I'm a gal who was raised by both parents with two brothers: one older and one younger. 

However, contrary to what you're thinking, the dreaded "middle-child-syndrome" need not apply in this case:

My older brother is only older by a little more than a year; my younger brother, meanwhile, didn't come into the picture until I was nine-years-old. Being the middle-child in name only doesn't equate to the middle-child experience. 

Aside from being the "middle-child" of the family, I was also the only girl among the siblings. 

 experience has never been as cut-and-dry, either.

It's been hard, bitter pill to swallow in recent years, but one that requires acknowledgement: boys and girls are simply treated differently by their parents, but not always according to the expected.

Growing up, I couldn't understand how some girls didn't get along with their fathers. One of my best friends, in fact, had a rather strained relationship with hers, the extent of which I didn't fully realize until after we were grown: her father made her feel small, and unimportant. He didn't always treat her with the basic level of respect that every person, let alone a child, should be granted by a perfect stranger. He allowed his own personal demons to interfere in his relationship with his daughter, so much so, that they are only just now finding a healthier ground to stand on.

And to my shock, this is not an uncommon occurrence among young ladies...

Many of the gal-pals I've made in my time as a young adult have expressed similar circumstances surrounding their childhoods. And that is just heartbreaking to hear! 

To this day I still struggle to fully empathize with the anxiety surrounding patriarchy that many of my peers seem to wrestle with on a daily basis. I never felt too intimidated by it, personally. And for reasons that may surprise you.

My dad was a self-described "old country-boy" born and raised in the foothills of Appalachia during the later half of the 20th century. So yes, admittedly he raked in many benefits that come from the privilege of being a middle-aged white man.

But he was also the man who taught me how to cook - on the stove and in the oven. He was the one who made sure I knew to cook the pork until the pink was gone, and that steam will burn you worse than boiling water.

My dad was the man who taught me how to do the laundry. How to avoid mixing colors, that cold water's better for saving energy, and when to tumble-dry versus when to hang-to-dry.

My dad taught me how to safely build a fire, how to test the kindling to make sure it was dry - how to chop the wood on the block, in fact ("let the weight of the ax do all the work"). He taught me how to use the tools in the tool-chest, the tools in the garage, how to turn off the pipes in case of emergency, how to change a light-bulb, how to check the smoke-detectors... and all while we gabbed on and on about the latest exploits on 

For all of my dad's shortcomings - and, like any other parent, there were several! - my dad was educated enough to know that his greatest responsibility, as a father, was to make sure that I and my brothers, his children, were prepared to live life without his assistance. 

Because we all have to punch that ticket one day. 

So, what does all this about my father have to do with mom's enforcing patriarchy? Well - everything! At least in my case. 

I've never feared "patriarchy" as an institution because I've always known I could take them. If there's one thing I learned from a crash-course in business-school, it's that you don't have to bigger or stronger than someone to 

 them (mawhaha!). And the fact is, a lot of that confidence came 

He was no one's fool - he understood the uphill battle that was going to come my way in... well, just about everything. And simply because I was born a girl living in a "man's world." He pretty much told me so:

"If you're going to succeed in your business, you're gonna have to be just as 

On another, more recent, occasion, and during small conversation, he openly admitted that if any man ever assaulted me, there 

My father - a representation of 'Patriarchy' - is the reason I'm not afraid of it; is the reason I believe I can waltz through any glass-ceiling, and then dare the powers-that-be to try and stop me...

Now, my mother, on the other hand... well - she's the one the powers-that-be would tattle-to.

I think the reason I gravitated so much to my dad growing up is because my mother and I are two very different people. Two very different types of 

Some of that I would chalk up to us having very distinct childhoods, and our respective relationships to our moms: as a girl, mom was outgoing and carefree; she was a cheerleader who competed in track and had dozens of friends to spend time with. I was the girl who was shy and quiet; an imaginative bookworm, who struggled to find my people to spend time with.

Mom practically worshiped the ground her mother walked on; they had their share of fights and exchanges, of course, like in any family - and some words with flung her mother's way that my mom still regrets today. But my mom's relationship with her own mother serves as a sturdy foundation for her. If things are tough for her, she goes back to her past and thinks, 'what would mom do?'

Meanwhile, she and I don't share the same closeness; we haven't since I was old enough to start questioning her and her motives. When things get tough for me, I go back to my past and think, 'what would dad say right now?'

