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Dame Yankee is my pseudonym. For those who don’t get it, the name is a take on “damn Yankee.” I know — it doesn’t really suit my on-screen personality. When I write, I am pretty serious. In person, I am a whole lot more sarcastic.
I am an outsider in Texas, though, and for years I have felt like the devil’s advocate — an enemy, a quisling, a curse. In that way, the name is suitable.
This is the story of a woman forced to stay in a place against her will. It is a story about power and control and, to some extent, patriarchy. It is a story about how our culture relates to power and about some of the ways in which we women participate in our own disenfranchisement. It is a call for communication based on authenticity and mutual respect.
The irony is, I’m not really a feminist. Until the divorce, I kept a low profile in my house and garden. I was a soccer mom who cared about the same things that matter to other upper-middle class mothers. I was beaten down by my marriage, but I didn’t realize it. I thought everything I did was wrong, yet at the same time, I hoped the problem wasn’t me. I hoped, when we finally moved away, that things would change.
In eight years, I am going to blow this popsicle stand, and I won’t look back. It’s nothing personal, Travis County. To be fair, you weren’t the problem either. But you were never my choice.
