.  It’s a tricky time to be an American traveling abroad –although we tried to be good “ambassadors” for our country. In general we avoided bringing up politics, but quite often Europeans, Canadians, Australians, etc. would ask us. We learned to reply, “Why, what’s your impression?” It was generally not too favorable – and more than one asked, “Is it your electoral system that’s the problem?” Unfortunately, we did encounter some “Ugly Americans” – and I’m sorry to say I wasn’t better at responding. One man, seated at our dinner table, asked where we were from – Massachusetts. “Oh, you’re from the land of Pocahontas and all her braves.”  No matter how we might feel about EW (mixed), it was such a disrespectful thing to say: to us, to EW, and to Native Americans. The other time, I was sitting with a woman (I’ll call her Marisol); she was from Brooklyn. A couple sat across from us, introducing themselves, from Florida, I think, and wanted to know where we were from. Marisol answered, “New York,”, but the man said, “No, where you’re really from, your family.” She said, “Well, originally Puerto Rico.”  So, he says, “You know the old joke about Puerto Rico, right?  A man says to his wife, ‘let’s go to Puerto Rico.’ And she says, “Why, we don’t know anyone there.’ And he says, “We can visit all our old hub-caps.”  End of joke. Marisol didn’t get it, at first. But I did; then I saw it dawn on her face.  I’m sorry now I didn’t say, “That’s inappropriate and not appreciated.” I guess they could tell it didn’t go over well, and they soon left. Then I did say to “Marisol”, “I’m sorry he said that; it was stupid and offensive.” Too late. So, that’s freedom for you, for some people: the freedom to show disrespect anywhere, anytime. But it’s not pretty. And it’s not anyone I want to sit next to, thanks very much.

In Lake Champlain, not far off the shore from Burlington, VT is a rock that stand out of the water which is not an island.  On the cruise ship, “Ethan Allen” the narrator pointed out the rock as we passed, and shared a couple stories about it.
 
To the Abenaki, Native Americans of the area, the rock is Oodzee-hoza, the name of an ancient being who lived in the area. He was said to have no legs or short legs, but very long arms to drag himself around the earth. He used those arms and his hands to create the hills, the valleys and the path of the rivers. The last thing he made was the lake, his masterpiece. He then transformed himself into the rock standing out of the water so that he might admire his creation in all its entirety. For hundreds of years the Abenaki would go out on the lake and offer pipes and tobacco to Oodzee-hozo, thinking if you allowed him to smoke, he would calm the winds to allow safe voyages across the lake
 
The rock has another name: Rock Dunder, less romantic. This name supposedly comes from an incident during the Battle of Valcour, part of the Revolutionary War, which took place on the lake. Nightfall found the American vessels blockaded, but they managed to slip out and flee south. In the morning, the British realized the Americans had gotten past, and so turned and fired after them. “In the morning fog, they fired on Rock Dunder, believing it to be a vessel. Only later, when the fog cleared did they realize their mistake. According to legend, the officer in charge cried out, “It’s a rock, by Dunder!” earning the place its name.
 
In more recent times, two versions of the story met up, in a sense, when a group of boaters thought it would be a good idea to blow up the rock with dynamite, to clear the channel for ships and boats coming into port. Only the Abenaki asked them not to, and explained why.  And so the rock remains, without a light, without trees, without visitors except those who may be paying a call to a being who they believe continues to enjoy and to share his most beautiful creation. 
 
It’s an interesting history for a rocky outcropping in the middle of the lake. But the message may be about the stories we hear as we grow up in this world, and the stories we tell to others and our children.  What do the stories reveal, and what importance do they signify? And, what stories do we choose to take in and to live by?

Sometimes, when I’m looking for another, better way, my thoughts turn to the distant past in a far away place, to the Etruscans – the ancient people of Tuscany, who pre-date the Romans, and whose culture and origins remain largely a mystery. Archeologists don’t know where they came from, and their language is unrelated to any in the Indo-European family. They were well-to-do, literate, expert craftsmen and traders, settled in de-centralized, resource-rich, hilltop city-states, pious but fun loving. They used an alphabet similar to ours today, but left little record of their history or beliefs. Instead, much of what is known about them comes from their burial places – villages of the dead called necropolis – which replicated and celebrated their domestic lives. Experts now say that much of what comes to us through the Romans – building techniques and systems of organization – came to them through the Etruscans. But in other ways, they are so very different.
 
