Because I Was a Girl Page 4

  “A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.” This was one of my momma’s many adages. She would say it on a regular basis in an effort to get me to speak. But she would also say, “Stay in a child’s place.” What a contradiction! I learned at an early age that the best way to stay in my place was to keep my mouth shut. Although I wasn’t even sure what my place was since my mom had boarded me out to someone whom I refer to as my “wicked godmother”—and I didn’t give her that title for fun. As an act of punishment, this woman made me wear pants to school on picture day—this was in the 1950s, and little girls always wore dresses on picture day. (She also used to make me sleep in the garage with her dog, Bugga Bear.) Wearing pants that day was the worst. I was the laughingstock of the school.

  My childhood was full of contradictions. I grew up in South Los Angeles, with a black mother who was married to an Italian before the civil rights movement. My mother was a domestic worker, and her job required her to live with her employers, a Jewish family—that’s why she left me in the care of my wicked godmother during the week. The way I saw it, my momma should have been taking care of her own child, not someone else’s, but who was I to say anything? I was just a child staying in her place, a child with a closed mouth, looking to be fed.

  On my eighth birthday, my momma held an amazing birthday party for me. I actually felt like a normal kid that day. I was the princess; all eyes were on me. My momma made me a candy cake with white frosting and bought me my first pair of white oxford shoes, with which I could wear a pair of fold-down, ruffled socks. I remember smiling all day long. The sun shined a little brighter on that day, and there was no need to keep my mouth shut. I ate until my heart was content.

  When the party was over, so was my time with my momma. It was time for me to return to my godmother’s. I gathered my belongings and watched my mother’s husband load them into his car.

  “Did you enjoy your day?” my momma asked.

  I nodded and smiled.

  “I can’t hear a nod, Babette.”

  “Yes, Momma,” I responded.

  My mother ushered me to the car—she was staying home to clean up while her husband drove me to my godmother’s house. I hugged her and got into the car. I was sitting on the floor in the backseat because there was no way I wanted anyone to see me in the car with an Italian. A colored girl and an Italian step-father? Another contradiction.

  On the way home, my mother’s husband pulled into an empty parking lot and whispered, “I have one more surprise for you.”

  I hopped off the floor and with a burst of excitement asked, “What is it?”

  He gestured for me to climb over the seat. “I promised you I’d teach you to drive, but your feet aren’t long enough to reach the pedals. So here’s the deal. We are going to work as a team. You sit in my lap and steer, and I will press the pedals for you.”

  Momma would have a fit if she knew, but who could pass up such an opportunity? I hurried to sit on his lap, and the escapade began. I was having a ball, and so was he, but at my expense. I knew something felt wrong, yet I was having so much fun—another contradiction.

  That day was the beginning of a cycle of sexual abuse, and I remained silent—I stayed in a child’s place. I eventually moved back home with my momma. The abuse continued for several years. It had become such a regular occurrence that I became accustomed to it. One day, my momma’s husband followed me into a closet, and my little sister (whom he never abused in any capacity) witnessed it. She threatened to tell my mother. I’m not sure if she did, because my mother never had a conversation with me about it. But that was the last day he ever took advantage of my innocence. His abuse stopped that day!

  My mother remained married to him well into my adulthood. My daughter even referred to him as grandpa, and I still remained silent. I tried very hard to block those memories, and I did this as a coping mechanism. I turned my pain into passion, and with every project I ventured into, I gave it one hundred percent. But I never addressed the abuse until I got older and had the opportunity to speak with a professional therapist.

  I am now a successful business owner and motivational speaker, and as a chef, I not only encourage people to open their mouths and be fed nutritious food, but I also encourage people to be heard. There is a contradiction about silence. It can be an asset but also a hindrance. Any child who suffers from abuse should SHOUT, SCREAM, and KICK until she is not only heard but also fed the love she deserves.

  There are many sentient beings, including animals, who suffer daily from abuse. Animals, unlike humans, have no choice but to remain silent because they can’t speak. It is my desire to one day start an organization that supports both abused children and animals, one in which the kids and the animals help one another heal.

  GRAMMY AWARD–WINNING SONGWRITER AND PRODUCER

  Photo credit: www.mattbeard.com/ Matt Beard Photography, Inc.

