Meet Bridget
I finally decided to do it. It was something I avoided for many years and was proud to say I’ve never participated, never found interest in it, that my life was fine without it. Then my friends started doing it. I found out my sister does. What the hell? Sigh. Fine, I’ll try it.
And that is the story of this hesitant “self improvement” book reader.
On a side note, let me please point out that “self improvement” is not my favorite label for this genre and I would have called it something less “you need help-y” and more “take back your own narrative” but they didn’t take my feedback on that and this is why we have book publishers to make such decisions but I bet it had to be a vote in the end because I can’t imagine it was a unanimous decision by women to give a genre written mostly for women a title that implies the reader isn’t good just as they are.
I like who I am and mostly always have. I never thought that I needed motivation, inspiration or any nudging to be the best me. I thought this was obvious. More than two decades ago, but less than four, my high school social studies teacher predicted I would be the first President of the Anti-ArchiBunkerSkinHead[word-I-won’t-use-here]Feminist movement. I earned that candidacy.
In those days, I had fewer problems speaking my mind. I enjoyed arguing, especially when I could accompany those arguments with a black turtleneck, a cup of black coffee and a clove cigarette. I loved to read and paint and I kept an eye on the news (really, I kept my eye on Dan Rather. If you can believe it, back then he was even cooler than he is now) and used my voice a number of times to express my opinions about world events. I suppose maybe I used my voice a lot. The world still had a USSR and my country had created a New Jack City. There was a Desert Storm coming. There was a lot to discuss. And it was easy to surround myself with people who matched my flair for protestation. And coffee. And dark clothes. And the anti-styrofoam movement.
But you would never find this President contemplating a road less traveled.
But then I turned close-to-50 and discovered that I like hearing a good story about someone else. Especially when the stories use “whisper words” in their titles. Now, she’s writing books with words--nay, using capital letters which everyone knows is the text version of shouting-- like Gay! Divorce! Childless! Leader! Feminist! And she’s smiling on the cover and showing her face and telling the truth about periods and sex and body shape. She is vulnerable and tells me all about how that feels and in her story she says I can use it to get what I want and to be vocal about it is only unacceptable if I believe that trauma isn’t dinner conversation and joy is something to be humble about and success means sacrificing something personal like a child or a dying parent and that white privilege “isn’t a thing” and that there’s a right way to parent and a wrong way to partner.
These new “self improvement” books put a recall on the only story I had ever heard. What’s more, her story tells me that mine is worthy, too.
The master of storytelling, LeVar Burton (if you don’t know him, please right now open a new tab and wiki that sh*t) says the “uniquely human experience” of hearing a story “goes beyond the storytelling. We are transmitting an inheritance.” There is a purpose to every story. It could be to pass on history, to spark activism and social responsibility. My partner in this project, Marci Goldberg Bracken, rightfully compares our storytelling to being the Fodor’s of girl-ing. Every woman’s story is another woman's guide through her own journey.
These are all the reasons we created Living Crue. We are storytellers.
Best,
Bridget