The Greek and Roman historians who wrote about the Etruscans grudgingly admired their wealth, art, and technical accomplishments – but criticized much of their behavior, especially in regard to women. Etruscan women were literate, they could own and bequeath property, they could be priestesses, they could attend banquets, drinking and toasting with men (children were also welcome).  They kept their own names, and had their own burial “beds” or shared them with their husbands.  Evidence shows that some Etruscan women rode horses, and a Roman visitor declared that the women “stripped naked and exercised at the gymnasium with the men.” This was at a time when Roman women, under “paterfamilias” – the law of the father – were meant to be invisible and had only the female variant of their father’s name. And the Greek “symposium” – drinking and philosophizing parties were exclusively male. In the Greek tragedy, the Bacchae, middle-aged ladies get drunk and fancy themselves dogs pursuing and killing a stag. When they sober up, it turns out the deer was the teen age son of one of the women –not a happy outcome. In the Etruscan world, the more egalitarian partnership of husband and wife is honored on tombs which depict couples in loving embrace.
 
In other aspects, the Etruscan were quite unique – again, as reported by outside visitors. They used music to lure wild animals in the hunt, and herded goats and pigs with a flute – a la Pied Piper. Funerals were occasions of dancing, music and athletic events. Etruscans were guided by priests, trained at colleges, who used divination to determine the will of the gods, principally through reading of lightning, animal livers, and the flight of birds. Divination guided all activities, large and small, giving spiritual meaning to all aspects of life. Initially, the gods were fairly abstract forces, but later Greek gods and mythology were adapted for Etruscan purposes. Even the chief gods acted in consensus with other gods, and even the most powerful had mixed duties, including the nurturing and sustenance of infants and children. To reach the afterlife required a journey by land and sea, which began with a high dive (no kidding). The afterlife itself, initially, was more banqueting and the continuation of this life’s pleasures.
 
The Etruscan “Golden” age was probably around 700 BC to about 300 BC, when the Roman incursions began. Parts of Etruscan culture persisted until the fall of Rome in 400, over a thousand-year period. The final centuries were darker, more somber, as reflected in their art. They had been known as fierce fighters against the Greeks and Phoenicians, but they were not able or willing to band together to resist Rome, never uniting under a “tyrant” who would lead and rule them all. Instead, they faced decline with the same fatalistic attitude as their long run of the good life, all of it determined ultimately by the gods. Eventually, their villages were Romanized, and what remains is their burial places and likely some of their DNA in today’s Tuscans.
 
Still so much is unknown about the Etruscans. And there were negative aspects of the culture as well, including owning enslaved people – also criticized by the Romans as too well dressed, well fed and well housed. Yet, they left a legacy not only of life well lived, but of the possibility that such a life can be lived. Other societies, too, have had their long eras of the “good life” for most of their members, not just for those on top who exploited those below, mainly by means of violence. Many indigenous peoples have had histories of respectful relations between groups and genders. But the Etruscans stand out as a literate people in somewhat urban settings, who manufactured high quality products and art, yet resisted the impulses of all those other societies around them to dominate within and without.

One of the pleasures of having our sons at home over the holidays is the chance for interesting dinner conversation – filling in the gap between generations. This year, as we were enjoying my husband’s famous (in our family) meatballs and pasta, he asked, “So -- “woke” – what’s that supposed to mean?”  There was a moment of silence, as we considered. Even knowing the term, the meaning is not certain. Arising out of the “Black Lives Matters” movement, the general idea is “awakening” to the continuing social injustices of America, and the need to do something about them. Or, perhaps, not to remain “asleep” – indifferent, uninformed, complacent - to the forces that keep institutional racism and sexism at work – even if they don’t appear to affect us directly.
 
“Heightened awareness,” was suggested. “All that white privilege stuff,” someone tried.  It was an effort trying to get at it.  Finally, the boys looked at me – teacher, writer, social justice activist, Mom – seeing if I could make it more understandable to someone who hasn’t confronted these issues directly, or the discussions going on around them.
 
