WordSisters

Category: Working women

  • Chasing Spring

    The youngest member of the extended family is crawling and wanting to walk. His four-year-old sister prefers hitting a softball that is pitched, not set on a tee. The older cousin is closing in on successfully completing her first year of middle school. They are progressing in predictable ways that we all celebrate.

    If only the spring of 2026 would be as predictable instead of posting temperatures inspiring sundress wearing one day and tumbling forty degrees in a handful of hours. Snow, sleet, ice, rain and sunshine can be experienced during a school or workday. In the cities frequent snowstorms topped with melt and freeze have turned streets, even major thoroughfares, into pothole disasters. In the Midwest, farmers ducks float where spring fieldwork should be happening. 

    We could accept Mother Nature’s uncertainty in April. In May, we are done with heavy fleece jackets and would like to get the kids out of shoes that were worn a size too small through late winter snowy, slushy weather. But we’ll wait until spring really settles in. Money is as tight as the kids’ old shoes.

    Farmers can’t afford the same amount of fuel and fertilizer they ordered in 2025. Families don’t talk about summer vacation travels. Many worry about the coming expenses of feeding kids two additional meals much less extra day care or camp programs. We’re putting in vegetables where marigolds or coleus filled garden spaces. It makes sense if you have the time. Teach the kids about gardening and tending vegetables instead of using gas on unnecessary shopping trips. Maybe neighbors can pool childcare to save money. This might be the summer the grandparents are able to host grandma camp, or a cousin would appreciate getting out of their own home to hang out with the youngers.  

    It’s been a rough year and we can weather this. The kids want to spend time with their parents whether on a lake or in a community pool. We made it through Covid with its isolation and money squeeze. We supported each other through the Ice surges. Now we must figure out soaring gas prices and inflation. If we share with each other from what we have for a few months, we can manage a decent summer.  If spring will truly let go.  

  • Dear Dr. Rajender . . .

    Dear Dr. Shyamala Rajender,

    The University of Minnesota and the Rajender Consent Decree are probably far from your thoughts. Most of the time they are far from mine, too. However, recently I realized that it’s been 40 years since the decree bearing your name helped me.

    I’m writing to thank you.

    Your courage fighting gender discrimination changed my perceptions of the world and set me on a feminist path that informed the rest of my life—how I see myself and thought about my career, how my marriage works, and how I raised my sons.

    Forty years ago, I was a Freshman Composition instructor at the University of Minnesota-Morris, my first professional job. In the spring of 1980, I got in trouble with the all-male senior faculty in the English department, because I wanted to present a noncredit lecture about women’s literature for a Continuing Education series.

    Several of the senior faculty reacted with a policy that stated, “. . . instructors in English should not participate in off-campus events, either formal instruction or informal presentations, which, in effect, call for a person who has been judged expert in the teaching of English literature.” In other words, I wasn’t supposed to talk about literature even though I had an M.A. in English Literature. The policy was odd and confusing. Several of the literature professors at UMM had been tenured with only a Master’s degree. But my credentials—which were the same as what some of them had—were suspect.

    At first, I was more scared than angry (anger came later). The Continuing Education director and the EEOC officer knew I was afraid I’d damage my career by fighting the policy, so they informed the academic dean about my dilemma. The dean and others were aware of your gender bias case against the Chemistry department on the main campus. Consequently, the dean insisted the English department rescind their policy, and I was allowed to give the lecture.

    Later that year, a number of faculty members, including me, received a $2,000 raise as a result of the Rajender Consent Decree. It’s hard to imagine now, but increasing my salary from $12,000 to $14,000 per year was a meaningful raise then. In general, it’s hard to convey to younger people just how crazy the late 1970s and early 1980s were for professional women.

    Your decision to fight the University of Minnesota had a lasting impact on my life.

    At 25, I learned gender discrimination was as real and insidious as the fatherly men in the English department, who didn’t see me as their equal and wanted to limit my opportunities. That experience didn’t drive me away from academia, but like you, I left the academic world several years later.

    Your career was exemplary (first a Ph.D. in Chemistry, later a law degree). Mine was much more ordinary, but I was always aware of the example I set as a woman in the workplace. Your determination to fight gender bias had a far-reaching effect on me and so many other women. I want to acknowledge your heroic contributions.

    Thank you again for your courage.

    Sincerely,

    Ellen Shriner

  • Goodwill, Here I Come

    It seemed like a great plan: I’d take my no-longer-needed work clothes to a consignment shop and make a little money. Consignment store clothes are already inexpensive, and consignees only get a cut of the price—say 40 percent. So maybe I’d make $20. Then I’d use the cash for something fun—a little treat.

    Choosing what to discard (a la Marie Kondo) was hard. I liked the clothes, felt good in them, and had enjoyed wearing them. But it didn’t make sense to keep them, since I no longer needed business attire. Maybe somebody else could use them. Last winter, I came up with a pile of about 15 pieces—jackets, tops, and pants. I washed them, hung them on hangers, and tried to keep the cat and his walking cloud of cat hair away from them.

    Feeling virtuous and lighter, I called around and learned that the stores don’t want winter clothes in the winter. August is when I should bring in my fall and winter items. So I moved the clothes to the back of the closet and made a note on my calendar.

    Last week, I loaded up the items and drove them to a nearby consignment shop. The sales associate said it would take an hour or so to go through my stuff. I assumed that meant deciding how to price everything. I took off to run some errands.

    When I returned, I warned myself that the prices for my things might be lower than I expected. My cut might be small. Oh well, it was just meant to be fun money. No big deal.

    When I found the sales associate, she said, “We are only able to accept a few of your clothes. Everything else is more than three years old.” In other words, my stuff was too out-of-style. I have never considered myself to be a fashion maven, but I thought my clothes were within acceptable limits for middle-aged business style. It’s not like I brought in a bunch of 1980’s power suits with jumbo shoulder pads.Power Suit pattern

    “Do you want to take them back with you? If not, we can donate them,” the sales associate suggested. After making the decision to part with the clothes, I wasn’t bringing them home again. “No, go ahead and donate them,” I told her. I glanced at the three things she was keeping for sale and thought, “I’ll be lucky if I get $5 out of this. That’s a lot of work for a cappuccino!”

    I laughed as I left the store and mentally paraphrased David Foster Wallace, “That’s another supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again.”

    Next time I clean out my closet, I’ll go directly to Goodwill!