by Sugar Kay

Time travel. It’s something I’ve fantasized about since childhood. I became convinced early on that I had been born in the wrong time. All I needed was a time machine to correct this cosmic error. But it wasn’t Marty McFly’s short-distance journey to his parents’ adolescence for which I longed…no, I wanted to go back to the really “old-fashioned days.” I wanted to skip stones with Laura and Mary at the creek or embrace slender willows with Anne Shirley. I was a voracious reader, and my favorite books were set in the nineteenth or early twentieth centuries. I adored costume dramas set in days gone by. Of course, I had no conception of the hardships and social inequities of the past – it was a Disney colored fantasy world to which I clung.

As I’ve grown older I realize that some of the allure of time travel was escapist, as well. I was not well-liked by my schoolmates, and I was frequently mocked and ridiculed. I read too much. I dressed differently – I positively loathed pants and refused to wear them except under duress (gym day).  My mother bought (with my enthusiastic consent!) most of my school clothes at the Cinderella factory outlet. This was a basement wonderland of old-timey dresses – calico shirtwaists (like Laura and Mary!), drop waisted sailor dresses (like Pollyanna!), and the like. I did my best to ignore my reality of 1980s East Coast suburbia – History was where I wanted to live. Life was better back then, with no complicating newfangled technology like telephones or sticker collections.

Then I got older. I discovered boys, and makeup, and music…and that early sense of displacement was shoved far to the back of my brain. In college, I studied history, specifically medieval and Renaissance history. I learned about the women who lived and died then. I learned what life was really like. I learned the languages of the past. I learned the harshness of past oppression.

Now, the feeling of displacement has surfaced again, as I watch with the dismay the crumbling of our hard won progress under the Republicans’ clumsy hands. Does history really repeat itself, as the sages have so oft warned? Are we who study the past doomed to watch as those in power turn back time on women and minorities?

And what is history, anyway? In future pieces, we will dissect the concept. Watch this space for future explorations of time and history and womanhood and all the beauty and danger therein implied. We will meet strong, empowered women of the past – who wore the lovely clothes and managed to make a dent in the patriarchy.

And I still ardently wish for that time machine.



by Verity Violet

Stepping Stone
1. one of a series of stones acting as footrests for crossing streams, marshes, etc
2. a circumstance that assists progress towards some goal
Collins English Dictionary – Complete & Unabridged 2012 Digital Edition

It all starts with that first stone.
The one that looks a little too mossy in the water that looks a little too deep for your little-girl legs. You can’t even see the other side of the river right now, so why not just stay where you are? Safe, on the ground where your parents and their parents and their parents before them put you.

The trouble is, you’re not that kind of girl.


Stone No.1 – somewhere between 1979 and 1983

I’m not sure how long it took me to notice but, at some point, I realized that my little brother had all of the good Star Wars toys.  I kept having to go into his room to play with them.  Now, don’t get me wrong – he loved Star Wars.  But I loved it, too. In fact, by virtue of birth order, I loved it first. I did my hair up in braided buns, wore white robes for Halloween and asked for a light saber for Christmas.

I didn’t get a light saber.  I had every possible variation of Princess Leia action figure, but he got everything else. Every. thing. else.

He got the Luke Skywalkers, the Han Solos, the Darth Vaders, etc etc.  He got the battery powered land rovers that said lines from Return of the Jedi when you pushed buttons.  He had a Millennium Falcon – I had 6 different Leias.

This is the part in a real essay where I’m supposed to tell you why this happened and how it made me feel.  To examine 1980’s children’s toys through a 2017 feminist world view. But we all know why it happened. You know how it probably made me feel. And this isn’t a proper essay.  These are stepping stones.


Stone No.2 November 1995

I was eleven when “The Goonies” came out.  The perfect age, really. And it is such a perfect movie. It’s a treasure hunt and a mystery, a group of kids just about my age having an adventure in a world without adult supervision. I identified so strongly with Mikey that, at the time, it didn’t even bother me that the girls were basically accessories to the story. They were 16, anyway, and too old for me.  By age eleven, I’d already learned that if I wanted to have a vicarious adventure, I’d probably have to have it through the eyes of a boy.

Ten years later (I’ll do the math for you) I was twenty-one and theoretically too old for kids’ movies,  but I never really grew out of wanting a good adventure story.  I spent a lot of time in the movie theater, so it’s really no shock that I went to see “Gold Diggers: The Secret of Bear Mountain.” You probably haven’t. You’ve probably never even heard of it.  It was a little movie starring Anna Chlumsky and Christina Ricci as a country tomboy and the new-girl-from-the-big-city. Together, they formed a friendship, found a map, and followed it into Bear Mountain.  There were rock slides, there was danger, there were (you guessed it) bears!  There was even a hidden lake and a boat involved.  And, at the end, there was GOLD.

It was not a very good movie.  In fact, it was pretty terrible.  But as Beth and Jody piloted that homemade boat down the river and out of the mountain towards home – I cried a little in the dark theater.  Because I realized, just then in that very moment, that I would have given anything to have had a movie like this when I was eleven.


