In the timeline I currently inhabit, winter storms are scheduled for Wednesdays. Or so it seems. It’s been brrrrrrrr with wash-water gray skies since last Wednesday’s snow, so it didn’t really start melting until today.
This afternoon, the sun is out and it’s a balmy 48 Fahrenheit. Perfect for a jaunt around the neighborhood. I found just enough snow remaining to provide clues about who had preceded me on the journey.
We all leave our mark on the world in one way or another, I suppose, even if it’s temporary.
This is going to be a departure from my usual “On Today’s Walk” type of post. I want to talk about an under-discussed, quiet and insidious form of discrimination that continues to happen to women, and how I’m discovering that it’s widespread.
On today’s walk, I participated in the local Women’s March. The temperature was bitter cold, so I didn’t take photos. But here are a couple of stories to illustrate some reasons we still need to march in this day and age.
An hour before I left to attend the rally and walk, our mail came. The bank where my husband and I have done business for twenty years is being sold to another bank, and in the mail was a letter about a loan we have, explaining how it will be transferred. Here’s the kicker. The loan is in both of our names, but the letter was addressed solely to my husband. My name appears nowhere in it.
I immediately called customer service to get this straightened out, because this is not my first experience with getting erased from an account. It has led to problems in the past. The customer service worker told me the reason my name isn’t on the letter is because my husband is listed as the primary owner of the loan, something that has never been explained to either of us or agreed to by either of us. In fact, I’m the one who makes sure they get their payment every month, since I handle the finances for the household.
In the politest voice and phrasing I could muster, I insisted my name should be included on all correspondence. (How hard can it be?) The young-sounding woman who was helping me wasn’t sure that could be done. She kept repeating that letters go out in the name of the primary person. I also did the broken record thing, saying I never was told that and never agreed to it, and even if it were the case, my name needs to be on all documents related to the loan. My husband and I both signed the paperwork and took on the liability. And I’m certain, if something happened to my spouse, the bank would suddenly remember me and expect me to keep paying. I courteously stood firm in my request. A manager is supposed to contact me on Tuesday.
Before I ended the call, I said, “If this ever happens to you, please speak up for yourself like I am. Don’t let yourself be erased.” I’m probably the story she’s telling at the dinner table tonight.
Over the thirty-plus years of my marriage, this sort of thing has happened to me more times than I can count. My name gets dropped from accounts, left off of correspondence. It has never happened to my husband. Not once.
A few years back, when we still used a landline phone, I contacted CenturyLink to make some changes in the account and they said I didn’t have permission. This was an account I set up when we first moved to town. I personally was the one to go to the phone company and handle everything to do with creating our account here. I put both of our names on it. But at some point in time, the company decided only one name should be on the account, and removed mine. They removed me from my own account that I set up, and then told me I had to get my husband’s permission to be added back on.
Now my bank has removed my name from correspondence about my own account.
I shared all of this in a facebook post a few hours ago. Since then, I have gotten an outpouring of comments from women saying the same kind of thing has happened to them, and is still happening. A utility company wouldn’t accept a change of address from a woman; they had her husband listed as the account holder, even though — guess what? — she was the one to set up the original account. Another friend had a credit union account in her name, added her husband to it when they got married, and a few years later was denied a car loan from them because she wasn’t listed as the primary account holder. Like with my phone account, nobody could tell her when it was changed or by whom, only that it couldn’t be changed back without her husband’s permission. A woman’s name was left off the title to her house, something she only discovered by accident after a few years, though she was on the hook for the mortgage along with her husband.
One friend direct messaged me because she didn’t want anyone else to see her comment with her name attached to it. She said her now ex-husband was able to get her name removed from their joint bank account when she was leaving an abusive marriage.
As far as I can determine, this is happening repeatedly to wives, and not to one single husband of my acquaintance. It’s the institutional erasure of women.
I want to ask the same thing of all women that I asked of my bank customer service rep. If this happens to you, please don’t accept it without discussion. Please make noise about it. Let’s raise awareness and make it uncomfortable for business and institutions that do this. And seek out better businesses as recipients of our money, if possible.
I woke up with a headache and had to chase it away before doing much today. I had many plans that are as yet undone, but so it goes. I did get mostly rid of noggin nuisance by mid-afternoon, so I got out for a walk, always good medicine.
I witnessed some neighborhood birds convening a meeting. What is all that chatter about? Are they making plans? Exchanging information? Or just gossiping? I wonder.
