Wonder Woman, Dolly Parton, and Gloria Steinem

A couple of days ago, I sorted through my last box of autographed baseballs, and I found another artifact I’d forgotten about. Behind the printer and a 1962 “Life” magazine with a Roger Maris – Mickey Mantle Post cereal baseball card insert, I found my first edition of “Ms.” magazine.

The cover with the headline “Wonder Woman for President” threw me back to 1972.

Here’s another case of uncanny timing. The night before, a neighbor asked if I’d set up a projector in my Silver Sage Village community courtyard to screen “9 to 5,” the 1980 comedy starring Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin, and the late Dolly Parton.

Three women fed up with a sexist boss turn the tables, take control of the company, and change the workplace. It’s slapstick funny and a pretty good primer on workplace misogyny.

Then I read in my Yahoo! news feed that Gloria Steinem had died at 92.

Steinem and others founded “Ms.” The magazine in my collection seemed a lot more significant than it had the day before. I read the table of contents and flipped through the pages. The country had changed, but much of it hasn’t.

The first regular issue of “Ms.” appeared in July 1972. It began as a preview inserted into “New York” magazine in December 1971. That preview sold 300,000 copies, generating thousands of subscription orders and letters. The response showed that the world had seriously underestimated what women wanted to read about.

The women’s magazines of the day largely revolved around fashion, beauty, marriage, children, and how to keep everybody else happy. “Ms.” treated women as citizens and political actors, not just consumers.

Steinem stood at the center of it.

She wore several hats in the startup. She had to be a businesswoman, a strong writer, a savvy political activist, and one of second-wave feminism’s most recognizable figures.

Steinem believed that the feminist movement needed a national publication where women’s experiences and political ideas could be taken seriously.

She and the magazine editors wanted Wonder Woman on the first cover as a symbol of female strength and independence.

At the time, DC Comics had stripped Wonder Woman of her superpowers and put her into a more conventional secret-agent role. DC restored Wonder Woman’s powers and traditional identity.

“Ms.” chose Wonder Woman to make a point about what happens when a powerful woman is made less powerful.

Inside the first issue, Steinem wrote an article with the provocative title “Women Voters Can’t Be Trusted.” Steinem took on the conventional political wisdom that women were unreliable, politically passive, or voted the way the men in their lives told them to vote.

In the article, Steinem argues that society misunderstood and underestimated women voters. She encourages women to discover their political power.

The political world looked very different in the 1970s when only 15 women served in Congress. No woman had been a major-party presidential or vice-presidential nominee. Democrat Shirley Chisholm changed all that when the Congresswoman became the first African American woman to run for president.

I learned that “Ms.” named Dolly Parton one of its “Women of the Year” in 1987. Steinem praised Parton for infusing feminism into her music and for celebrating women who made their own way. You can hear that spirit in “Just Because I’m a Woman,” “9 to 5,” and “Travelin’ Man,” the theme for “Transamerica.”

Parton gave voice to women’s independence, working lives, and the double standards they faced. Steinem observed that Dolly didn’t give political speeches but walked the talk through her song lyrics.

My copy of “Ms.” had survived, tucked away among baseball memorabilia.

That’s appropriate.

Baseball is all statistics, records, and arguments by armchair coaches about who belongs in the lineup. In 1972, women had no records to compare and had to battle to get through the turnstiles.

Gloria Steinem spent her life arguing that women belonged in the seats and in the field, diving for hard-hit line drives.

Dolly, Gloria, and Wonder Woman for MVP!

The Emotional Journey of Swedish Death Cleaning

Today I drove a carload of boxes to Laramie and made the final major delivery for my Swedish death-cleaning project.

One destination was the American Heritage Center at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. The boxes contained decades of my life: research materials, hard drives, scrapbooks, manuscripts, photographs, films, books, and assorted records from projects that occupied countless hours over the years.

A separate box held watercolor paintings my mother created. Those went to the Laramie Plains Museum. Some will become part of the museum’s collection, while others will help support its mission through fundraising auctions.

As I handed everything over, I found myself experiencing mixed emotions. The handoff took all of 10 minutes.

Kind of anticlimactic, considering I’ve been sorting and sifting since the Wyoming Writers Inc. conference at the beginning of June. AHC staffer Brie Blasi asked if I’d donate my stuff.

Part of me felt a sense of relief. My materials are no longer stacked in closets, on shelves, and in corners, waiting for me to decide their fate. They now have a permanent home where they can be organized, preserved, and, if anyone finds value in them, used by future researchers, historians, students, or curious people.

Another part of me felt a touch of sadness. Every box represented a chapter of my life. The manuscripts reflected ideas I chased. The photographs captured moments that seemed important enough to save. The films documented stories and people I believed should be remembered. Letting go of them felt a little like saying goodbye to old companions.

