When I read Rose’s call for women to speak out in this series, Pioneering as a Woman in a Wickedly Patriarchal World, my internal response was an immediate YES! Over the past twenty-plus years, I’ve studied, tested, and strengthened my trust in the power of my body and intuition to offer me correct answers. I believe this is in concert with the Divine. The response may come in an audible whisper, a heart flutter, stomach pang, or bile in my throat. This trust-developing also corresponds with the act of distancing myself from the traditional church and institutions that dominated my childhood and young adulthood. The upbringing that said, “Don’t worry your pretty little head. We’ve got it figured out for you.”
I come from a lineage of pastors and red dirt, farmers, hardworking, self-sacrificing men and women, plus a deep theology based on girls and women being “good.” It wasn’t until my early 40’s when a severe family crisis threw me face down into that dirt that I began to claw at the roots that were rotting my heart and my family at the core. Our 13-year-old son was immersed in a culture counter to anything we could call good. Drugs and alcohol fueled his rage at the world (and his parents) alongside bouts of disappearing for days on end. Our church community’s response was to “pray harder.” My rule-following good girl interpreted this as “get it right,” but there was no right here; only rules and restrictions, formulaic prayer, and a masculine god who was unable to crawl into those tender spaces in my heart that cried out for love and care with a gut-wrenching anger that the world deemed unladylike. What the hell?!?!?
Patriarchy literally means rule of the father. As I attempt to write this essay, clichés and fear begin to rise. I’ll be judged as a man hater, a heretic, and/or someone unqualified to speak about life in the church. After all, I left the church, didn’t I?
My biological father was a tender man with biceps that looked like Popeye the Sailor Man’s. He drove a truck long distance and let me play with my Barbie dolls in his sleeper cab. My mother sold Avon to pass the time. My maternal grandfather was a blue-eyed farmer and his wife, my grandmother, tended their modest home where an oval framed photo of Jesus (also blue-eyed) hung in the center of the living room. My paternal grandmother lived on the west coast and her most lingering words to me were, “Your bangs are too long and your skirt is too short.” She appeared to be a bitter woman who had survived two husbands that I never knew. I wasn’t raised to be a man hater (70s lexicon for feminist), but neither was I raised to be an empowered woman. One might say these stories are outdated or mine alone; that they don’t exist anymore. I choose to differ.
Now… back to my face in the dirt … Actually, it was sand. One winter morning when despair filled my total being, I sat on the shore of the Sea of Cortez and audibly heard the words, “Forget the naysayers.” I watched as a pelican skimmed the waves and knew if I set my mind to it, I too could fly. I felt the world’s weight fall away and heard God whisper, “I’ve got you. I’ve got him. Forget the naysayers. Love your family. Love yourself.” The voice was neither male nor female, but I know it was the Great Divine. The Spirit who meets us individually. There is no one-size-fits-all in God language. There is no absolute rule of the father or the mother. There is no shame or judgment or blame. No gaslighting or getting it right. There is only Love with a capital L.
Fast forward a few months from that moment on the beach and I found myself enrolled in graduate school at the age of 48 working on a Masters in Counseling Psychology. (My undergraduate degree was in accounting—solid and practical.) I was breaking the rules and patriarchy tried to thwart my every step. People told me I was crazy and too old. (Classic patriarchal labels to keep women from their power along with “too sensitive”, “hysterical,” and a multitude of other masculine-generated labels). The male admissions director told me the school was only looking for “serious students, not people wanting to fill time.” I should have turned him in for discrimination, but the old stories told me not to rock the boat. Ugh. I persevered, was accepted, and graduated with honors in two years from a three year program while raising two teenagers, deconstructing my faith, and working on revisioning the dynamics of how I wanted and needed to be in my marriage. How’s that for “serious”? (I’ve also been fortunate to have an open-hearted and open-minded man by my side. He thinks he’s pretty lucky, too).
Over the course of my career as a therapist, life coach, author, and ancestral healer, I’ve seen remnants of the rule of the father show up in the boardroom, classroom, bedroom, and more. A few examples that linger in my mind from recent real-day client conversations include:
These are the tactics of patriarchy—shame and fear, power over, toxic women supporting rule of the father, then claiming it can’t be discrimination because the supporter is female. Let’s not forget calling women crazy or saying they’re a witch for using intuition (like I received on the beach) or for practicing alternative healing methods—Reiki, artmaking as healing, understanding the cycles of the feminine moon. Remember those stern faces of my ancestors? I’m relatively certain they are the faces of angry women. Women tamped down, taught to be smaller, told to stand still and look pretty. We are told to stay in our place. That is the work of patriarchy. We are learning scientifically that that ‘work’ is genetically passed down.
When I started to write this piece, I didn’t know how to start. Now I don’t know where or if I can stop. My invitation to you, dear reader, is to get quiet and read this piece again. Notice how your body responds to phrases or situations described here. Consider the subtleties. Patriarchy comes at us like death by a thousand pin pricks. This is where we (men and women) lose our power. When we succumb to believing that order is about rules, not Love. That something is only a small transgression or doesn’t matter. That you don’t matter. That others don’t matter. Rules are man-made. Think about that. There is no standard phrase for “woman-made.”
One last thing … Did I leave the church? Nope. Not at all. I left an unhealthy institution. In its place, I found my God, my people, my spirituality, my love, and my peace in a broader and more open-armed theology. Some might call that crazy or bogus, but frankly I don’t have time for those opinions. There’s healing work to be done in this broken and beautiful world. Join me, won’t you?
To read more about Kaycee and her work, click here.