Now, my brothers on the other hand, they share a deep connection with her. One that I both admire and envy (and am 

And recently, I've had to do a lot of soul-searching and came to a startling conclusion: my own mother would rather me not fight. In anything. Ever. And I know this perfectly well, because 

 would rather not fight. Not even with her son; not even when 

Maybe it's because he's her youngest - her "baby," as she likes to remind me (even now I have to roll my eyes) - maybe it's because he's still in a pretty shaky place since our dad died two years ago (and God only knows he is).

But I would argue today, tomorrow, and even twenty years from now, that she's so permissive of his foolishness because that's how 

Contrary to the ways I was raised, my parents were reared in very traditional households: the women cooked and cleaned, while the men went to work. And anything outside those parameters was considered abnormal (whatever the hell 'normal' even means anymore). But, since they were tight on cash early in the marriage, and worked full-time jobs through their marriages, certain concessions had to be made...

But now that the kids are grown and don't need her as much, and, sadly, her best friend can't be with her now, my mom has fallen back on the only thing she identifies by: being a mom. 

And what does a 'good mom' do? She calls her son's pediatrician, course. She schedules his appointments, she takes care of his prescriptions; she makes sure a meal is ready for him at the end of the day, even if it is fast-food (you see, my mom can barely boil water). She soothes his ego when his friends are being unkind, she makes sure he remembers various appointments through out the year; she excuses his bad behavior, with the promise that 'he's a boy!' 

Every single excuse for why he - at 22 years old - is not 'getting it;' Why I should be more patient with him, and not fight; why he doesn't have a job yet (after more than a year of unemployment), and why he's permitted to stay in his room playing games and watching cartoons (and not washing dishes, watering plants, or taking the damned dog for a walk). 

It's a story I have heard from my early teens onward; one I've never feared, and one that only now pisses me off more than I can say: 

But this is not a story that ever came from my father- you know, the one man who first 

Yes, many men recite this tale to their daughters and hope that it will encourage them to find a suitable husband, so that they can settle down early and raise lots of babies.

But it's also a horror-story, as told by my own mother, and as recently as last evening... as she pandered to my brother's wounded ego.

In case, you couldn't tell, I am angry. Very, 

I'm still angry that my father was taken from my family so soon. I'm angry that I and my peers have to forfeit major milestones, long-anticipated celebrations, for the sake of our parents' mistakes. I'm angry that I'll have to fight twice as hard and be twice as ruthless (as my dad once prophesied) to even scrape by, simply because I was born without a specific appendage. And I'm angry that such gumption, such daring to be so ruthless, is poo-poo'ed by many, even my own mother, because "nice girls don't get angry."

I'm currently at this point in my life where I honestly don't know if I will ever have kids, or even marry for that matter. I'm still open to both in the future, though now much more doubtful for one big reason:

I've spent my life around boys and men. Many good and decent; others not so much. But I've also spent the last few years coming to grips with my new reality and my new self, in the wake of losing someone so dear to me (actually, losing 

 people so dear to me, but that's another story). I've had to take a hard look at everything I thought I ever wanted to before, and rethink it all. 

Can I live a productive and fulfilling life, if I have a husband?

Will I be genuinely happy as a mother, to sons or daughters?

Is building separate family really that important to me anymore?

Honestly, I don't have the answer to any of these questions. At least not right now.

But one thing I do know about myself now, is that I refuse to be stagnant.

I refuse to let others dictate my life and my values to me, when I need to be the one to honor myself, first.

I may be a daughter, a sister, and now a young aunt. But that is not all of who I am. I am, much more than the sum of those parts. I 

 the master of my fate and the captain of my own soul. And I will fight tooth and nail to 

That, my young friends, is how the fight is already won.

Ahmet Sali

Glass-Ceiling be Damned

A slightly feminist rant about some drama in my life

I'm a gal who was raised by both parents with two brothers: one older and one younger. 

However, contrary to what you're thinking, the dreaded "middle-child-syndrome" need not apply in this case:



Glass-Ceiling be Damned

A slightly feminist rant about some drama in my life

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Taylor Rigsby

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Glass-Ceiling be Damned

A slightly feminist rant about some drama in my life

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}Taylor Rigsby

About the Creator

Taylor Rigsby

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This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Taylor Rigsby