Women Study
Part I
Bowen
I know it sounds odd, my being 100% male, but I am a professor in the Women's Studies Department of the local campus of our State University System. Now, my department is largely female: the "Head" is a rather distinguished woman who not only is known by many as a top flight historian in 20th and 21st Century women's history but she actually lived through and participated in a lot of crucial parts of it. Some may say that she actually shaped much of that history. Other women in our department are credentialed in Medicine, Philosophy, Psychology, Sociology, Law and Criminology, and even Urban Planning. There really isn't an area of scholastic endeavor that doesn't touch upon Women's Issues. All of these areas are led by women, as one might think it should be.
But I am the only man in our department and--no--I am NOT a token male appointee and I have tenure. You see, my field of study involves pre-twentieth century history. I know that covers a lot of ground but my focus is mainly nineteenth century history, more specifically 1800 to1900. This is an era rich in documentation as to the changing role of females in western society--more specifically United States of America culture. Oh, and I've written books, about that era and I am in demand as a lecturer, too.
But I'm not here to discuss my accomplishments or even to delve with any depth into the subjects of Women's Studies. I'm here to discuss...well...to tell the story of a particular aspect of my life and its influence on my career in the Women's Studies Department.
Though I doubt that the women in my department would second the opinion, I like to think of myself as a solid and competent scholar. Well, at the very least, I think I do a creditable job of work, especially considering my all-female milieu. It is also an environment where I need to be particularly careful not to step on any toes vis-à-vis political correctness. I use gender non-specific nouns and pronouns; I avoid "man-splaining"; I assiduously avoid looking at a woman's chest, hips, derriere, or legs; and defer to the prevailing concepts and attitudes of the Women's Movement. But, above all, I DO NOT FLIRT! I walk a razor's edge when it comes to personal relations with both my collegial professors and the students, of which most of the latter are women--young women. I would be vilified, pilloried, drawn, quartered, and eviscerated, castrated, and removed from my position were I to even transgress in the slightest way in this area. I doubt that I would be under a death sentence, though that might be preferable in the long run to the aforementioned punishments.
My wife, Norma, is in her way, very much a "modern woman", though in many ways not fitting an academics image of one. We have been married almost 30 years, during which time she has suffered the lot of being hitched to an academic--not a lot of money, frequent moves, political strife with the institutions of learning, and a spouse absorbed in his studies. We had no children, a simple accident of infertility in her case; we did not choose to adopt mainly because of our early meager financial means but, as it turned out, we had a friend would prove to be a more than adequate substitute for a child for a few years. Later in my career, there was money coming in both from the University and from royalties from my publications but this all came too late to make having a conventional family practicable. And, of course, Norma's later success in her business enterprises occupied a massive amount of her time and did put us on a very sound financial footing. But by the time we were flush financially, we were content not having children.
Now, Norma is an honest-to-goodness, up-state, country bred, farmer's daughter. My first job was a history teacher in a small town in the a small community upstate. How I wound up there is even a longer story. She was a 20 year-old high school Senior the first year I taught there and I was a 24 year-old guy looking to work my way up the ladder in academia, but I had to earn some money to enable me to do it.
The reason that Norma was a 20 year-old high school Senior was that she had to take two years off school to care for her mother who had been stricken with cancer. Her father owned acreage and farmed it for different crops. The term of art, in those days was "truck" farm, that meaning has expanded over the years. The "multi-use" farm did well but it was one hell of a lot of hard work. What medical coverage there was in the day was barely adequate. There wasn't enough spare money for nursing care for her mother and her father could hardly have been expected to handle all of it. One of her older brothers was away at college, something Norma's mother would not let her illness interrupt. Brother #2 worked the farm with his father and waited until brother #1 to graduated so he could go off to college. So, Norma stepped in and filled the bill but it took two years out of her schooling. The small town school board, being compassionately understanding, allowed Norma back into school for her senior year even though she was generally two years older than her classmates.
The fact was, however, that Norma was a 20 year-old WOMAN in a class of 17 year-old and 18 year-old girls. Two years makes a big difference at that age. Even though girls are far ahead of boys in their social development, being a 20 year-old can throw a kink into things--especially when the 24 year-old "new boy" history teacher was the object of interest to almost all of the girls, age notwithstanding.
