That Takes Ovaries! (24 page)

Gloria Steinem refers to fund-raising as the second-oldest profession—that is, second to the other great female industry, prostitution. Interestingly enough, both sex and money have historically been considered “unfeminine” and not good for “good girls.” Besides the fact that sex and money were to be restricted to men, most of us were taught they were simply private matters. Weren’t we all told that it’s rude to ask someone how much money they make?

Well, I guess I’m rude, since I spend a good deal of my time and energy asking for, raising, and learning the real power of money. But then again, I understand these things as necessities in making social justice a reality.

I came to the task of asking people for money (because, really, that’s what fund-raising is) entirely by accident. I was cofounding the Third Wave Foundation, a national organization for young feminist activists, and working on our inaugural project: fanning 120 organizers across the country to register voters in underserved communities. Mid-organizing, it became apparent we needed about $100,000 to execute the project.

$100,000.

Still stuck with the false image of what good girls were
not
supposed to talk about, I began timidly. I naïvely called businesses rumored to support good causes (like Ben and Jerry’s) and wrote letters to friends, friends’ parents, and former employers, asking for small sums. Once I saw the results, however, I quickly changed my tune. When I realized how much money was out there to give, and that if someone wasn’t giving it to something
I
believed in, it would be money “wasted,” I unabashedly started asking for more.

I called Susan, a friend and mentor, and asked her to lunch. Yes, I hesitated to cross this money boundary with her. I’d witnessed how money could split friendships. But with salad
greens likely stuck between my teeth, I screwed up my nerve and said, “I know you know about our work at the Third Wave, and that you’ve given your commitment to similar causes in the past. I was hoping you would now support
us
as well.”

“In what way?” she asked.

Ugh. Why wasn’t she making this easy on me?

Just as I was about to lose my gumption and minimize the support I was requesting to a simple verbal acknowledgment, I blurted out, “How about $10,000?”

“Why didn’t you ask sooner?” was her response.

After that, I got greedy. When I noticed how much people were giving to other institutions—the opera, their alma maters, and so forth—I blatantly challenged them to put their money where their politics and conscience were. And not only did I ask rich strangers, I also challenged my working- and middle-class friends.

“It’s not that you don’t have the money, it’s that you are choosing to spend it differently. For instance, I know that your dinner out with friends cost $30, and your Kate Spade bag, about $300.”

Yes, I actually said that. I figured the people who spend $10,000 a year on their country-club memberships could afford to give more than that, and, similarly, the people who spend $20 on a Gap tee shirt could commit at least that much to a good cause. In fact, the majority of contributions I’ve received come from people earning less than $25,000 a year.

Whereas I used to think that money wasn’t something “good girls” talked about, let alone asked for, I now know that good girls don’t accomplish much in life. Better yet, let me redefine the term: Good girls are those who make good things happen. So, if I haven’t convinced you to drop the belief that women shouldn’t talk cash, and to become a fund-raiser yourself, then at least I hope I’ve convinced you to give to whatever cause is dear to your heart. Or perhaps, what’s dear to mine: The Third Wave Foundation, a National Organization for Young Feminists, 116
East 16th Street, 7th Floor, New York, N.Y. 10003 (
www.thirdwavefoundation.org
). The power you’ll gain is not a result of the amount you give, but rather from the simple act of giving.

Growing up in the ’70s in a suburb of Long Island, all I wanted to do was fit in. For most teenagers, that was hard enough. But for the Engs, the only Asian-American family in our little all-American town, fitting in was a full-time vocation. It meant learning how to act “truly American”—something that was very important to us, and something I thought I had achieved. That’s why I tried out for my high-school play.

It was 1976, the bicentennial year, and my school decided
Oklahoma!
was the perfect musical to celebrate it. After all,
Oklahoma!
was all about manifest destiny, the American farmer and the cowboy, and all that was good and pure in this great land of ours. These sentiments were especially embodied in Laurie and Curly, the romantic leads.

The play’s patriotism was lost on me, as it was on every girl my age. All I knew was that the annual musical was the biggest event my high school had to offer, and if I could get the girl’s lead role, I would be set for the rest of high school. Leads were instantly popular. For one year, I wouldn’t just “fit in,” I would be the equivalent of a homecoming queen.

