International Women Aligned at the Seam

International Woman has been popping up at me all day, but just as soon as I take notice, she runs for cover again to be forgotten. And here, now, at the eleventh hour, I finally catch up to her, tired and almost out of breath. "What....what do you want from me?"

I look up from my desk and my eyes rest directly on an old children's toy I keep as a cultural reminder. It is the first time I'm struck that this isn't a symbol of my heritage so much as it is of my sex.

At first glance it appears to be a metaphore for motherhood. The baby Babushka in the belly of the mother and so on and so forth to the oldest, largest Babushka carrying all the weight of their generations within her. Upon further examination, however, it doesn't seem to be telling a story of motherhood at all.

When I was very young, just learning to write, I remember hearing about the cold war and perhaps I asked a question and perhaps the answer didn't penetrate properly but whatever happened in my head, I sat on the pink carpet of my room and I can clearly remember crying. I took out a piece of paper and started to make a list of the greatest concerns for mankind. Never the brain, I got it all mixed up. 'The 7 Wunders of the Wurld'. what is love, why is there war, why do we die? I don't think my poor heart was able to get much beyond that.

Now 20 some odd years later my wunders haven't changed.

I think back to the little girl I was then and the only difference now is that I'm bigger and can carry more weight. I carry the little girl, I carry her 3 minus 7 wunders, I carry the teenage girl, I carry her 3 times 7 blunders. I know that my Babushka doll still has some layers to add... but there are enough layers of the same now to recognize and admit that the next layer to come is going to be the same as the ones before- only bigger and able to carry more weight.

I think of the last episode I saw of Amazing race when the teams had to search frantically for the next clue in some belly of a room full of Babushkas and the chaos of it strikes a chord. Layers upon layers of mixed up women waiting to be put back together... Perhaps it's true that we weren't to blame for the disorder but certainly, we can't go on bemoaning the mess. The time is ripe for us to buck up and face who we are in this world; stop forcing together layers that don't fit; cease mixing ourselves up with the Babushka's around us. It's a long, tedious, arduous process, this humpty dumpty labour we're facing but it is beyond necessary.

There is nothing less fun and more frustrating than a Babuhska doll with mixed and missing pieces. Topless women who get used as change dish and ashtray, bottomless women spinning like tops. Anyone whose played with Babushka dolls knows that the pleasure is in lining them all up in ascending-decsending order and then putting them back together as one, bellies perfectly alingned at the seam.