Rebellion

Frozen statue in the Petit Luxembourg Garden, Paris, France , on Christmas 2008

Rebellion was my middle name.

At 5, I rebelled when I was told "girls don't climb trees." I earnestly continued practicing, curious to see what effect agility would have on my being a girl.

At 10, I rebelled when I was similarly chastised for whistling. I nonetheless became a whistling expert, convinced that blowing air through one's lips couldn't possibly have anything to do with one's gender.

At 15, I rebelled when, as a good Catholic, I was expected to believe that Jesus had been born of a virgin. I thought it not only very unlikely, but also most unfair that she should have to do all the work without having had any of the fun first. I chose to believe what made sense to me and to let go of the rest.

At 20, I rebelled when I was told I should "let the boys do the talking on dates because they didn't like intelligent girls." I concluded it was their loss, and never went out twice with a man who was not interested in what I had to say.

At 25, I rebelled against the sexual double standard: a man who had sex with any woman he was attracted to was simply "being a man," while a woman doing the same thing was promiscuous. While monogamous by nature, I decided that sex was a normal part of a healthy life and should be part of romantic relationships.

At 30, I rebelled when I realized that when a man stood up for himself, directly challenged someone, or behaved decisively in a confrontational situation, he was assertive (a quality), whereas a woman doing the same was labeled aggressive (a flaw). I decided to be true to myself, and continued being an assertive woman.

At 35, I rebelled when I decided that unmarried and celibate clerics had no business telling Catholic couples how to control the size of their families or manage their sex life; or forbidding priests to marry, condemning abortion, and declaring homosexuality a sin/disease/crime. I left the Catholic church and became a Unitarian.

At 40, I rebelled against an unhappy marriage, and left the “marital home.” Despite my attorney’s advice, who claimed it would be “too confusing” for my children, I took my own name back after the divorce. When I asked him why this should be more confusing for my children than taking on yet another man’s last name if I remarried, he had no answer. I smugly rested my case.

When, at 45, I was fortunate enough to find love once again, I rebelled again by opting, when we got married, to keep my own name, thus my identity.  While introducing him, I added matter-of-factly: “We have different last names because he preferred not to change his name to mine.” Most women laughed approvingly, while men looked baffled and walked away in acute oblivion of the implied message.

At 50, I rebelled against the stifling and rigid rules of the corporate world, and the arrogance and greed of the legal profession. After 10 years in the insurance claims business, I decided I needed to walk to the beat of another drummer, and resigned my position as senior personal injury claims adjuster. My emotional and mental health being worth more than my monthly paychecks, I gave up the latter to become a freelance translator.

At 55, I rebelled against the pervasive perception that "seniors" (which means anyone between the ages of 50 and 100) are second-class citizens, with non-existent sexual needs, decreased mental acuity, fewer intellectual skills , and diminished physical abilities. I have enjoyed proving them wrong ever since.

Now at 60, I am rebelling against human beings not having the right to be treated with the same mercy as animals, which can be put out of their misery when terminally ill or in too much pain. Valuing the quality of life as opposed to the length of it, I joined the ranks of those fighting for the right to die with dignity.

When I run out of either feistiness or things against which to rebel, it will be time for me to go. Until then, rebellion will remain my middle name.