All The Things I Did Not Say by Perry Pidgeon Hooks

“No one gets out of here alive.” I’ve tossed that line off for years, but it’s picking up a lot more gravitas now that I’m a certain age. I know exactly where we’re all headed; I’m just determined not to arrive there any earlier than I can help it.

So I’ve adopted my mother’s approach to health care: a doctor for every body part and an annual visit for each one. Head to toe, everybody gets a turn. The logic is simple—if something bad shows up within a 12 month window, you’ve got a fighting chance to fix it before it blooms into something worse. So far, so good.

A few years ago, I asked for an ultrasound to check for plaque in my arteries. I was braced for clogs and blockages. Instead, the doctor found something else entirely: polyps on my thyroid.Turns out they’re not exactly exotic, usually harmless, and best watched once a year to be sure they stay in their lane.

On my most recent visit, the technician paused, eyebrows lifted, clearly impressed by my little thyroid barnacles. They had all, thankfully, stayed in their lanes. But I started to wonder if their presence had a deeper metaphoric meaning.

Were these thyroid barnicles the physical outgrowths of everything I’d never said—the swallowed words, the silences I’d kept, the truths that would have been healthier released?

Once I started thinking about my silences, a theme emerged. Many of them clustered around interactions with men. I suspect you may relate to that as well—and might even recognize my nodule categories: the Patriarchy at Work, at Home, at the Doctor’s Office, at the Gym, at Church or whatever house of worship you frequent, at the Car Dealership…you get the idea.

My Early Years

As the memories flooded in, it was clear my upbringing in the conservative South—Memphis in the 1960s—had prepared me well for silence. Many will remember the parental precept: children should be seen and not heard. I was not exactly encouraged to show up, speak my mind, offer suggestions, or ever “talk back.” One must always be pleasant and polite.

I was also raised as an Irish Catholic! And I mean Pre Vatican 2! Latin masses, incense, fish on Fridays and confession in the Immaculate Conception Cathedral.  Never understood exactly what an immaculate conception actually was.. but that leads to my catechism class.  

My Presbyterian mother put the kibosh on Catholic Schools for us ..  meaning my sister and I were compelled to attend a Wednesday night catechism class taught by a priest.  I was about 13 years old at the time.  

I remember only one session; the class everything became crystal clear! The priest/teacher was explaining two very important precepts to the faith.. transubstantiation and papal infallibility.  I recall raising my hand to get clarity on the former concept, asking, “What do you mean by the actual body and the actual blood of Jesus.. I don’t get it!”  (HOCUS POCUS anyone?)  

I received an answer I cannot recall.  But the second query about what I perceived as the idiocy of papal infallability got me this stern retort. “Young lady, you sit down right now.. be quiet and no more questions from you!”  

I think he told mom not to bring me back which was not my intention buta rather pleasant consequence.  No, I still do not understand those Catholic precepts but it was a very important lesson in the patriarchy.. God is a man.. only men know what is going on and women.. you better sit down and shut up!

Moving on from Catechism..

After a whirlwind life in college in Virginia, years in London, and New York, I found myself back in Memphis. My father had died, and he’d asked me to stay a year to help my 52 year old mother before taking off again. I stayed, married, and got pregnant.

Labor arrived on an auspicious day for Memphians: January 8th, Elvis’s birthday. I was determined to bring this child in on the King’s special day. The nurses were not optimistic, but I succeeded—and am still paying the price. That’s another story.

While enduring a robust labor, the doctor (a man) asked if I’d like an enema before delivery. I declined; I was focused on something being expelled from my body, not inserted.   He agreed, and I went back to my writhing.

Hours later, my little man was rapidly approaching.  The doctor came in, did not look at me or acknowledge me, and said to the nurse, “Give her an enema. I’ll be right back.”

I can still feel the anger and the hurt of being ignored and talked over. He never addressed me or asked if that would be okay. I felt like a bloated blob of no consequence and swore that day to work only with women doctors. Unless I have absolutely no other option, I’ve kept that promise.

Working in a Man’s World

Fast forward a few years. My almost named Elvis baby was about three, and my marriage to his father was collapsing in fiery fashion. Details of that chapter are best left out of this essay but suffice it to say it did birth a few more thyroid barnacles.

While securing the divorce, I found myself as a single working mom employed at a bond trading desk in Memphis, hired as the first in house marketing director. The all-male sales force was known on the street as the Bond Daddies.

They spent their days talking, joking, selling, and swearing, very aggressively. There was a lot of money to be made or lost and the pressure was high.  Their intense banter was a major stress reliever for them. And no one was immune to their jabs.

When the first verbal volleys were lobbed my way, my default setting kicked in: silence, with a side of what I would call now.. a WTF expression.

We were due at our desks by 8:00 a.m. sharp. I remember arriving one morning at 8:03—remember the single working mommy part?—with baby food or something smeared on my platform shoulder pad. One of the Bond Daddies snapped, “Where the f*** is the afternoon paper?” Translation: You’re late. I was shocked and annoyed, fully aware that he had a stay at home wife who handled the chaotic family mornings.

After a few months of being polite, I realized I wouldn’t survive if I kept quiet. So, I removed the governor on my snark and started saying exactly what I was thinking every time they jabbed. It was so much fun I began to look forward to the encounters and eventually started lobbing the first barbs!  

Oddly, they loved it. They could not believe I was matching them insult for insult, jab for jab. I got so verbally aggressive that it became hard to turn it off after work. Friends noticed the shift and gently suggested I leave this job before I became completely scary and intolerable.

I stayed anyway, savoring the therapy of talking to a room of 80 men with zero restraints. They eventually tried to recruit me to become a trader and work with them on the desk.  Alas this life chapter ended only when I decided to leave Memphis. When I told my boss I was moving, his response- “Well, that’s an abortion.”

Off to DC

My Post Bond Daddy era took me to the greater Washington, DC area, where I raised my wonderful son and daughter and married a special man who has been supportive, kind, and a good listener.

Washington, however, requires a finely tuned filter. You never really know who’s in the room. At a cocktail party early in my DC life, I got in a juicy dig about a president with the initials GWB—only to discover I was speaking to his scheduler. Oops. In DC, polite and politic were the house rules.

By my mid 50s I’d decided to let Mother Nature color my hair, and she obliged with a generous palette of gray and white. I liked to think each strand held a story of my resistance and stamina. I had committed myself to aging without chemicals and was pleased with that decision.

Super fast forward to a big birthday reunion celebration with my high school friends. I’d gone to a girls’ school in Memphis, with a brother school next door supplying the boys. We shared a few classes together but it still felt as if we’d all attended the same school.  We were close.  

Here we were all together in Florida after being friends for 40 plus years!  So it was quite a shock when one of the “boys” saw me on the porch and blurted, “What does Dennis think of your hair?”

Everyone on the porch went quiet, clearly wondering what might come out of my mouth. My response was mild but not meek: “It’s none of his business what color my hair is.” Then I walked back into our big beach house. Later, I told my husband about the comment. His improvement on my line: “What does your wife think of your gut?”  A line I refrained from uttering on the trip!

The Lessons in Looking Back

While this little stroll down memory lane has been entertaining, I still wonder how well I’m addressing my tendency to stay silent and swallow my preferred response.   Writing this has sparked a renewed curiosity about how I show up in conversations where I disagree or feel I’m being mansplained.

This self-inquiry has been good, but I suspect it will take more focused listening and many more mindful pauses before I reach a balance of thoughtful comments covered not in sugar or vinegar.   And who knows—perhaps I’ll even manage a bit of compassion for that “patriarch” standing in front of me.

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