  HOLLY KNIGHT

  I came into this world with my creative spirit intact, no doubt about it. By the time I was four, I could play music by ear. I would listen to my mother practice piano, and when she walked out of the room, I’d sit down and play whatever she’d just played. I loved music so much I practiced before school, after school—any chance I could get—and where other parents forced their kids to practice, mine had to ask me to take a break.

  When I was eight, I discovered rock music—the louder the better. From that point on, all I wanted was to be in a rock band.

  Years later, when I was sixteen, with the dream still burning bright, I left home to chase it. When I told my mother I wasn’t going to pursue a career in the classical world, she was devastated. She thought that I was throwing away ten years of hard work and that my talent would go to waste, that I would abandon music altogether, but I had other plans. I loved classical music, and I wasn’t going to stop playing; I just wanted to do so much more.

  Right away, I noticed that while many talented female singers were out there, hardly any were female musicians, certainly not in any of the rock bands I grew up listening to—Led Zeppelin, The Doors, The Stones, and The Beatles, and as I got older, Queen and Aerosmith. Even today, it’s rare to see a female guitarist, drummer, or bass player, and usually when you do, you hear “She’s really good … for a girl.” How about just “she’s really good”?

  If men have anything over women, maybe it’s their brute strength and ability to lift heavy things. But in music, to play any instrument skillfully, whether it’s electric guitar, keyboards, or any other instrument (with the exception of drums … maybe), it takes no physical superiority at all. In fact, it’s quite the opposite; to play well requires dexterity and fine motor skills and, of course, talent. The idea that only guys can rock and play brilliantly is ridiculous. So why do men have the monopoly on rock music?

  Despite the lack of other female artists, I was not dissuaded from my dream. At age sixteen, I strutted into the man cave that is the music industry and never looked back. I helped to form my first band, Spider, in the late 1970s. I was the keyboardist, and one other woman was in the band—the singer. We were a hard rock band, and we kicked ass. After a year of playing and showcasing, we recorded a bunch of original songs and got signed to a record label. Without knowing who wrote what, the record label always picked the songs I wrote as the singles, and after two records, I left the band to pursue a full-time career writing songs for other artists and bands.

  My career started moving incredibly fast, and I owe a ton of gratitude to Mike Chapman, my mentor, who took me under his wing. The first big hits I had as a songwriter were “Better Be Good to Me,” an international smash for Tina Turner on her record Private Dancer, and “Love Is a Battlefield” for Pat Benatar, both of which I wrote with Mike. After that, I started to write hits on my own or with other collaborators, such as “The Warrior” for Patty Smyth and “Never” with Heart. These artists happened to be women, and I think they responded to my ethos of female empowerment. I was fierce and passionate, and they connected with that.
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  EVEN TODAY, IT'S RARE TO SEE A FEMALE GUITARIST, DRUMMER, OR BASS PLAYER, AND USUALLY WHEN YOU DO, YOU HEAR "SHE'S REALLY GOOD … FOR A GIRL." HOW ABOUT JUST "SHE'S REALLY GOOD"?

  * * *

  The real game changer came when I started writing for or with male rock bands and artists, like Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, and Rod Stewart. I was really the first woman to do that, and it was a lot of fun. I got along great with most of them. Then there were the times when I felt animosity and jealousy from the guys. The question “Why is an outside songwriter being brought in to write when we’re all writers?” was asked on a number of occasions. And my silent thought would be, Because, dummy, the label felt you weren’t writing the hits … so deal with it. To add insult to injury, the fact that the outside songwriter was a woman really emasculated them.

  As my career took off, I started to produce a lot of my demo recordings, and that’s when I really felt a pushback from the record companies and managers. Now that I’d established myself as a hit songwriter, everyone would take my calls. However, the minute I told them I wanted to produce the track, they’d shut down. (In music, a producer is in charge of getting the best performance out of the singers and musicians and arranging the music; in essence, the captain steering the ship.) Here it was again … only men could produce because it involved leadership skills and knowing how to deal with bands and musicians. How could a woman possibly do that?

  By “accident,” I was able to produce some of the recordings. For instance, I wrote two songs for Thelma and Louise. Director Ridley Scott loved the songs, as well as the way my recordings sounded. When he received new versions of my songs produced by a well-known producer, he said that if he couldn’t use the original recording, he would remove them from the sound track. The beauty is, I doubt he cared who produced the tracks, he just liked my production, and that was very affirming for me. So it’s not about whether you’re a boy or a girl, or who you are, but whether you do the best job in the end. It’s not always like that, but it should be.

  Throughout my career, I’d face similar obstacles. There was always some male band member or executive who didn’t take me seriously, whether I was brought in to write a song, play keyboards on a track (I had played keyboards on Kiss’s Unmasked), or produce the recording. But then I’d get down to business, and I could see a shift in their attitude and feel a level of respect that wasn’t there before. They realized that I knew what I was talking about and that I was accomplished and successful for a reason. This happened most of the time, but not always.

  Once, many years ago, an interviewer asked me why all my songs seemed to be about fighting, songs like “Love Is a Battlefield,” “The Warrior,” “Invincible,” and “Stick to Your Guns.” It was never a conscious choice; I just wrote what was real to me. The truth is, my songs were often about fighting for something, not fighting with someone. We all discover things worth fighting for … and as women, we have to fight that much harder.

  I believe in women helping women. I believe in the next generation of young girls and pushing them to achieve their desires, whatever and wherever that may be. I love men, and the truly secure ones aren’t intimidated by a strong, intelligent woman; in fact, they’re turned on. As for the rest, they can go wait in the car—I got this.

  So it’s been a wild ride and a wonderful career, but I’ve had to be tough and tender at the same time. In 2013, I was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame. At that time, there were over four hundred inductees, and only sixteen of them were women. I think being inducted was the moment I finally stopped looking for validation from others. I already knew what I had accomplished, and while I’m proud of the recognition, I didn’t need a crystal statuette to tell me that my songs brought joy and happiness to people all over the world. The bottom line is, the only one you need validation from is yourself. Once you discover that, there’s nothing you can’t do.

  THE 1960s

  •    CONGRESS PASSES THE EQUAL PAY ACT, A FEDERAL LAW PROHIBITING SEXUAL DISCRIMINATION AS IT APPLIES TO COMPENSATION IN THE WORKPLACE, AND THE CIVIL RIGHTS ACT, WHICH FORBIDS DISCRIMINATION BASED ON RACE, COLOR, RELIGION, NATIONAL ORIGIN, AND SEX.

  •    FEMALE WORKERS EARN ONLY AN AVERAGE OF 59 CENTS TO THE MALE WORKER’S DOLLAR.

  •    THE NATIONAL ORGANIZATION FOR WOMEN IS CREATED TO MOBILIZE WOMEN BY PUTTING PRESSURE ON EMPLOYERS AND THE GOVERNMENT TO PROMOTE FULL EQUALITY OF MEN AND WOMEN.

  •    HAWAII ELECTS PATSY TAKEMOTO MINK TO CONGRESS, WHERE SHE SERVES AS THE FIRST WOMAN OF COLOR IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES.

  •    RACHEL CARSON PUBLISHES SILENT SPRING, A BOOK DOCUMENTING THE DETRIMENTAL EFFECTS OF THE WIDESPREAD USE OF PESTICIDES, WHICH SPURS A MAJOR ENVIRONMENTAL MOVEMENT AND LEADS TO THE CREATION OF THE ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION AGENCY.

  •    TO PROTEST UNFAIR WORKING CONDITIONS, DOLORES HUERTA COFOUNDS THE NATIONAL FARM WORKERS ASSOCIATION, WHICH WILL BECOME THE UNITED FARM WORKERS, WITH CESAR CHAVEZ. IT PROVIDES THOUSANDS OF LEADERSHIP OPPORTUNITIES TO WOMEN, INCLUDING JESSIE LOPEZ DE LA CRUZ, ONE OF THE UNION’S FIRST FEMALE ORGANIZERS WORKING IN THE FIELDS.

