Long ago, as a teenage waitress scurrying through crowded kitchens and dining rooms, it was my habit to say “sorry” when I needed to pass.
Sorry to my fellow servers, each of us balancing trays of food and cocktails on flower stalk forearms.
Sorry to the earnest, bow-tied busboys with their baskets of bread and carafes of water.
Sorry to the noisy guests in their Sunday clothes, even on Wednesday, as they jostled by the front door and waited their turn at the tables.
Sorry to the busy, shouty men in the kitchen.
Always sorry. Never excuse me. Never a thought that it may just be my turn and nothing needed to be said.
An older waitress finally pulled me aside at the back bar and hissed, “What are you sorry about? Why are you always sorry? Stop saying you’re sorry!”
My response: “I’m sorry.”
I was very young then and am not so sorry anymore. I’ve never been an elbows-out sort, but I’m counseling myself to claim my turf. Aging is teaching me to take up space.
I had a wild grandmother who took up more than her share of space. She was dramatic and haughty, and demanded the center of the stage at all times. As a young girl, I saw grown men quake in her presence, eyes down and yes ma’am, as she stood tall in tailored perfection, chin up, eyes like lasers. She beat one of them with an umbrella and spit on another’s shoes. She claimed her space and more, and never apologized, for better or worse.
My father is soft-spoken and agreeable, elbows in. My mother aspires to be, but has a streak of the wild grandmother in her. There’s room for all of us.
I was a kid who took up space. I was fast and athletic, bossy and vocal, but it wasn’t always tolerated. The messages were mixed for a girl in the 60s and 70s: Demure politesse on the one hand; feminist empowerment on the other. Be quiet, polite, ladylike. Be small, a blonde whisper. But also, hear me roar and have it all. I grew very quickly to resent the freedoms of the boys — the big, loud, boisterous boys. And the girls like my grandmother, elbows out and voices raised. I brooded in trees and tried my hardest to beat them all on fields of play, but the older I got the smaller I wanted to be. I grew quiet, fearful of my own power, my own voice. Afraid of my space, but silently desperate for it. Tough on the inside, but wary of the world.
My mother had open disdain for the sharp-elbowed women and reached back in time for her role models. She admired the likes of Melanie from Gone with the Wind — beaming, sainted Melanie, the soft-spoken moral center, a “very great lady” in Rhett’s eyes, and my mother’s. I saw only trouble in that ugly story, and in Melanie’s saccharine, cartoon femininity.
The chiding waitress schooled me, as did my women professors and friends with chutzpah. I learned a bit about my space, and began to fight for it. Very politely. Don’t mind me.
Later, as a mother, my job was to center the kids, teach them to find and take up their own space. I became a vigorous advocate and threw some elbows on their behalf. I learned to make space and stake claims for the kids. Clearing paths for them to find their best selves. I let those paths get overgrown, though, resting back here and watching them push forward into the space we made together. I need to learn the lessons I taught them, for myself.
Something is happening here in midlife. I’m finding my voice and training myself to take up some space — my space. After the years of apologetic, don’t-mind-me mincing, I’m trying. I catch myself, shoulders curled toward the heart, spine curved protectively, and course correct.
When you stand tall and claim your space, you breathe easier. The view is better when you’re not looking at your feet. You feel grounded, and confident. You move more assuredly. I know this because I’ve been practicing. Standing tall, occupying my space. It worked in the grocery store (which is a thing).
There’s a line in Dennis O’Driscoll’s grumpily inspirational poem, You:
The earth has squeezed you in, found you space
There’s room for me here, and for you, too. The earth has found you space. In spite of all the apologizing, the hiding, the low-talking, my allotted space is the same as that of the bullies and the billionaires, the same as my haughty, wild grandmother. Life is a lesson, if we attend. I’m learning. Claiming space, feet rooted, shoulders back, eyes up, deep deserved breaths. No unnecessary apologies. No need to beat others with umbrellas and spit on their shoes.
There is space for you here. Take it.
You are here, now. Be here.
You
by Dennis O’Driscoll
Be yourself: show your flyblown eyes to the world, give no cause for concern, wash the paunchy body whose means you live within, suffer the illnesses that are your prerogative alone — the prognosis refers to nobody but you; you it is who gets up every morning in your skin, you who chews your dinner with your mercury-filled teeth, gaining garlic breath or weight, you dreading, you hoping, you regretting, you interloping. The earth has squeezed you in, found you space; any loss of face you feel is solely yours — you with the same old daily moods, debts, intuitions, food fads, pet hates, Achilles’ heels. You carry on as best you can the task of being, whole-time, you; you in wake and you in dream, at all hours, weekly, monthly, yearly, life, full of yourself as a tallow candle is of fat, wallowing in self-denial, self-esteem.
Happy Thanksgiving to those who toil (I mean celebrate)! 🥂
Things to share:
I read Hysterical by
and holy wow it’s A LOT. In a good way, a way that most (if not all) women will relate to. It was a tough (but important) read, as it picks at the open sores we’re all limping around with — misogyny, sexism, violence, fascism, silencing, the slow-boiling-frogness of being a woman in America. In the end, she imagines a “perfect world” and writes: “I’d be so emotional, as emotional as I am. And we’d use a new thesaurus for women with feelings. And I’d stop apologizing when I wasn’t sorry, and I wouldn’t be sorry for existing.” Huzzah!I also read Lessons in Chemistry, because it’s required now, and it was … fine? I didn’t love it and was irritated by some of it, but it was … good? I’m glad I read it and will probably watch the show.
The saga of my stupid foot continues: PT made it worse and now I’m in a boot after seeing an ortho who gave me about 45% of his attention for 4 minutes. He also gave me the wrong size, so I’m lugging a giant, cumbersome thing on my sore foot, chasing a solution, and stressing about houseguests and a holiday. But gratitude! I’m trying! 😬
Oh I love this and so relate! I have spent a lifetime trying to make myself invisible and disappearing into the round shouldered posture you describe. Finally at 50 I'm learning to take up space in the world (slowly). Being here on Substack is a part of that. And yoga has helped me enormously in recognising that how we inhabit our body is how we inhabit the world. A shift of posture can really shift mood, confidence and so much more. Thanks for your words 😊
Well said. As one who's tried to take up both less and more space than I've been comfortable with, it's perhaps, the most comfortable of all feelings when you discover that, as you say, there's room for all of us. Those with elbows in and those with umbrellas and spit at the ready. Thanks for putting it so well.