“Hm…” I said, “Maybe the idea that we continue to see white, heterosexual European Christians as the “norm” of this country, and everyone else is “other” – and deficient in some way.” It was a starting point, but one I could speak to.  I could explain how I’d come to the awareness myself as a young person through my experiences of being raised by a single mother with financial struggles, and by having friendships and romantic relationships with people of color – seeing things through those other lenses.  Even though, at the time, I didn’t have the language for it or understanding of what it was based on.
 
Our older son, speaking from a recent diversity training at the start of med school, explained what they were trying to convey: the need to recruit and retain doctors of all backgrounds to serve in the medical community; the need for doctors from the dominant culture, particularly, to be aware of cultural differences in communication and in attitudes toward medicine; and the idea of being able to work comfortably and effectively with all manner of staff and patients, cultivating two-way understanding, not simply a “delivery” of knowledge and services.
 
Our younger son completed a class on “Portrayal of Disabilities in Art and Literature” – encountering the “double consciousness” that W.E.B. Du Bois wrote of – how some people have to manage multiple, often disparate images of themselves – how they see themselves and how dominant society sees them.  He wrote a paper on “The Kings’ Speech” – about Queen Elizabeth’s father, who became king after his brother’s abdication and struggled with a severe stutter. The power of the film, as my son saw it, was showing that all the medical methods to fix or cure him came to nothing. It was only when a controversial man without credentials became a coach to the King, helping him see that he was not a “defective” person, but strong, capable, experienced and wise – that he gained the confidence and motivation, as well ask the skills, to manage the stutter.
 
Being “woke” is not easy, in my experience, or very welcome, initially.  It’s like Dorothy waking from the poppy fields in The Wizard of Oz – (those of you who know me can guess which of my men is the Lion, the Scarecrow and the Tin Man).  The landscape is foreign, there’s a sense of danger, and the success of the mission is not certain.  But in this case, it’s waking up to an understanding that there is something false about the “American Dream” as we know it, and to realize that much of the prosperity of America has been based on unpaid-for land and labor – enforced by unfair laws and violence. To justify this exploitation has required a denigration of others, by race or sex, belief or able-bodiness.  It’s uncomfortable to recognize our unwitting complicity in a system that has been rigged in a certain way. But once “woke”, it’s almost impossible to go back to the old way of seeing things.
 
The question becomes, what to do? Like Dorothy, we’re still waking, sleepy-eyed, knowing there’s so much we still don’t know. The problem is, it’s still hard to have conversations between “others” – to bridge the divides to share first-hand experiences. But not impossible, if we seek to re-educate ourselves, learn from new sources and new voices. And if we talk about it. And talk to our children about it. Once begun, the effort takes on its own impetus, adding meaning and purpose to lives sometimes too caught up with consuming what is unnecessary and distracting ourselves from what is important.
 
To be woke is to know that time is running out – that the problems of today are too great in scale and complexity. The loss of human potential due to structural racism and sexism is a danger to our mutual survival.  It won’t be a scientific or technological breakthrough that heals our planet – it will be many minds working with many kinds of knowledge to make things better on the earth and with each other.

Concord, MA – our neighbor town – home to minutemen, abolitionists, transcendentalists, feminists – and Henry David Thoreau – has a history to be proud of. But Concord, MA, was also slave town and a place where scenes of cruelty toward enslaved and free black people were played out in places very familiar to me.  I had no idea - until just recently, thanks to a museum exhibit and a book which have taken on these issues, with a view to showing a more complete truth, some of it quite ugly. It’s too easy to point fault at the southern states for the long history of racial trouble in this country. Even in the most “enlightened” of places, sad and terrible things have occurred, never reckoned with, never accounted for, never faced, hidden over. 
 
In the 1770’s, a man named Case Feen, enslaved in Africa, was chopping wood on a winter’s day for his Concord master. The master’s son pelted him with snowballs as he worked, for fun.  Case turned and threw his ax toward the youth, missing. In fear of his life, he took off through Gowings Swamp, a place I pass on my drive into Concord; he ran through the Great Meadows, where I go to bird-watch; and he hid in the shallow waters of the Concord River, where I have skipped stones with my sons; escaping the townsmen who had turned out with guns and dogs in pursuit of a fugitive slave. He gave himself up to a neighbor and slipped away to enlist in the colonial troops – ultimately returning to work in Concord as a freedman, since he had no where else to go and his labor was still needed.
 
