Social Influence: the doom of empowerment
As I look back over major decisions I have made in my life, I see a pattern that clearly displays how I have allowed others to influence those decisions. It is one thing to seek guidance or advice, and an entirely different scenario to allow undue social influence to determine a final decision that affects the rest of one’s life.
My first major, life-altering decision came at the tender age of sixteen. I was raised in a lower-middle class family, of which I was the black sheep in that I was an over-achiever. I was never content to idly sit by and accept my lot in life. I taught myself to quit stuttering the summer between fifth and sixth grade after being humiliated by the class bully. I competed for and won a spot on the cheerleading squad in Middle School despite being told “poor kids” were not good enough to belong to such an elite group. And I successfully stood up against the orders of the high school principal who informed me I would have to either give up the honor of being elected Homecoming Attendant for my class or my “hood” of a boyfriend, and proudly had him escort me to the homecoming dance while wearing my Junior Homecoming Attendant sash. You would think a girl who had the strength and moxie to overcome so many obstacles early in life would not have crumbled so quickly to undue social influences. But in 1968, when a “good girl” became pregnant, social proprieties had to be met and an immediate wedding had to be planned.
My first husband never asked me to marry him, and I never said yes. In fact, only the week before I discovered I was pregnant, while at the prom with my “hood” of a boyfriend and soon to be husband, my best friend and I discussed how we were going to breakup with our boyfriends after their senior graduation parties were over. We would have ended our relationships sooner but there was the prom, and everyone already had dates, and then of course there were all the graduation parties. We both may have been dumb enough to get pregnant by age sixteen, but we certainly were not going to miss the main social events of high school. However, once the “preggy” bomb was dropped, neither John nor I considered we had a choice in whether we were going to enter into matrimonial bliss. Our mothers got together, planned the church wedding, and made sure we both showed up.
Uncharacteristic for him, my father did lovingly come to me the night before my wedding day to assure me I did not “have to get married.” And for a split second I considered not getting married. Even as naïve as I was, I knew neither John nor I truly loved each other. And I knew I really did not want to marry him. I wanted to graduate the next year and go to college and become a lawyer. But, I was pregnant and what I wanted was no longer important. I still had the marks from the beating I suffered at the hands of my mother wielding a leather belt the night she found out I had “shamed the family.” My father was wrong, I had to get married. The social reality of 1968 loomed over my head and buried the empowerment he was offering.
I have often thought about the “what would have been’s” had I had the courage to stand up against social influence. Shortly after I was married, the women’s movement gained strength and ever since much ado has been made about empowerment. The physical beating I encountered at 16, with the many emotional and psychological beatings I endured through twenty-two years of marriage, never allowed me to personally accept this empowerment until many years later.
I was 42 years old and complaining to my 20 year-old son about missing the opportunity to go to college. He listened for a few moments and then questioned why I didn’t go now. Feeling even more sorry for myself, I responded with, “ because I’ll be 50 before I get a degree.” He thought for a few more moments and very wisely responded, “But mom, in eight years you are going to be 50 anyways. It is your choice whether you will be 50 with a degree or 50 without a degree.” Choice?, I had a choice?
I had been thinking about going to college for several years. However, I allowed the social prejudices of the day that implied college was for the young, who had futures, to convince me I was too old. In one simple sentence, my son unknowingly set me free from years of accepting I was not worthy. I regained the strength it took to overcome stuttering and reclaimed the moxie it took to stand up against the snobs and bullies of higher social classes. I registered for college and five years later graduated summa cum laude. A little bit of empowerment goes a long, long way.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
