I know feel embarrassed just at the suggestion that their noses might leak, while the boys take glee in whatever they can mine from their faces. And the use of bathroom words as joke material seems absurd to any normal person, but to a 5-year-old, the fecal descriptions are one long, hilarious stand-up routine. I am positively embarrassed to admit he is mine when he gets on a real testosterone roll.
Then there is the information I am holding back, and my concerns about how much I should tell him. No, I'm not withholding my drug experiences (well, maybe I am). What I'm debating is how much to tell him about women.
You see, I am a woman who cherishes the sisterhood. We have been through the crucible, and all of us understand the unique viewpoint of the female of the species--what we think and why we think it. It doesn't matter if we do not always hold the same opinions or beliefs; what matters is that we treat each other well, better than we may be treated by the male of the species.
The sisterhood includes the secret manual on understanding, manipulating, catching and marrying men. More closely guarded than the recipe for Coke, or the formula for Boston baked beans, the "Devious Tricks and Practical Tips" section is vital for any woman. It includes all those things we do when dating to enhance our position in the marriage market while downgrading our fellow sisters and removing them from the competition.
Part of me feels that in order to be the best mom possible, I need to clue my son in about a few tricks of the trade--from how to spot implants to what letters written on scented paper with burnt edges really mean, especially if sent to him while he's living with another woman. I feel he should know that, given enough time, patience and pleading, he can probably get his girlfriends to approve almost any decorating nightmare, pet or gruesome male roommate he wants in his life.
Then again, maybe I should keep my mouth shut about the female ways. After all, I may be torpedoing the best daughter-in-law in the world by giving away her female wiles. I could be shooting myself in the foot and depriving myself of grandchildren if I let him in on too many tried-and-true female schemes.
Each little tip I let slip could mean another great female doesn't catch my boy somewhere down the road. It could also mean all the potential tramps he will meet never get a chance with my boy. It's a tough choice for a mom. An unusually weird, tough choice--I feel a burp coming on.
Readers can contact Deborah at DTHollis@metronews.com.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