I noticed Norma because she was...well...eminently noticeable. Norma was a robust, and busty, 5'10" (1.8). She weighed every bit of 140lbs (66kg), but trim--she's a farm girl, remember? Her breasts were a 36D cup (80D Euro). She had long blonde hair, usually in a pony tail, a beautiful face and a smile that was as bright as a mid-west sun in July. Yep..."Noticeable" is not enough of a word to describe her.
I'm 6'3" (1.9m) and about 210lbs (95kg). I'm not bad looking, if I do say so myself, and I was in pretty fair shape. What I'm trying to say is that we would make a nice looking pair--once we got together--but this "together" thing presented a problem.
There was no "together" until Norma was out of high school. Even back then, fooling around with students was "verboten" so I admired her from afar and made sure it was from AFAR. Besides, I had to watch myself to stay clear some of the other flirty female high-schoolers. It wasn't until my second year teaching at the high school when I began seeing Norma.
Now, I believe I mentioned that Norma was a firm girl, but she wasn't the giggly, empty-headed, round-heeled stereotype one often hears about in the "Farmer's Daughter" jokes. Norma was a working farm girl. She had two older brothers from whom she took no guff, so she knew about rough and tumble. And on top of taking care of her ill mother, Norma did farm chores, kept house, cooked meals, fixed machinery, repaired farm buildings, and took part in supervising farm hands. She wasn't much of a book scholar but she was smart--had a good head on her shoulders, as the locals would say--and she was not by any means a shrinking violet.
Norma was not in any class I taught at the school so I never formally met her, or even encountered her in person, until I ran into her down at the hardware store in town. I was there on a Saturday to get a link for my bicycle chain--I cycled pretty much every in town--and, there being no cycle shop in town, the hardware store was my only choice. Much to my chagrin, I discovered that there was a difference between a bicycle chain and a chainsaw chain, the latter being the only kind the hardware store carried. I was on my way out of the store in a funk looking at my damaged chain when I bumped into Norma--and I mean literally bumped into her. I wasn't looking where I was going and she was hefting a box of galvanized metal "hangers" that she had bought to further her refurbishment of one of the out buildings on the farm. (Did I mention that she could do carpentry?) I dropped my link and chain; she dropped her hangers...all over the place.
"Geez! I'm sorry! My fault!" I didn't think so but I said it anyway
I got down on my knees to help her gather up the metal pieces at the same time wondering where the hell my link went to.
"Oh, no! I wasn't looking where I was going either!" She was trying to be polite, too.
As Norma also stooped down to put the hangers near her back in the box, I couldn't help but notice that the two top buttons on her blue denim work shirt were open and that gave me a tantalizing view of her cleavage. (Remember? 36D?) Well, and she caught me looking!
"You looking for the hangers, Mister D_____?" There was no mistaking the sly look in her eyes.
If I had been drinking coffee, I would have spit it all over the place. If I had been drinking milk, I'm sure it would have gone up my nose.
"I'm terribly sorry," I tried to retrieve the situation, "I didn't mean to stare...."
"The metal pieces, Mr. D_____," she responded, "the metal pieces are called 'hangers'. We need to find the rest of them."
"Oh, I misunderstood...I mean...I didn't understand....I'm sorry," what shade of red my face turned, I'm not sure but Norma got it. I guessed she knew from "hangers".
"That's O.K., Mr. D_____," she said in a very mature, but teasing, tone, "I understand."
We got everything back in the box and I followed her over to her pick-up truck. She dumped the box in the truck bed, turned to face me, and put out her hand.
"I'm Noma G_____. I remember you from school last year," her voice was firm, "you're the new history teacher, am I right?"
"Yes, yes, that's me, " I shook her hand, "I'm surprised you'd remember. I didn't have you in my class and I'm sure I'd remember if you had been in the class."
"Well, all of the girls remember you. You were quite the topic." She dropped her hand and hooked her thumbs on her blue jean pockets. "You DID know that, didn't you?"