In another story, Brister, a freed slave living in Concord, was never humble enough to find acceptance or even tolerance from his white neighbors, even in his older years. One day, a white man and his friends, decided to test and torment 68-year old Brister, by luring him into a barn with an angry bull, and locking the door shut, leaving him with only an ax for defense. To the men’s surprise, Brister managed to kill the bull and survive, finally emerging through the unlocked door – but “white as a ghost” from his battle, which became the punch-line of the other men’s “joke”-- having turned a black man white from fright, traumatized and silenced for the remainder of his years.
 
Not every story involving the black population of Concord in its early years is a tragic one, but none is very happy. A young woman, Ellen Garrison Jackson, in spite of discrimination, was a star pupil at the Concord public schools, going on to become an abolitionist before the Civil War, and a teacher to freed men and women after the war, but she left Concord in her late teens, never to return. There was no life for her there. Not long after the Civil war, the small population of black residents in Concord disappeared from the landscape – migrating out, or succumbing to disease and malnourishment, from their lack of ability to own and work viable farmland.
 
I’ve lived in Bedford, MA, located between Lexington and Concord, for almost 25 years – and am an ardent student of history – there’s hardly a local tour I’ve missed. But, only in recent years have I learned these different versions of their history - through a visit to the Robbins House museum near Concord’s North Bridge battle site, home to black families in the 19th century.  And from reading “Black Walden” by hometown author and professor, Elise Lemire – who says she herself was taught nothing of this other history while growing up in Concord. From them, I’ve learned about the lives of people of color who moved here or were brought here, gleaned in large part from a surprising source: the journals of Henry David Thoreau, and “Walden” itself – where Thoreau speculates on former residents – squatters who were allowed only to live on undesirable soil, surviving on the fringes until no more were left. 
 
It’s not just “additional” history that’s come to light, but essential history, that impacts the traditional interpretations. The “freedom” to plot and to act against the royalist government was allowed in part from enslaved, unpaid labor. Abolitionists were willing to upset the social and economic systems of the South, but not to accept people of color as neighbors. And as always, always, we need to “follow the money” of early American prosperity – which in the case of northern businessmen, as well as southerners, was often tied up, one way or another, in the trade of enslaved human beings.

Concord, MA – our neighbor town – home to minutemen, abolitionists, transcendentalists, feminists – and Henry David Thoreau – has a history to be proud of. But Concord, MA, was also slave town and a place where scenes of cruelty toward enslaved and free black people were played out in places very familiar to me.  I had no idea - until just recently, thanks to a museum exhibit and a book which have taken on these issues, with a view to showing a more complete truth, some of it quite ugly. It’s too easy to point fault at the southern states for the long history of racial trouble in this country. Even in the most “enlightened” of places, sad and terrible things have occured, never reckoned with, never accounted for, never faced, hidden over. 
 
In the 1770’s, a man named Case Feen, enslaved in Africa, was chopping wood on a winter’s day for his Concord master. The master’s son pelted him with snowballs as he worked, for fun.  Case turned and threw his ax toward the youth, missing. In fear of his life, he took off through Gowings Swamp, a place I pass on my drive into Concord; he ran through the Great Meadows, where I go to bird-watch; and he hid in the shallow waters of the Concord River, where I have skipped stones with my sons; escaping the townsmen who had turned out with guns and dogs in pursuit of a fugitive slave. He gave himself up to a neighbor and slipped away to enlist in the colonial troops – ultimately returning to work in Concord as a freedman, since he had no where else to go and his labor was still needed.
 
In another story, Brister, a freed slave living in Concord, was never humble enough to find acceptance or even tolerance from his white neighbors, even in his older years. One day, a white man and his friends, decided to test and torment 68-year old Brister, by luring him into a barn with an angry bull, and locking the door shut, leaving him with only an ax for defense. To the men’s surprise, Brister managed to kill the bull and survive, finally emerging through the unlocked door – but “white as a ghost” from his battle, which became the punch-line of the other men’s “joke”-- having turned a black man white from fright, traumatized and silenced for the remainder of his years.
 