Even with most of the leaves gone, urban wildlife is able to hide remarkably well. I heard a lot of movement in the brushy area by the side of the road as I walked. I spotted a few squirrels, which all ran off before I could snap any photos.
Then there was a whole group of chickadees. I craved a photo of at least one, but hoped for the entire gathering. They kept flitting behind branches every time I pointed my camera and I got nothing. Amazing how quickly they can vanish from sight. Dare I hope there are more creatures left than we think. Maybe they’re hiding until we’re gone.
The cardinal I saw wasn’t so shy, though. Does he hope his beauty will save him? Or is he just brave? Or clueless about humans? Whatever the case, I thank him for posing.
It certainly was a lovely afternoon for most of a walk around the neighborhood. I remained comfortable, temperature-wise, with jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt layered over a long-sleeved tee.
Many area residents took advantage of the unseasonably warm and sunny Sunday to catch up on yard work, something I’ll be tending to momentarily, myself. My ambulation would have been idyllic but for the existence of leaf blowers.
I went through one of my favorite parks, across one of my favorite foot bridges, the site of many fond memories for me over the past fifteen years. It is truly one of my happy places. There’s something about the spot, standing on that bridge, I find renewing. It’s a little pocket of peace. Usually.
Why? Why do leaf blowers even exist? I could hear this one running from 2 1/2 blocks away. Even then, I’m not sure if I was out of range of the noise or if the person using it had turned it off. Considering the length of time it was running, I’m not even sure where they were blowing the leaves to. In fact, I always wonder that.
What is even the purpose of making a huge racket, burning a lot of gas, disrupting the insects that play crucial roles in the natural cycle of life, and disturbing everyone’s afternoon, all so you can blow leaves from one place to another? Any readers who use one, I beg you to stop now.
Later in my walk, I encountered a woman who was clearing fallen leaves from the sidewalk in front of her house by using a push broom. The sound was so pleasant, the shoosh, shoosh, shoosh, blending nicely with a little birdsong and a bicycle bell. It was calming for my nerves, as opposed to jangling.
I don’t want to turn this post too political, but I am looking ahead to the major elections coming up a year from now. I’m pretty sure my vote can be won by any candidate who pledges to ban leaf blowers.
No original photos with this post. I was in a slight hurry walking back to work from my dinner break, which is 4:00-5:00 on Mondays. And taking photos just didn’t seem appropriate to the weirdness I encountered.
First, I passed a middle aged couple, man and woman I’m pretty sure, standing on a corner, both of them looking at a piece of paper the woman held, and speaking quietly to each other. The man was carrying two smallish portable file boxes, the kind with handles on top that you might use at home to store letter-sized documents. In addition to the paper they were studying, the woman held a similar file box and…a gas can?
I’ve seen too many crime shows. My first thought was that they were going somewhere to destroy evidence. Burn the files, you know. Evidence of what, I’m not sure. Or maybe they were giving away some items to a neighbor. But that’s a boring explanation.
On down the block and around the corner from that mystery was a dead squirrel in the middle of the street, obvious road kill. I’d seen it on my way home already and successfully wiped it from my mind. It was a little harder to forget on the way back however, due to the man who was just coming out of his house and struck up a conversation with me about it.
He was late middle aged and badly in need of a hair cut or a hair clip or something, as his bangs fell down over his eyes. He walked right up to me, waving his hand to get my attention. His verbal greeting was, “See that squirrel there? It’s dead.”
I tried not to be too obvious as I shifted my gaze around scouting out the best escape routes should I need to run. I just nodded at him. “Yeah, that’s too bad.”
“Someone killed it. I don’t know why.”
“Looks like it just got hit by a car,” I told him.
He shook his head. “No. Someone killed it deliberately and put it there. I don’t know why someone would do that. Do you?”
“I sure don’t,” I said. “But I’m running late.” I almost added, have a good evening, as I walked on, but stopped myself from saying it. It wouldn’t have been the right thing for the moment.
So that was my 15-minute jaunt through Weirdsville. I’m a little amused and a little shook. And it’s still three days until Halloween.
I finally decided to try to learn what I’m doing when I’m taking photos. By great fortune, two of my co-workers decided to teach a class on smartphone photography. I didn’t even know I could have gridlines on screen while taking the picture until they pointed out the setting. I thought that was only when editing!
It was a basic, two-session class. Information in a classroom last week and a photo walk this week. When I came home, I deleted approximately 60 pictures, and kept a small handful.
Here are my four favorites:
I don’t know what kind of berries these are. But I like the color.
Catalpa leaves and seed pods, with tunnel in the background: