Sometimes I get discouraged about trends in American culture and politics. But recently, I was privileged to be a part of a U.S. citizenship celebration that pierced my cynical armor and helped me remember that it is good to be an American.
Arwa, a middle-aged Jordanian immigrant, brought a feast to the adult English language learners’ (ELL) class where I tutor. She had just passed her American citizenship test, and she wanted to celebrate with her classmates and teachers.
Learning English is hard. Every time students open their mouths, they’re likely to mispronounce a word, mix up the tense of a verb (I has a cold), mangle an idiomatic expression (We make party for my son), or be misunderstood because their accents are so heavy. They’re subject to constant corrections. To succeed, students have to be thick-skinned and persistent.
Steve, who teaches the class where I volunteer, sets a supportive tone. He leads the students in cheering and clapping for each other. They understand each other’s embarrassment, so they are encouraging and kind—no mocking.
We are teaching American culture as well as language, so we try to foster acceptance of other people’s customs, too. Steve sets up teams so African, Central American, Asian, Middle Eastern and Eastern European students must interact with each other and take part in playful competitions.
So when Arwa passed her citizenship test, it was natural for her to celebrate with her classmates. The other students know how hard it is to persist. Everyone is far from home and misses their family, their food and customs from home, and the ready access to people who understand their worldview. They understand what it means to let go of allegiance to a homeland and embrace a new country.
Sharing food is the language we all understand, so Arwa brought chicken shawarma, homemade hummus, lemon yogurt from scratch, little buns with a Middle Eastern version of pesto, salad, brown bread, and banana chocolate chip bread. She also had chunks of ham, salami and bologna as well corn chips, snack crackers, flour tortillas and soda.
I worried briefly about how her classmates would respond to the food. Some eat meat, some don’t. Some eat pork, some don’t. The only hiccup was that we didn’t have forks. I watched Arwa spoon yogurt onto the bread so I put a dollop of yogurt onto a piece of tortilla. Soon the other students caught on and did the same. The North Africans (from Liberia, Somalia, Kenya, Egypt) recognized and relished the food. The Thai and Hmong students sampled more carefully, but were complimentary. The Hispanic students (from Mexico, Cuba, and Ecuador) spooned food into the tortillas and rolled them up. Everyone complimented Arwa on the food and thanked her. We all clapped and cheered for her because she is a citizen now.
Throughout the spontaneous party, Arwa beamed. She is so proud to be an American citizen. I don’t know whether economic opportunity, war, love, or religious freedom (Islam is the majority religion in Jordan and she wears a necklace with a silver cross) brought her here with her husband and two children. It’s not the sort of thing we ask about in class.
One time I helped her study for the citizenship test. I’m sure many native-born Americans would struggle with the test, and at times, I wasn’t always sure of the answers. She told me that she’d been studying for three years—that’s almost enough for a college degree. How many native-born Americans would work that hard to belong here?
Arwa is so pleased and grateful to be an American. Perhaps she values it more because she worked to hard to achieve it. In the face of her accomplishment and pride, my cynicism about America’s shortcomings fell away, and my faith in the American dream was renewed.
Recently, my son mentioned that he’s decided to ask for a raise. My immediate (but unspoken) reaction was caution: Don’t rock the boat. Look what a great learning opportunity you have. In this economy just be grateful to have such a good job. That mindset exemplifies a gender difference—women often are afraid to ask for a raise or insist on a promotion.
When I think about my son’s situation more objectively, I realize he’s right. For the last nine months, he has been doing a product manager’s job without the official title or the additional money a product manager would make. Higher-ups in the organization have publicly recognized his efforts, so it is a good time to ask for a raise.
I was surprised to realize how ingrained my caution is. Because I’m aware of women’s tendency to be self-effacing, I thought that mindset no longer had power over me. And yet, I can recall times that I’ve devalued my contributions. I know that women worry about being disliked if they advocate for themselves—I’ve done that, too.
Reluctance to rock the boat is one of the reasons why women’s salaries continue to lag behind men’s.
The pay gap figure that’s often used is that the median earnings of full-time female workers are 77 percent of the median earnings of full-time male workers (Bureau of Labor Statistics).
Often women aren’t confident, effective negotiators. Many times women feel grateful for the job—lucky to have it at all—instead of recognizing the value we contribute. Or women want to be liked and worry that pushing for what we’re due will be seen as being aggressive. There are good reasons for women’s concerns.
A recent New York Times article describes research that validates the persistent, and often unconscious, perception that women who ask for raises and promotions are unfeminine and demanding.
Linda C. Babcock, one of the researchers the article cites, addresses the “apples to apples” argument in her book Women Don’t Ask. When comparing the salaries and negotiating experiences of single men and women who had just earned MBAs, she asked, “When you got your offer, did you attempt to negotiate?” She found that about 7 percent of women attempted to negotiate, while 57 percent of men did. Of those people who negotiated, they were able to increase their salary by over 7 percent.