Not every story involving the black population of Concord in its early years is a tragic one, but none is very happy. A young woman, Ellen Garrison Jackson, in spite of discrimination, was a star pupil at the Concord public schools, going on to become an abolitionist before the Civil War, and a teacher to freed men and women after the war, but she left Concord in her late teens, never to return. There was no life for her there. Not long after the Civil war, the small population of black residents in Concord disappeared from the landscape – migrating out, or succumbing to disease and malnourishment, from their lack of ability to own and work viable farmland.
 
I’ve lived in Bedford, MA, located between Lexington and Concord, for almost 25 years – and am an ardent student of history – there’s hardly a local tour I’ve missed. But, only in recent years have I learned these different versions of their history - through a visit to the Robbins House museum near Concord’s North Bridge battle site, home to black families in the 19th century.  And from reading “Black Walden” by hometown author and professor, Elise Lemire – who says she herself was taught nothing of this other history while growing up in Concord. From them, I’ve learned about the lives of people of color who moved here or were brought here, gleaned in large part from a surprising source: the journals of Henry David Thoreau, and “Walden” itself – where Thoreau speculates on former residents – squatters who were allowed only to live on undesirable soil, surviving on the fringes until no more were left. 
 
It’s not just “additional” history that’s come to light, but essential history, that impacts the traditional interpretations. The “freedom” to plot and to act against the royalist government was allowed in part from enslaved, unpaid labor. Abolitionists were willing to upset the social and economic systems of the South, but not to accept people of color as neighbors. And as always, always, we need to “follow the money” of early American prosperity – which in the case of northern businessmen, as well as southerners, was often tied up, one way or another, in the trade of enslaved human beings. 

Sexual harassment on the job, sexual assault on campus, sexual abuse in the church and private schools – none of this is new. In fact, it’s old, old stuff – covered up for ages. So, why is it now “NEWS” of the type that hasn’t disappeared over night? After the first women spoke up, many chimed in, offered support, while others shook their heads in confusion, skepticism, and even worry. “Where will it end?”
 
 I’m surprised and glad the day has come, given my own experiences as a young single woman on my own supporting myself in the 70s and 80s. Stuff happened, bad stuff. But let me say here, also, that in my own long history, I encountered so many more good men of kindness and character. And the men I said “No” to, for whatever reason, stopped what they were doing, and I was never assaulted. For that I am grateful.
 
I’ve been pondering this – about sharing some incidents that happened when I was a teen, at my workplace.  The first involved my boss, the owner, who asked me to accompany him to a location remote from the main business for some purpose, and so I went along.  When we were some distance away, out of sight, he parked and started kissing me – the first time ever kissed by a grown man-- although I didn’t want to. I was so surprised, I let it go for a few minutes before pulling back, doubtfully.  He wiped his mouth, started to drive away, and never said a word, then or after.  I learned quickly to become “busy” and engaged with customers or a job if he came around.
 
In another incident, also at the work place, a customer came up from behind, put his arms around me and squeezed my breasts.  He had me pretty firmly, but I elbowed him and stepped away, only looking to see who it was and give him a dirty look. I remember thinking, “You old geeser” – although he was probably in his 50’s.  I wasn’t so much afraid – I could have gotten away, but I was disgusted and offended. I didn’t say anything then. Who was I going to complain to – the boss?  On another occasion, on another job, my new boss asked me out for dinner and drinks ON MY FIRST DAY – saying afterwards he’d like to go out again. I had to say NO – in fear of risking my job – which he accepted, but it made for an awkward situation. Waiting tables at a "fine establishment"? Forget about it; hands everywhere.
 
From those experiences, I was wary and careful about being alone with men in the workplace, or other situations out of the public eye – including conferences where there was lots of drinking – early to bed, lock my door. I know that other women handled things differently. And, let’s be real, there are women who have used looks, sexuality, etc. as a way of getting what they wanted, when other forms of power were so much harder to get. But if I had a daughter, I wouldn’t want her hampered or limited in opportunities because she was made to feel uncomfortable at work – that’s just another way of keeping someone “in their place”-- because it’s part of the power structure that has existed and been reinforced by silence.
 