Stone No.3April 3, 2004

I grew up on the myth that a woman is more likely to be killed by a terrorist than get married over the age of forty.  I came of age in the golden era of the Rom-Com – you could say my late teens/early twenties were thoroughly Ephronized. Therefore, I knew that by age thirty I should be married. I should be on a good career path. I should at least be pregnant since I wanted three or four kids.

Thirty was a measuring point for how well your life was going to turn out, especially if you were a woman – that pesky biological clock and all – and by all counts I was coming up way short.

No marriage, no career, no babies. Just an overeducated temp with lots of debt, no engagement ring, and no likely prospects of getting pregnant. I felt like a failure. And everywhere I looked, the world was telling me that it agreed.

Yep, that’s it.  No wise life lesson, no epiphany about how societal expectations harm women, no “but it all ended happily!”  This is the unexpectedly wobbly middle stone off of which I almost slipped.


Stone No. 4April 3, 2014

If thirty was hard, I expected forty to be brutal. I was married, and that was nice at least. I was about to start a “real” job – also nice.  No kids. Not everything works out for everyone and that’s a whole other story. Heck, it’s probably at least three stories. Maybe you’ll come back and read them someday.

What actually happened was not just surprising, it was shocking. Forty wasn’t a death sentence, it was liberating. All of those life goals put on me by “thirty” told me that “forty” was the ultimate deadline. That if I hadn’t accomplished everything I wanted to accomplish as a woman by the time I was forty, it would be all over. That was it. My last chance.

Well, here it was. The big 4-0. The finish line. And I hadn’t accomplished much of anything. I spent the last two years of my thirties so weighed down by expectations I almost couldn’t breathe. I honestly thought my fortieth birthday might kill me.

Instead? It just … didn’t. In fact, I felt relieved. Like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I realized that I had crossed the “finish line” with no career and no kids and the world hadn’t ended. That epiphany about the unfair societal expectations on women appeared this time.  I still couldn’t see the whole way across the river, but at least I had a better idea of where I was going now.


Stone No. 5November 9, 2016

This one’s pretty obvious, I know. But that date is what led most of us to the place we are now – me writing this and you reading it. I say the 9th instead of the 8th because the 9th was the day after. And sometimes the Day After is when everything begins.

When I was in college, I came very close to killing myself. I had the sleeping pills collected and lined up on the windowsill. I was an angry, angry young woman. We won’t go into that right now. But I was too angry to keep on living. I realized I had a choice – I could let go of the anger, or I could die. I chose to let go. It wasn’t easy. It was a process, long and sometimes exhausting. But it’s what I chose.

11/9 felt very much the same. I didn’t get out of bed all day. I cried off and on all week. Again, though, I realized I had a choice.  I could metaphorically stay in bed for the next four or more years – or I could get up and be stronger than I was before. I could fight. So I chose to get up and go battle.

While Resisting, I also learned. I learned that Intersectional Feminism wasn’t just a buzzword, and that being a good ally meant more than saying you believe everyone should be equal. It means doing a lot of shutting up and listening, especially when what’s being said makes me uncomfortable. It means showing up, really showing up, when and where my privilege can do the most good. It means that when I say I want to make a website to give women a voice, I do my best to make sure that all women are represented.

Ignoring what was going to happen to our country, to the women of our country, would be akin to dying.  So I chose again. And I choose every day since then. I choose to fight.

I invite you to fight, too. If you’re a woman and you have something to say, if you believe your unique voice needs to be represented, send an email to verityviolet@shethepeopleusa.com.

Vox Feminae



I asked 15-year-old Ella Noire to get together with some of her friends and discuss feminism – what it means to them, how it impacts their lives; are they activists, are they students & teachers; what effect does living under the construct of the patriarchy have on their lives.

Tune in for a glimpse into the minds of the next generation – the future is female, after all.

~ Verity Violet

Rising & Shining


Hello! I’m Ella Noire. I am 15 years old and I live in North Carolina. I love to learn about different cultures and different people from all around the world! I also am very fascinated with law and writing. One of my goals is to try and teach people to become more accepting of one another.

“Hey-ooooh! Coco here. I’m 11 years old, a west-coaster living on the east coast. I fight social injustice and am a pro at making protest signs. I love Hillary Clinton, Harry Potter, and Michelle Obama. In my spare time, I read, listen to music, surf, and think about being President one day. My heroes include my big sis Natahlie, she’s in the US Army, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I want to be an anthropologist when I grow up and study other cultures and learn about people from all over the world.

P.S. loving everybody is cool and being a hater sucks!”

A member of the Lakota Sioux Nation, Coco is already a published author. Coco’s videos are produced by her Mom, Kimber, a self-proclaimed “Mother of Dragons”, raising 4 beautiful, brave kiddos while getting her master’s degree in Anthropology from one of those Elite East-Coast Universities.