March 8, 2022

It is curmudgeonly to be irked by International Women’s Day. But irked I am.

The essence of my aggravation is simple. We shouldn’t have to have a “day.” We’re half the population. We should have half the days or all of the days since the other half of the population wouldn’t be here without us.

In the same way that there isn’t a White History Month because all the months are White History Months, there is no International Men’s Day. There doesn’t need to be.

I know it’s a sour way to look at the world.

But I’m the person whose last name was dropped off a property tax bill to save space on an address label. Overnight, and after thirty-eight years of marriage, I became a Mrs. with a name I never assumed or used.

It’s small. It’s slight. It’s tiny. I have International Women’s Day, after all, so the whole world is recognizing the unique contributions of my gender, the snipping off of my last name notwithstanding.

After all this time – since the dawn of civilization and especially the last fifty years – we have to have a “day?” It’s mortifying when you think about it, having to turn to your daughter and tell her it’s International Women’s Day and she should be proud. She should, I guess, but she should also be mad.

She doesn’t need a special “day.” She is a person in the world.

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International Women’s Day