In the fall of 1971, I was one in a group of five young high school women, who took it upon ourselves to begin our own small chapter of the National Organization for Women, NOW.
We were 16, fearless, and were ready to take on the male dominated world.
We knew firsthand that we made less at our after-school jobs than our male counterparts.
We knew which male teachers were creepy, that we would never use shorthand or recipes learned in Home Ec and that young men did not always believe that no meant no.
We drew straws to see who would have the privilege of buying the monthly copy of Ms. magazine, which we passed around like a holy relic and devoured with fierce hunger only the very young and devoted comprehend.
We bought identical bell-bottom jeans from the army surplus, large sunglasses and took to wearing belted mens oxford shirts without our bras. (To this day, I don't remember why it was so important to us to wear a uniform of men's clothes.) It took us exactly four weeks of not touching a razor to figure out you could still be a feminist and have clean shaven legs and armpits.
The five of us felt empowered by our sheros, Gloria Steinem, Betty Freidan, Madeline Albright, Shirley Chisholm and Germain Greer, wondering why it took so long for women to see the light, not yet realizing that we were, in fact, one of several later waves in the Women's Revolution.
There was no Google or Internet Explorer. There was the library, a little bookstore where I had purchased Maya Angelou's "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings" and week-old newspapers to which my grandparents subscribed, The New York Times and The Washington Post.
My grandparents, as always, supported me and my friends in our endeavor. We were told of the women in waves before us, Mother Jones and Suffragettes, Ida B. Wells, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Margaret Sanger. My Grandparents were adamant that one day, not only would there be an African -American President, there would most certainly be a woman. My Grandmother said "A Jewish woman would be ideal." My grandfather did his extended eye roll.
As I have observed before, the way home is long, but the trip is part of the journey.
The five of us are now over 60, all professional, all outspoken and all still devoted to women's rights. Not one of us will be voting for Hillary Rodham Clinton unless we have no other liberal, progressive option.
The five of us agree that she certainly has experience, drive and determination, almost to the point of being manic. We also agree that voting for her because she's a woman is against everything we believe in.
Earlier this month, Mrs. Clinton trotted Madeline Albright out like a show pony. "There is a special place in hell for women who do not support other women," Ms. Albright is fond of saying. Even if that woman is not the right person for the job?
Apparently, Mrs. Clinton and Ms. Albright have forgotten what the Women's Movement is fundamentally about. We fought long and hard to get to where we can and will, as politically savvy as any man, vote for the candidate who has a vision beyond November, a candidate who has plans that will positively influence our daughters and granddaughters. Hillary Clinton doesn't prove that to me.
My friends and I agree she is formidable and knowledgeable. But she also appears to be in it to win it for the historical footnotes and accolades the First Woman President would receive.
Young women today are not particularly impressed by Albright and apparently not Clinton. They are riding the next wave of women's liberation. The one where you vote for the candidate whose ideology and moral compass are in sync with your own.
West Virginia women, nowhere is it mandated that you must vote for someone because their sex, religion or race is the same as yours. This is undoubtedly, a defining moment in history. Inform yourselves. Read, listen to debates, talk with your friends, your daughters, your granddaughters. If you have not registered to vote, Secretary of State Natalie Tennant's website offers on-line registration. We have come into our own. NOW is our time.
Lynn Rousseau lives in South Charleston.