Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters Volume 4, Issues 1 & 2 | Page 63

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empowering. When I coincidentally pulled up beside an ex at a stoplight, I stared
him down, then flipped up my middle finger when he looked my way. I told my
boss I deserved a raise—and got it, I removed my therapist from speed dial.
Things were happening along the gender continuum that chaotic summer.
Shannon Faulkner battled to gain entry to the all-male Citadel in South Carolina
and prevailed. She entered the Citadel campus in August, requiring U.S. Marshall
escort. Women everywhere felt a shift, then the rebuttal when she dropped out
before the end of the first week. Vacating the institution in the wake of victorious
yells from the male cadets, Shannon bowed her head in the rain. I remember
watching her interviewed on TV, her knees facing Oprah’s, defending her
decision—shimmying off the cloak of obligation.
The woman with whom my father was having his affair would sometimes
call my mother. I once heard her raspy voice on the answering machine taunting
my mom. I couldn’t grasp her impulse. What more was she seeking? Are we not
sisters on a gendered team competing in a sphere where another sex still enjoys
the overall advantage?
Knowing these things about my mother, my father, and the pet-sitter
created an ugly space from which to plan a wedding. The details—flowers, a
menu, the vows—felt insignificant. Traditions seemed absurd. I thought about
Shannon bullied from the Citadel, and understood her flight. I heard echoes of
colliding expectations in Alanis Morissette’s lyrics. When considering our
ceremony, I vacillated between ritual and open rebellion. Maybe I would wear a
mini-dress, walk alone down the aisle, or choose “Welcome to the Jungle” for our
first dance.
My dad was a dead ringer for either Anthony Quinn or Saddam Hussein,
depending on how you viewed him. He told me that Richard Nixon was a king
among men, that his fearless father had been murdered by Pancho Villa, and that
if I didn’t behave like a lady I’d be checked by roaming demons. Turns out these
were all lies. He declared things that grew me into a conflicted adult. “You better
be nicer, Pamela,” he’d caution, “or no man gonna like you,” or, “The man is the

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