You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby”
How community, family, and personal determination shaped one woman's journey beyond societal limitations.
You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby
“You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby” is the famous Virginia Slims slogan from 1968 that often runs through my mind.
When I think back to my childhood, my opportunities never seemed limited. Over the years, I have realized that this was a unique experience, due in part to my personality and the people who surrounded me.
Virginia Slims introduced that slogan during a period when feminism was gaining momentum. At the time, only a small number of women were able to obtain checking accounts without a man attached to them, and even that was uncommon.
I was born in 1971. It was not until October 28, 1974, that the Equal Credit Opportunity Act (ECOA) became law, prohibiting credit discrimination based on sex and allowing women greater financial independence.
Today, I have checking and savings accounts set up for all of my children, most of whom are daughters. All but one, due to age, have a credit card. Think about that progress. When I was born, those opportunities would have been difficult, if not impossible, for many women. Now, all of my daughters have purchased cars in their own names. My home was purchased in my name, and my name is on the mortgage.
In just over fifty years, we have come a long way.
Yet why do workforce gaps, pay inequities, and debates over women’s rights to their own bodies still exist?
I could take this discussion down a political path, but I would rather change the narrative.
When I began this story, I said that my opportunities never seemed limited.
I grew up in a blue-collar family on the South Side of Chicago. My father was a steelworker in the 1970s. Union strikes were common, money was scarce, and racial tensions often erupted into violence.
But this is where parents, relatives, neighbors, community, sacrifice, and personality can have a greater impact on a person’s life than any politician ever could.
My middle name is Louise. My family jokingly nicknamed me “Lucifer” because I was so strong-willed. Today, I probably would have been labeled as having ADHD or oppositional defiant disorder. I prefer to call it being the baby of the family with a little swagger.
To me, hearing the word “no” was never much of an option. I was child number four, born after an eight-year gap. My mother was tired of saying no, and as long as I was respectful, not much could hold me back. (Although a bar of soap in the mouth occasionally reinforced the respect lesson.)
While racial unrest was unfolding around us, my parents remained active in the community. Others saw color. I simply didn’t.
The only time my parents made a different choice was when it became unsafe for girls to attend the local public schools. They sent me to a private school. My older brother had already defended me more than once, but he was moving on, and I no longer had my protector.
The new school was five miles away. There were no cell phones back then. By third grade, I was riding my bike there. Along the route were neighbors who knew my family, and I am sure they would have reported back to my mother if anything had gone wrong.
It was my first taste of freedom.
My parents taught me right from wrong, even though I was headstrong. They taught me that every person has value. They taught me to be respectful. They taught me about safety. Then they let me grow.
Neighborhood parents were always looking out for me, often shaking their heads at the things I said or did that nearly gave them heart attacks.
Politics surrounded us. At one point, my father won a local election by a narrow margin, and our family received death threats because of it.
Neighbors, relatives, and friends stepped in. We took care of one another.
I was not kept indoors and monitored around the clock. I was given opportunities to spend summers with family in the mountains. I was encouraged to explore new experiences and expand my world.
As I grew older, my father became disabled. I still could not attend the local public schools because of safety concerns, so I was sent to an all-girls school.
My parents could only afford the first year. I loved it so much that I worked as a janitor all summer and took on additional jobs to help pay my tuition. I also earned strong grades and secured scholarships.
That personality once again paid off.
Attending an all-girls school was a blessing. While I am a strong advocate for diversity, I encourage mothers, aunts, and mentors to involve young girls in meaningful activities with other girls.
When I entered college, I neither thought about nor cared about a glass ceiling. I certainly did not hesitate to challenge the cute boy sitting in the second row. If he was wrong, he was wrong.
Meanwhile, the world around us was changing. AIDS was emerging as a global crisis. Political demonstrations continued. The Soviet Bloc still existed. At home, my parents reversed traditional roles. My mother entered the workforce while my father stayed home.
Life continued.
I became the mother of five children. I have been married twice. I have had the incredible opportunity to travel across most of the world’s continents and build teams around the globe. I broke through glass ceilings in places such as India.
Today, we must continue standing up for the rights that generations of women fought to secure. But we should never forget that it takes more than corporate policies and government legislation to ensure that women see possibilities instead of limitations.
If you are a mother, ask yourself: Am I giving my daughter the freedom to make mistakes and learn from them?
If you are an aunt, ask: Have I helped my niece develop the confidence to pursue whatever she wants in life?
If you are a neighbor, ask: Am I helping create a safe community where children can thrive?
Hillary Rodham Clinton famously said, “It takes a village.”
We are all part of that village. Together, we help ensure that every girl and every woman has the opportunity to become whatever she chooses to be.