There are other systemic reasons for the wage earnings gap. Here are some of the common counter arguments rationalizing it:
Women often take more time off – They are more likely to interrupt their careers when they become parents, and they are more likely to be the default caregivers for sick children and parents.
Although I couldn’t find evidence to conclusively confirm or disprove it, this assertion feels true. The trend is certainly true of the women I know. Obviously, if a woman works fewer hours and/or her family leave is unpaid, she will make less money in a year when she has heavy caretaking responsibilities (whether or not she should be responsible for more of the caretaking is a different issue).
But it doesn’t make sense for women to be penalized long-term for shouldering that responsibility. For example, 10 years’ experience should be 10 years’ experience, whether the employee is a man or a woman. If a woman works full-time for five years, then takes off for five years to be with her children, then brings her skills up to speed and returns to full-time work for an additional five years, her pay should be that of a person who has 10 years’ experience. The interruption shouldn’t have a lasting effect, but often it does.
Women often enter lower paying professions such as teaching, nursing and food preparation, and that’s why they earn less.
The low-paying profession argument deserves a closer look. Female elementary school teachers make 90.9 percent of what men make and female nurses make 85.6 percent of what their male counterparts make (Institute for Women’s Policy Research IWPR #C350a). That’s still a wage gap.
Women in high-paying industries also lag behind men. Female physicians and surgeons earn 71 percent of what males in those fields earn. Female lawyers earn 77.1 percent of what male lawyers make.
The size of the gap may vary, but the fact of a persistent wage gap is undeniable.
The gap grows during the span of a woman’s career. If a woman doesn’t make the same salary as a man at the beginning of her career, she is very likely to be playing catch-up at her next job. The lag will compound over the course of her career.
What makes pay equity even more challenging is that employees don’t know the salary range for their positions. Many employers have spoken or unspoken rules that forbid inquiring about coworkers’ salaries, so employees can’t ask without fear of retaliation. The Paycheck Fairness Act 2014 is intended to make it easier for women to know what their counterparts are being paid and give women the data as well as the legal clout to insist on equal pay. But even if salary transparency were legal, discussing income is nearly taboo in our culture.
As history and other anti-discrimination laws have taught us, changing hearts, minds and cultures is even harder than changing laws. Addressing women’s reluctance to negotiate and employers’ subtle bias against women who do seek raises and promotions are the real challenges.
Our writers group is missing and remembering our founder Lisa this month by . . . what else? . . . sharing stories. Rosemary, Brenda, Jill, Elizabeth and I have added our remembrances to Jean’s
Brenda, Jill, Elizabeth, Ellen, Lisa, Jean. Rose is behind the camera.
Ellen
The stepladder teetered a little, jiggled by my efforts to scrape the excess paint from Lisa’s storm windows. The sun heated my neck but a light breeze lifted my hair and cooled my sweaty head. The day was one of those glorious September days that appear in calendars but are rare in real life. In the narrow garden behind my ladder, yellow chrysanthemums—a traditional fall flower—competed with top-heavy tomatoes—summer’s best.
About ten of Lisa’s friends were positioned around her one-story twinplex to get her windows ready for winter. In assembly-line fashion, we scraped old paint, recaulked, repainted, or razored off dried paint.
The project was classic Lisa. When her stomach cancer returned and chemo left her too weak to handle household projects, Lisa allowed her network of friends to help. She was always uncomfortable with asking for help, but recognized that it was necessary. Lisa struggled to believe our assurances that we wanted to help—but we did, because there was so little else we could do in face of her relapse.
Someone sent out an email to about 30 friends and close to a dozen people responded. Because so many people were involved, the work went quickly and no one had to devote more than an afternoon to the effort. Many of the helpers didn’t know each other, since we were drawn from Lisa’s large network of friends—I knew Lisa from the writing group she started a dozen years ago. Several people were former coworkers, one was a former beau, two were from her QiGong class, another person knew Lisa from her church’s social justice committee, and so on.
I’ve never known anyone with such a wide circle of good friends. Long-divorced (but still friends with her former husband and his new wife), Lisa had a remarkable capacity for making and keeping friends—we became her family.
* * *
Rosemary
Lisa. Writing group member. Friend.
Lisa was in the process of dying for many years. When her stomach cancer returned after a long absence I kept a short, but distinct distance, not wanting to experience another loss. But at some point during the last year or two of her life, I consciously decided to join her ever-growing group of supporters and personal pals. I was very lucky.
In doing so I gained a thoughtful, emotionally evolved companion for movie excursions, photography exhibits, group dinners, poetry readings and QiGong. I met many of her friends from other spheres and interests. We also spent some time alone together – buying and bringing to her home a bookshelf, and getting a frame for her favorite piece of art.
I was going through a tough period myself with anxiety and depression. Lisa sat with me when I could not tolerate being alone. She and I walked a small neighborhood labyrinth together one fall afternoon. I brought her into my circle of friends where for an evening or two she did not have to think about dying or be known only for that. She could escape cancer.
