When I was a young girl, my world was fairly small and tightly controlled. Nothing was done without the express written consent of parents, priests and nuns. This led to some very interesting situations in my childhood for both me and some of my neighborhood companions.
For instance, there was the time my friend Grace got appendicitis while we were still in grade school. She wasn’t about to tell our nun that she had this pain because she didn’t want to miss school. By the time we got out that day, I literally had to help her down the stairs and walk her to her home because the pain had gotten so intense.
A doctor was called, the diagnosis was made, and Grace was told she would have to go into surgery. Except Grace refused to allow anyone to move her out of her house until she saw a priest. And no amount of threats by her parents about the consequences of waiting even five minutes to get to surgery would dissuade her. Finally, her parents had to send for the parish priest to give her a blessing before she’d leave for the hospital.
Then there was the time I won an award from the VFW for a Voice Of Democracy broadcast speech writing contest. I know the exact title of the competition because the award still hangs on a wall in my home. I was thrilled to win until I found out that in order to accept the award I would have to go to a – gasp, horror – Protestant Church for the ceremony. I wasn’t sure I could do that without risking my immortal soul. And nothing my parents said alleviated my concern.
In total frustration they sent me to our parish priest who assured me I could enter the church and enjoy the dinner without risk. I can’t tell you how relieved I was though there was a part of me that still thought the question should have been booted upstairs to the bishop just to be sure.
Needless to say, with this type of background, the YWCA was hardly a part of my everyday world when I was young. In fact, I don’t think I’d even heard of it prior to going to high school where my world widened to include non-Italians.
I can look back at that limited little girl I once was and laugh now. Especially since I’ve grown up enough to know I can be friendly with all religions without fear of eternal damnation and that the work of the YWCA is in the best tradition of what Christianity should stand for.
Here in Anchorage, the YWCA sponsors programs that run the gamut from helping women deal with their finances to helping mothers and daughters communicate well and avoid the trap of substance abuse. It sponsors programs on women’s health and programs that encourage young girls to get into the thick of the technology revolution.
One of the activities I love best is its annual program at the Anchorage Museum of History and Art entitled Alaska Women Writers: Reading from Their Work. This year that program is happening on September 23 at 7 PM. And even though I’m not reading this year, I’m excited about the program because each year I’ve attended I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the depth of talent Alaskan women writers possess.
Last year, I heard a young lady, a SLAM poet name Corinna Delgado, do a reading and it was enough to make me want to pack up my computer and sell it cheap. Being faced with that level of talent certainly puts my little scribblings into stark perspective.
So if this year’s TV season strikes you as being as pathetically bankrupt as it strikes me, and you are looking for entertainment that will really entertain you, I highly recommend that you head to the museum this Thursday. Not only do you get to hear some of Alaska’s best women writers strutting their stuff, but you get wine and cheese afterwards and a chance to meet these ladies and find out what makes them tick. All this for a very low price that helps to support the other great programs the YWCA offers.
Now how can you sit in your house watching Donald Trump’s hair try to flee from his scalp when there is something this wonderful happening outside your door?