It NEVER occurred to me to complain or ask for help. And I thought I was a feminist!  I thought it was normal to dodge guys who did or said something inappropriate.  What’s weird is I remember reading a passage from a book – Tom Jones by Henry Fielding, (I think) – that compared a young, unmarried woman on her own, between the safety of father and husband, as  “hare” on the run from hunters in pursuit. And I thought we were so far removed from that day!
 
 How did we reach the tipping point after so many years and so many incidents, so much silence, and so much disbelieving?  I can only conclude that enough younger women, emboldened by the gains of women in terms of power and economics, are just not willing to take the inappropriate behavior – to go along.  The actors and celebrities who started the protest against Harvey Weinstein had reached a social, emotional and psychological place where they decided it was worth this risk to speak out. Then the #metoo movement gained traction from women and some men of all ages, adding their stories.  I know this hasn’t been everyone’s experience – men or women – but I know enough people, certainly women of my age group, who went through this. And kept silent.
 
I’m glad these people spoke up. I never reached that point of speaking publicly – until now – when those men are long past accounting for. But I have told these things to my husband and my sons – and told them, too, I will be silent no more.

Perhaps we have reason to thank Russia – for the DNC hacks, the election meddling – and so much more.  But principally for revealing ourselves to ourselves.  Helping us in the USA, finally, take off the “cloak of innocence” that so many have worn since our nation’s beginnings. That is, the willing ignorance about parts of our history, such as Native American genocide or the unprosecuted lynchings of the Jim Crow era. The lack of accountability for how our behaviors have had consequences for others or for the environment. And, to some extent, a basic refusal to deal with a reality that calls to question some of our illusions of freedom and prosperity, aka, the American dream. For all the achievements and innovation of the American culture, there is a stubborn denial of the true costs. Ta-Nahisi Coates calls it the “plundering” of land and bodies and environment – the taking for gain without regard for harm to others or our collective future.
 
We have Russia to thank for showing us that our cyber-intelligence is not so first rate as we might have thought. Some of the major discoveries of governmental email hacking came out of AP reporters' investigations, not the FBI – which moved slowly to notify victims well after they knew.  We can thank Russia for showing that America is not as savvy, desperate or innovative in knowing how to undermine elections.  We never even guessed what they might be up to – too naïve, it seems.
 
We have Russia to thank for showing us that our social media companies were very capable of looking the other way when new users with Russian names and/or addresses, opened accounts, bought advertising and started posting “fake news” during the last presidential election. According to an article in the Boston Globe, “Facebook has acknowledged that more than 126 million users may have seen inflammatory political ads bought by a Russian company, The Internet Research Agency.”
 
 Russia helped us to see that many users of Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, as well as visitors to other websites, are not likely to question assertions or check sources before responding and/or sharing false information. Is it any consolation that the Russians did the same thing in Great Britain at the time of the Brexit vote – also very close, also could have gone the other way? Pretty much, both elections stolen out from under our feet, as we were waiting and hoping and casting our votes, heedless of the danger.
 
We have Russia to thank for showing us that our own politicians were ready, if not complicit, in riding the waves of bad information, rumors, and outright lies.  The plutocrats of post-Communist Russia were able to connect with and enable American plutocrats to be bolder and braver, more explicit in getting what they want. And to use their leadership to inspire fiercer, more virulent language and behavior in their followers, hoping to share the spoils or avoid the targettng.
 
Mainly, the Russian interference revealed, but did not cause, the underlying racism of American society.  Yes, significant progress has been made, but not without a “backlash” of bias and violence against people of color or different religions. America, being a patchwork of cultures and ethnic groups, has always had frictions and tensions related to assimilation or accommodation, but mostly, gradually, freedoms and rights have spread across populations.  Until they haven’t.  Progress is not inevitable, and can be reversed, at least in the short term. 
 
Those clever Russians, they got us this time. Caught snoozing. But for what reason? What’s their end game? It’s not clear to me what the long-range agenda might be – except to weaken the USA and the EU, creating an atmosphere more beneficial for plutocrats to consolidate their own trans-global power.  Or, is it that they want to shake the grip of American dominance that has prevailed over the last half-century? Is it “against” something, rather than for?  America may not have been quite as exceptional in all ways as we might have hoped or thought, truth be told. For it's own purposes, Russia has been kind enough to hold up a mirror for us to look at ourselves – not always a pleasing image.
 
