There are so many entry points for me to talk about what International Women’s Day means to me.
— As a former single mother on welfare, I could talk about the wage gap, inadequate child care resources, unequal opportunities at various places of work, the poverty trap built into the welfare system and the way it disincentivizes people from trying to better their circumstances.
— As a woman who has experienced sexual harassment at work, in dating situations and while minding my own business walking along the street, I could talk about the objectification of women and incel culture.
— I could talk about gender equality, intersectional feminism, and the way that COVID-19 has negatively affected the employment numbers of women, who have been disproportionately affected by a contracting economy.
But instead, I’m going to bring it to a personal level and introduce you to my three daughters. Each of them displays certain characteristics of mine but filtered through her own lens. I remember when Phoenix was born being instantly aware of two things:
1. I had never felt anything as soft as her skin.
2. She was a distinct individual from me and would have her own thoughts, goals and dreams.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes as a parent, but I am proud of the fact that I never expected any of my children to fulfill unrealized dreams of my own.
I remember speaking at a conference early on in my founder’s journey. When talking about the origin story of the organization I established, my daughters figured prominently. In fact, the dedication in my book, Circuit Train Your Brain, was taken from that conference, where I told the crowd: “My first stakeholders were my daughters.”
It was my children who taught me the lessons of sacrifice, thrift, delaying gratification, planning, discipline, organization, structure, patience, creativity, thinking on the fly, crisis management and so many other things.
Phoenix is my eldest (upper right corner): She was “MomTwo” for much of our single-mom family years. One night, after I had been at work selling cars, I arrived at home after 9:00 p.m. (you couldn’t leave in the middle of a deal, and I had sold two SUVs that night to a man who had walked into the dealership at fifteen minutes to closing time). When I got home later that night, exhausted, I walked up the back steps and into the kitchen. I could see that a 12-year-old Phoenix had left me dinner, arranged in a single place setting at the table.
One year, when she was nine, I remember an episode that ended with her stomping up the stairs to her bedroom and slamming her door. Knocking before entering her room, I sat at the edge of her bed and said, “I have a confession to make, Phoenix. I’ve never had a nine year old before. …I’ve had three four year olds: when you were four, you acted one way. When your sister Mackenzie was four, I learned about a different version of four, and now that Elizabeth is four, I’m learning a third version of four years old. But I’ve never had a nine year old. For what it’s worth, since I’m the oldest in my family, my mom got to learn her parenting stuff with me, first, too. But I love you very much, and I’m doing the best that I can.”
Mackenzie is my middle daughter (the blonde), and she’s the one who would go toe-to-toe with me. She, more than the other two, has inherited my stubbornness. But, like me, she never presses a point unless she is right.
Once, during a particularly humid and ungodly hot summer day during the late 1990s, we were all working on cleaning the house. I went to the kitchen to make blended iced coffees for everyone. When the blender was done churning, I began to pour them out, but liquid spilled from both ends of the pitcher, streaming down the white enameled cabinet doors.
Furious and raging, I yelled for the girls to join me in the kitchen. Their feet thumped down the stairs, and they all lined up in the kitchen, waiting to see what was next. Phoenix was quiet. Elizabeth snuck furtive glances at her eldest sister to gauge how she should respond. But Mackenzie was looking me dead in the eyes, even as she sniffled. “Mom,” she began. “Why didn’t you check to see (sniff) if the base was screwed on properly before (sniff) you used it?”
And just like that, my rage evaporated. Because, of course, she was right. I was yelling at the wrong people. It was I who had messed up, and I told them so. Apologizing, I said to her, “You’re absolutely right, Kenz. I’m sorry.”
The nonprofit I established wouldn’t have existed without Elizabeth’s help. Literally. I established it after a divorce and being laid off from an advertising job. While I had a small severance and settlement, our family had gone from a six-figure lifestyle to a much more modest income. There were many months where her after school job helped pay a bill to keep the lights running or the internet functional. Today, there are women in Chicago driving (almost) free cars from that nonprofit because of Elizabeth’s sacrifice.
I remember referring to our family unit as Team Cantrell, and stressing to them the importance of us all working together to reach our family’s goals. Now that they’re all grown, I can’t tell you how amazing it is to have them as daughter-friends. It’s not that we’re peers, exactly; but I feel as if we are a pod of co-creating humans that have chosen to orbit each other as we experience this interconnected life line.
It’s pretty amazing.
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