Five rounds into the tryouts, I found myself onstage, one of the last three girls up for the lead of Laurie, the ingénue. After the tough competition between Jean O’Callaghan, Stephanie Finkel, and me, I got it.

But I guess not everybody was quite ready for me to play the lead. There were rumblings. At a PTA meeting some very vocal parents questioned the choice.

“Can a little Asian girl really play the part that Shirley Jones played in the movie?”

“So many other girls, with nice voices and pretty blond hair, can play the role, too, can’t they? Won’t it be a little unconvincing if the lead is … Chinese?”

“It’s a bicentennial year, and this, well, this is un-American!” Up to that point, I thought I had succeeded in being all-American. I thought I was hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolets. I mean, I had been trying for so long. It never occurred to me that I shouldn’t be entitled to what every girl in my high school wanted. Now I suddenly saw that no matter how hard I tried to fit in, no matter how much I deserved the part, some people would continue to see me as different, as “foreign.”

It was hard to hear those comments. I made believe they didn’t hurt, swallowed hard, and tried not to embarrass myself by crying. I felt I couldn’t share these feelings with anyone—not my best friend, not even my family.
They’d never understand,
I thought. Mom and Dad had worked hard and sacrificed so much, just so this kind of thing wouldn’t happen. Telling them would break their hearts.

At fourteen years old, I wasn’t equipped to deal with this. I had no sudden revelations, like, for example, that the parents who voiced those concerns were narrow-minded and silly. I didn’t have the chutzpah to defend myself against the PTA parents. (Not until I went to college at Berkeley did I learn the skills of protest and defiance.)

What I
did
do was go on with the show. I didn’t let anyone stop me from getting up on that stage and showing everyone that, Chinese or not, I could play a magnificent Laurie. After all,
I knew I could sing. I knew I was being given a chance to shine. By showing up to rehearsal every day, in the midst of some parents’ misgivings, I would defeat those comments that had tried to defeat me. In doing so, I learned a valuable lesson. Not every act of defiance is an “in-your-face” act of a fierce girl. Sometimes just sticking to your guns and not buckling under pressure can be the most radical and transforming thing one can do.

So I played that lead; I sang it loud. I made sure my entire Eng family—including aunts, uncles, and cousins—sat right in the middle of the auditorium for the rest of the community to see. On those three glorious nights, my little Long Island town got a glimpse not only of what America was, but, more important, what it could be.

If you come to the United States seeking political asylum, you might be surprised—I was. Upon arrival you may be placed in prison-like detention. In fact, the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) sometimes uses American prisons to hold its detainees, including people who are escaping persecution,
fleeing for their physical safety, or even their lives. People like me.

I was seventeen and living in Togo, my homeland in West Africa, when my aunt told me one morning, “You’re getting married today.” She pointed to the beautiful gown and jewelry she had laid out on the bed.

“What?” I shouted. Apparently it had all been arranged behind my back.

“And your husband wants you circumcised, after the wedding.”

“No, please,” I pleaded. “You can’t do this to me!”

But she could. My aunt and uncle had legal guardianship over me now that my father had passed away and they had banished my mother from our home. I was terrified. Not only was I to marry a man I barely knew, a man twice my age with three wives, but also I was slated to have my genitals cut.

A harmful traditional practice among some African, Asian, and Middle Eastern cultures, female genital mutilation (FGM) is performed on about 2 million infants, girls, and women each year. That’s more than five thousand a day. Depending on the local custom, you will either “only” have your clitoris cut off, or you will lose the whole thing, including labia minora and majora. If it is the latter, you are sewn up, leaving a small hole, hardly big enough to allow pee and menstrual blood to squeeze out. Then, with each baby you birth, you are recut and resewn anew. The rationale behind FGM is complex: It is tradition; it is thought to protect virginity and prevent promiscuity; uncircumcised females are considered dirty; girls must be cut as a requirement for marriage; and circumcised girls and woman are deemed more sexually desirable. The practice of FGM subjects women to a number of longterm physical and psychological problems. Often carried out without anesthesia and with unsterilized razors or knives, it is a sometimes deadly practice. My other aunt died from it, as do many girls every year, either from hemorrhaging or infection.