  #1 NEW YORK TIMES–BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  Photo credit: Joseph Moretti

  MARGARET STOHL

  For sixteen years, I was a writer and designer of video games in various buildings mostly full of men. I thought of them collectively as Boyland—the straight, white, gamer bros who owned the industry, top to bottom. There were some women here and there, but not often in production; they were in sales or in marketing or in communications. One studio I briefly freelanced for openly made it a point never to hire any women full time; Boyland thought it was too distracting. Women were never designers or artists or programmers or staff writers. Occasionally, they would become producers, but sometimes even after that happened, Boyland would drive them away, as they did to my friend J. She still brings it up when I see her now, sometimes.

  The exceptions were notable. Once, a woman was the director of my project. She was tiny and fierce and wandered around the office wrapped in a blanket late at night, giving orders to Boyland and ignoring it when they paid her back by getting drunk and leaving death threats on her answering machine. It was a joke, they said. She didn’t think it was all that funny.

  That director eventually left, but a few years later, another woman became my boss. Boyland got rid of her, too, but not until after she’d ordered the place to put free tampons in all the bathrooms, so I didn’t have to slink there with one hidden up my sleeve. I remembered thinking it was the most radical act I’d ever witnessed. When she left, I gave her a silver bracelet with a lock on it and wrote a note about her newfound freedom. But we both knew it wasn’t exactly that. She had become too powerful and had been exiled. That was my take, anyway; that was what happened to girls in Boyland. We had to be careful. We had to learn to cuss like sailors and dress like guys. We had to avoid girly clothes and hide our boobs and not wear pink, unless it was ironic. We had to be able to talk about science fiction and watch war movies. I still do.

  Twenty-five years ago, the women’s bathroom was my personal office because I was the only woman on the floor, at least to my knowledge. I kept things there and joked that I should move my desk. There were plenty of jokes, and Boyland’s jokes were worse than mine. Once, I walked into a room for a meeting I was leading. A programmer friend of mine glanced up and said, “Oh look, the stripper’s here.” People laughed. Maybe I laughed, too, I can’t remember. I probably didn’t say anything at all. I wanted to be invited to lunch, and to be invited to lunch you had to be one of the guys.

  In Boyland, you had to learn to take a joke, even if that meant being called a stripper. Even if it meant hearing that you were “smoking hot” and that it was a distraction. Even if it meant being told you should get a “chastity belt” because you were spending too much time with the boys on the team.

  I moved to a different studio not long after that one. I guess I didn’
t think it was all that funny, either. I also didn’t think it was funny when I got a photo of my own house mailed to me, with a threatening letter. Or even now, when I get death threats online. Sometimes it can be exhausting to have a sense of humor in Boyland.

  After sixteen years in the video game industry—as a writer, a designer, a consultant, a creative director, and ultimately a studio cofounder and co-owner—I left. I began writing YA novels and, as a result, began working with writers, editors, publicists, librarians, teachers, marketing executives, and publishers who were almost all women. It was liberating and thrilling. My husband retired and became, for the time being, a stay-at-home dad. Many of my close female friends were writers who supported their own families. Some had come from journalism, some from politics, some from the tech industry. We commiserate over the crap we’ve been through, and the crap we won’t go through now. We write strong female characters. We have daughters. We hope for better. We hope for more. We tell ourselves that times have changed, that they’ll keep changing. Then we hope it’s true.

  My oldest daughter graduated from Columbia University with a degree in computer science and statistics in 2016. She’s smart and strategic and knows more about video games than most of the boys in Boyland. And yet, when she applied for game-programming jobs last spring, I was surprised to hear one of her first interview questions: Why aren’t you going into sales or marketing? You shouldn’t feel like you have to be a rocket scientist.… She went on to find a job at an e-sports company. She knows Boyland as well as I do.

  We are two generations of girls in Boyland, my daughter and I, though I am no longer young enough to be called a girl, and the industry is increasingly no longer young enough to openly remain a Boyland. Our progress is subtle, but that doesn’t mean it’s not real. I still sometimes work as a consultant for video game companies, but only on my terms, and only when I want to. I also write YA, and now comics; I write a girl superhero series for Marvel—Mighty Captain Marvel—where my editor is a woman, Sana Amanat. She is also the head of Content and Character Development, which makes her pretty much the Boss of Boyland. We still both get death threats from trolls. When we go to the Marvel Creative Summits, we are sometimes still the only girls in the room. I still dress like a boy and swear like a pirate.