Yet there was also comfort in knowing that I have not really lost them. If I ever need to revisit a project, confirm a memory, or look up some forgotten detail from my past life, I can make the trip to Laramie and review the materials. They are stored in a different place now.

This delivery marked the culmination of a process that has taken years. Along the way, I sold my grandmother’s Sony micro TV and Star Wars action figures I used for gender bias training. Colleagues purchased my sports card and political memorabilia collections. Other items found new homes through donations and gifts.

I hope the people who have received my stuff enjoy it. All my items spent years, sometimes decades, in my care. Collections are curious pursuits. We think we own them, but we’re only temporary caretakers. Eventually they move on to the next person, carrying their stories with them.

There’s little left. Some clothes. Some shoes. A few personal possessions. My car. The essentials.

I’m an organ donor. I imagine those will make it into worthy sick people if my parts aren’t too worn out.

What surprised me most about Swedish death cleaning is that it was never really about getting rid of stuff. It’s about deciding what mattered and what stories deserved a future beyond my shelves and storage boxes.

The works my mother painted will now have lives of their own. Some may hang on walls where people who never knew her will pause for a moment and admire her work. Others may help support a museum dedicated to preserving local history. In their own way, they will continue telling part of her story.

The same is true of the boxes I delivered. The manuscripts, photographs, films, and research materials represent a lifetime of curiosity and creativity. Long after I am gone, someone may open a folder, examine a photograph, watch a film, or read a manuscript and discover a small piece of the world as I saw it.

There is something comforting about that.

For years, I thought I was collecting things. Today, I realized I was collecting stories.

Now those stories belong to the future.

As I sit at an EV charging station writing this, listening to Jalan Jalan Crossland on Wyoming Public Radio & Media, I feel a sense of peace. My mother’s work has found a home. My work has found a home. The burden of holding on is replaced by the satisfaction of passing it all forward.

My final act of stewardship is not keeping material objects forever.

It’s about making sure they can continue their journey without me and not end up in the landfill.

The Credit Card I Can’t Read

A braille credit card and a season in a wheelchair changed how I see the world

When my Discover card expired, the company offered several replacement designs. I could choose a cat, a dog, flags, business logos, and a bunch of others.

Instead, Braille caught my eye.

The funny thing is, I can’t read Braille.

When the card arrived, I ran my fingers across the raised dots and realized they were completely meaningless to me. Embedded on that card is information that someone who is visually impaired could understand immediately. To me, it might as well be Morse code.

At first, I thought my new card was a novelty. Then I started thinking about all the Braille I’ve encountered over the years.

The elevator in the building where my office is located has Braille on every button. I’ve never knowingly shared the elevator with someone who was blind or visually impaired, but I’m sure I have. Most of us don’t notice accessibility features because we’re not the people who need them.

At least that’s what I used to think.

Twelve years ago, I had a medical emergency that left me hospitalized and then in rehabilitation. For about two months, I depended on a wheelchair and a walker.

Suddenly, the world looked different.

I became aware of every curb, every step, every narrow doorway, and every inaccessible entrance. Ramps and their location became important.

What I discovered was that retrofitted ramps weren’t designed into buildings. The accessible entrance was around the side, down an alley, or at the far end of a parking lot. While able-bodied people walked straight to the front door, people using wheelchairs, walkers, scooters, and canes had to travel farther to get to the same destination.

I noticed things I had never paid attention to before.

Even today, I find myself looking for ramps. Once you’ve spent time navigating the world from a wheelchair, it’s difficult not to notice how much extra effort accessibility can require.

That’s why I find my braille credit card strangely meaningful.

The raised dots don’t help me make a purchase or tell me anything I can understand, but they remind me that the world includes people whose experiences are different from mine.

Accessibility is about accommodations for a small group of people and about recognizing that all of us move through life differently. At one time, I was young and healthier. Then I recovered from surgery. Temporary conditions become permanent.

The truth is that accessibility isn’t for “other people.” Given enough time, it becomes relevant to all of us.

The Braille on my credit card serves a practical purpose for someone who cannot see. For me, it serves as a reminder that thoughtful design matters.

Inclusion is invisible until you need it, and a reminder that every person deserves the dignity of navigating the world independently.

Maybe I should learn to read Braille. Not because I expect to lose my sight anytime soon, but because understanding another person’s experience is never a wasted effort.

When I pull that card from my wallet, I run my thumb across those raised dots and think about the ramps, elevators, curb cuts, and countless other accommodations that most of us pass by without noticing.

They’re reminders that a community works best when it works for everyone.