No guarantee of a storybook ending

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 20/08/2024 (434 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

There I was, busily writing a column, when the ping of an incoming email stole my focus, and immediately my thoughts and ideas jumped aboard a runaway train.

Knowing that my concentration is fleeting, I often use blockers to minimize frivolous notifications while writing. But this one came in from the government and snuck past my filters and suddenly, my column about the blockbuster movie event of the summer turned into one about cellphone use in the classroom.

Specifically, about banning them.

Cellphones, that is. Not summer blockbusters.

Research reveals that it can take up to 20 minutes for a student to regain focus after being distracted. I gleaned this from the government press release announcing a ban on cellphones in the classroom that I was reading while supposedly writing a column about something entirely different. I am left with no choice but to wholeheartedly concur.

I’m sure this research applies to other people besides young learners, but the concentration powers of middle-aged writers, adult thinkers and post-graduate newspaper readers are entirely outside of the scope of government concern.

What is in their scope, however, is what goes on in the classroom, which undoubtedly will be more learning, thinking, reading, writing and analyzing come this fall once the distraction of unnecessary cellphone usage is eliminated.

Brava.

Now that 20 minutes have passed and my concentration has returned to my original thought, let’s swoop back to where I was before, which was writing about my husband, and the nearly unthinkable thing he did last weekend.

He sat beside me in a packed theatre to watch the summer romance drama, It Ends with Us.

Not even begrudgingly, I must add, even though it’s hardly his genre. A mere 12 months prior at the height of Barbie-mania, he wouldn’t have so much as entertained the idea of watching that feminist mega-hit with me, never mind seeing it in a movie theatre.

Much has changed for us since then. Most predominantly, I’m in a season of grief after losing my mother in June and while I’m discovering what it’s like to mourn in a mostly-grief-illiterate world, he’s learning to walk alongside me, or as it were in the movie theatre, sit quietly by my side just to let me know I’m not alone.

Without giving away any spoilers, the movie features domestic violence and how it plays out in well-to-do families. Tragically, of course, as any form of intimate partner violence does. But there’s an element of reality that often seems to slip beneath the surface whenever Hollywood tries to get its hands on women’s empowerment and the forces that oppress them.

Full disclosure: I have not read the book It Ends With Us, and so I’m not making comment on how author Colleen Hoover deals with the economic realities of her heroine, nor am suggesting that movie themes can only be explored in its grittiest form. But for as much as I enjoyed watching Blake Lively blossom with effortless success and enterprise while she slayed her oppressor, I’m also weary of seeing the ease in which women’s empowerment is obtained for those with means while offering nary a sliver of comparison for those without.

I can’t help but wonder how these plucky, beautiful, well-to-do heroines exist next to those who don’t have the money, success and show-stopping looks to slide into single motherhood with confidence knowing her best days are ahead.

We are taught that we can buy our own flowers and write our names in the sand during soul-searching getaways to the tropics while wearing outlandishly sexy bikinis and well-styled outfits. But what about landlocked single moms who can’t even afford diapers, never mind bouquets of calla lilies to remind themselves they are worth it? How can they achieve empowerment while stuck in financial dependence in ways that heroines like Lily Bloom could never understand?

Having said that, when comparing the realities of today’s women experiencing intimate partner violence to those of my mother’s generation, there is progress.

Our former generation of survivors were often up against not just economic circumstance but also oppressive silence. Striking out on her own because anything was better than being with an abusive partner wasn’t encouraged nearly enough, never mind portrayed on the big screen, or offered up in a jingle.

Now, that message is loud and clear. If only we could also send one about getting good grades, building a profitable career or business that may include years of toiling in the field and not just effortlessly hanging up a shingle and acquiring financial smarts to offer a complete picture of empowerment.