Lisa taught me a few things about dying. Not one to be sentimental about it, there was mostly a calmness, a practicality in her attitude. She didn’t stop living: Qigong every Wednesday morning with a breakfast group afterwards, trips to Northern Minnesota cabins for outdoor experiences, times set aside to play with her grandchildren. Most of all, she showed me how she took care of herself. Resting when she needed to. Talking when she could. Hauling her meds and apparatuses with her. She planned parties, decorated her house, and made a chapbook. Writing memoir, reading poetry and editing till the end.
Lisa. Friend. Writing group member. Teacher.
* * *
Brenda
There are few things that I make time for outside of work and family. One of these things is my writer’s group. I have Lisa to thank for that.
Many years ago, after completing my graduate degree in writing, I was looking for a place where I could continue to nurture my love for words and improve my ability to put them together. I saw a tiny ad in the Loft Literary Center newsletter that said a nonfiction writing group was looking for members. Hoping I could become a part of a new writing community, I answered the ad. And now, eight years later, this group has become an essential part of my creative life. I have Lisa to thank for that.
Lisa was the one who started this group years before that little ad appeared. I got to know Lisa through her essays and poems. Whether penning an essay about life as a child in the ’50s or a poem about birds sweeping through the sky, Lisa showed me that words have power, that words can communicate with beauty and grace, the ephemeral experiences of our daily existence.
I loved reading Lisa’s words, but the truth is, she was always a little hard on herself about her writing. She chided herself for not writing more and more seriously, yet in her last bit of life, she documented her experience with cancer on her Caring Bridge site in posts that were honest, funny, heartfelt, self-deprecating, and totally Lisa. She published a chapbook of poems so lovely they often left me in stunned silence. She hosted her own reading to celebrate her writing and her life.
At one point, Lisa was worried about how much she could still contribute to the group, so she tried to quit. We didn’t let her. We weren’t quite ready to say goodbye and knew she wasn’t either.
By now, we have said goodbye but I still think of Lisa when we gather on Saturday mornings, talking about words, sharing our lives, and helping each other with more than just our writing. And I thank Lisa for that.
* * *
Jill
What Lisa Taught Me About Dying Living
As members of the same writing group, I knew Lisa primarily through her beautiful poems and her CaringBridge entries about her slow death from stomach cancer. We were acquaintances, not close friends.
When her cancer started to win its years-long duel, Lisa’s family and friends rallied to her aid. As part of her circle, I received the email requests to help with household projects that Lisa could no longer manage. Later, I was invited to use the online calendar another friend had created so that Lisa’s many friends could schedule their visits and not overwhelm her family.
I opened the calendar, but never put my name in one of the slots, never drove to her son’s home to see her in her final days. I felt I would be an intruder in that intimate landscape. But I also felt guilty for not joining the rest of our group in supporting Lisa and her family.
The last time I saw Lisa, she was in the hospital, a few months before she died. I visited during my lunch break from the adjoining hospital where I work. I entered the room to find her sitting in bed, smiling. I tried to apologize for not taking part in the house-repair projects, or stopping by to see her sooner. She brushed me off. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You have a busy life,” she said. “I have lots of people to help me. Tell me about your writing.”
And in that moment, I learned that it was OK to be a different kind of friend to different people. I didn’t need to run errands for Lisa, or drive her to appointments, or offer to clean her house, the way I had for my best friend years earlier as she lost her own battle with cancer. Lisa had other people in her life for that. I had done for Lisa what I was capable of doing. Hosting our writing group at my home for a marathon submission party for her work. Being in the audience at the beautiful reading she hosted as a celebration of her writing and life.
So during my last visit with Lisa, we talked about writing, the thing that connected us. She encouraged me to keep working on my novel. I told her how much her thoughtful criticism of my work had helped me over the years. But what had inspired me most, I shared, was her constant presence at our table, even when her health was at its worst.
Lisa had reserved time and energy for us. We had given back to her in our own ways. As it should be. Lisa taught me that we don’t have to be all things to all people. But we can give of ourselves what we’re capable of giving. We can come to the table with open hearts.
* * *
Elizabeth
“Lisa’s on a trip.” When I first met Lisa, she was a palpable part of the writing group although she wasn’t physically present. The group talked about her as if they were placing pushpins on a map, keeping track of her whereabouts. At every meeting, they described another trip that Lisa was on, another location, in another part of the world.
When I finally did meet her, I took stock of her diminutive form. Wondered how so much spirit and energy could be packed into such a little person. She was not ever to be dismissed, to be gone around, or not taken into account.
And when she gave you feedback on your writing, you felt good because she had read your work and prepared a thoughtful response.
It made me feel special when she was talking to me.
Even now, I know she’s just on a trip. I feel her during our gatherings. She is still present in our thoughts and in our conversations.
