Today, you hear many feminists, especially the newer or so-called "third-wave" feminists, talking about being strong woman. Their version of what being a strong woman entails, among other things, shamefully displaying their bodies in skimpy and provocative clothing, swearing worse than sailors, acting like ill-mannered men, and generally behaving rudely in public. They seem to believe, by their actions, that courtesy and respect and good manners are signs of weakness. They are proud of the fact they have had and sometimes continue to have multiple sexual partners and believe in wearing the fact they had an abortion on their chest like a medal.
Well, let me tell you about a real woman of strength: my great-grandmother Irene. She was born in Alabama in 1895 and died in 1988 at the age of 93 and those who knew here will never forget her. She was a strong woman. Heck, she was one of the strongest people I knew period. Yet, she would have thought these modern feminists to be silly. Actually, she would have considered them to be disrespectful tramps and probably would have ignored them, for in her mind, you were only worthy of attention if you displayed a character and attributes worthy of emulation. If any of her children or grandchildren had acted in the manner of the feminists of today, she would have exhibited her firm belief in the adage of "spoil the rod and spoil the child."
Irene was fearless. Let me give you some examples. In New Orleans, we often had floods in the springtime that would fill most of the streets with about two to three feet of water. In northern states, children get snow days off from school. In New Orleans, we got flood days. Sometimes, we children would go out into the streets and play in the water when our parents weren't watching, because it was a fairly dangerous thing to do. If anyone wandered over an open manhole cover, that would be the end for him. More commonly, though, was the fact that the water could be full of fire ants that had gotten washed away, and there could be cottonmouth moccasins that would come floating in from the outlying areas and people did occasionally get bit going outside of their houses because a cottonmouth had gotten washed up onto their porch or in their backyard. Well, my great-grandmother had no fear of those snakes. I remember looking out the window and seeing one on our back porch. Irene would grab the broom, step outside and sweep the offending creature off the porch where she would end its existence with the use of her hoe. One time, I watched as she went out to dispatch one that was sunning out on the lawn. The snake struck at her and probably would have bit her if it weren't for Irene's dress. See, the snake hit the dress at an area between her knees, and as there really wasn't anything to bite into there, it simply slid off and hit the ground. It never got the chance to strike again, because even as it was attempting to recoil, the hoe came down and chopped it in two about six inches below the head. She never flinched or cried out at all. I wish I could say I was equally brave around snakes.
Another time, I happened to be playing in our front yard when my dad pulled up in his old 1970's VW Beetle. My parents had divorced before I was a year old on account of my father proving to be a violent, abusive man when sober and almost twice as bad when drunk, which was often. He was supposed to have custody of me one weekend a month and for a month or so in the summertime, but from the time I was old enough to be aware of situations around me, I refused to spend any real time with him. I was beaten many times by him for little or no reason at all. For instance, one time at the age of six, when I arrived over at my grandfather's house (my dad's father) to spend the weekend, I walked up behind my father and clapped him on the back and said hello. He turned around and punched me in the stomach, dropping me to the floor in pain, then picked me up to me feet and told me never to touch his back again. Then, because I was crying with the pain, he slapped me across the face and told me to knock it off. I did, and then he went back into his bedroom and slammed the door and I kept asking my grandfather to drive me back home until he finally brought me back to my house. That was probably one of the "finer" moments spent with my dad.
Anyway, on this particular day, my dad pulled up and was going to take me away. He came up to the gate and demanded that I come out and get in the car because he wanted to spend the day with me. I had no intention of going with him; the only emotions I could summon up toward him was anger and hatred. I backed up and was going to go into the house. My dad began to open the gate and come into the yard after me when the front door of the house opened and my great-grandmother stepped out and walked down the front steps toward where my dad stood. She walked right up to him and told him to get back in his car and leave. My dad blustered and said no one was going to get between him and his son (not a bad sentiment for anyone not like my father). She stepped closer and looked him right in the eye and told him clearly "Get out of here or I will give you a slap" and she raised her hand to strike him across the face. To my wonder, he backed up and got in his car and drove off. He swore a few times but he left. I realized that day that people of real strength, not just brute physical strength like my dad possessed, had the ability to give an order and have it obeyed. There's just something about the tone of their voice that snaps people to attention and gets them in line.
Modern feminists love to ridicule or insult men. They believe that's a sign of being a strong woman. My great-grandmother never once put down men. To the contrary, she appreciated manly characteristics. That does not mean, however, that she tolerated all of the peccadilloes than men are prone to if they don't have discipline. For instance, she could not stand laziness in any form. In her mind, men were the breadwinners and also the ones to keep the house and property in good condition, and that meant that they put in some good hard work every day to make sure the family had everything it needed and to repair any problems with the house. To Irene, there was nothing worse than a man who sat around when there was work to be done. I remember one time we were having a big family dinner. My great-grandmother, my grandparents, my mother and my siblings and several aunts and uncles and their children were all gathering. Everyone was busy doing something. My grandmother, mother and great-grandmother and aunts were all helping to prepare the food. The younger kids were doing housecleaning. The older ones were helping out with whatever needed doing. Everyone was busy save for my grandfather, who was sitting in his nice, comfortable armchair in the den watching television. My great-grandmother had gone over several times and pointed out things that needed to be done. My grandfather largely ignored her and just kept watching whatever was on at the time. Finally, she went over and turned the television off and then stood in front of him and told him in no uncertain terms that men who don't work, don't eat. My grandfather got busy.
My great-grandmother was a hero to all of us because of her strength and courage. She also stood as the finest example of the meaning of a strong woman. She did not tear down men, rather she helped them to be strong men. In my mind, that's what all people of strength do. They build each other up and help each other to become stronger, regardless if they are men or women. They do not take delight in tearing down or destroying anyone. I wish all modern feminists could have a woman like her as an example.