The potential for true greatness in America -- in freeing the creative energy of the greatest number of people in the greatest number of possible situations is not lost – yet – unless we allow the plunderers to continue, by not doing our part in holding them accountable.

Even dead a couple hundred years, Jane Austen has legions of fans. I’m jealous. For a woman author from the 1700’s who didn’t get a lot of support or recognition in her own lifetime, her brand has endured and grown…into a literary empire as well as movie and TV industry.  Good for you, Jane!
 
Gentle readers, you may well appreciate Jane Austen, but you don’t know Jane like I know Jane.  I like to think of us as sisters, almost, sharing a special bond….of writing (at least trying) and also “genteel poverty”. That’s the kind of poverty you were not born into, but spent time in after some kind of disaster wrecked your comfortable middle-class existence.  In our case, both of us lost fathers who were educated and respectable gentlemen. With our dads went the family’s main source of income and the loss of financial security and certain opportunities. We both spent time living with other relatives and we both struggled to figure out our place in the world…and how to get by.  
 
As it turns out, Jane’s brother eventually was able to help out financially, and Jane went on to produce classic literature (although she got little benefit from that).  She never married nor had children. I paid my way through college and spent some time perusing my theater dreams, living on my own, supporting myself with a variety of jobs, pretty much living hand to mouth until I became more financial secure through marriage (my husband and I were fairly equal wage earners in our early years, but he soon outdistanced me after the children were born). My other siblings did not have it easy, but chose more prudent employment or achieved financial security through military service.
 
Of course, two hundred years apart, separated by 3,000 miles, Jane and I did not live identical existences.  In her writing, she had a keen eye for social customs and manners that dominated her world.  As a contemporary American, I was less tuned into those kind distinctionss, until I began so see how truly prevalent they are, in spite of what we tell ourselves. It’s our little secret, Jane’s and mine, that the American dream, like the British, can capsize and sink just as easily as it rises, and often does. It’s no coincidence that a modern rendition of Jane’s stories are the “cozies” – Agatha Christie style murder mysteries, where a chief motive for murder is inheritance. No sociopaths here, just “rational” upper middle-class individuals in utter terror of losing their identities – tied to their income and socio-economic status. Truly, a whites-only affliction.
 
In Jane’s day, there was a stark future for spinsters who did not marry well.  Or, an emotional prison for those who did marry, but not well.  For a woman today, society is still structured so that men are better paid and less expected to be caregivers.  If a woman with young children is divorced or widowed, she must still somehow find means of income AND cover childcare. The math does not add up. There is a modicum of aid through government programs, but none is designed for comfort, only for getting by. Some women will still marry for financial security, but that is uncertain in a day of high divorce and insecure employment. I know personally several educated white women with brains, skills and experience who have ended up in tough financial straights due to divorce/widowhood and caregiving responsibilities. It still happens, not infrequently. Welcome, my sisters, to the world of “genteel poverty”.
 
OK, my poverty was never quite as “genteel” as Jane’s – it had to be more rough and tumble being out in the world. I took lots of sh** jobs to pay my rent and expenses.  At one time, I explored donating my womb as a surrogate parent – the $10,000 fee was very enticing, but I just couldn’t do it—too genteel, I guess.
 
What was hardest for me, I think, was what was hardest for Jane: putting on a good front, that nice smile, when everything at home was falling apart.  Of course, you had to use good manners, speak well, and to go along with what was socially expected. But the other part of you is thinking desperately, “Will they see these run-down shoes? How will I pay this bill?  I haven’t eaten a good, square meal in weeks and months.”  What about when my “date’s” family discovers I’m from a “broken home” without money of my own – will they think I’m a “gold-digger?
 
Sometimes, a nice girl like me (and Jane) would just like to curse the world, and run off to hide under our blankets with a good book.  Or, we’d like to write out stories of how it all turns out fine for the good-hearted, deserving people.  The prick of discomfort, of worry, and of having known a better life is what turns us inward and burns inside our breasts. If we should ever meet in the afterlife, Jane and I, I expect we’ll have a lot to talk about.