Back in the back woods, back in the holler, back when I was a little girl absorbing values that would prepare and frustrate me in my life ahead, my mother commented casually one afternoon, “We haven’t had a hen party in awhile.”
“No we haven’t!” the other women agreed.
This was in late summer, in West Virginia, in the sixties, and we were on a family vacation. A hillbilly “family vacation” is a vacation where you visit family. Lots and lots of family get together at somebody’s house. Relatives were camped out in tents, in campers, and in the farmhouse, and more relatives were coming and going, to visit for the day.
“What’s a ‘hen party’?” we kids wanted to know. It was a party, we were told, for just the women, and it was high time we had another one. The women conferred with one another over schedules, decided the party would be held two days hence, and left to spread the word to female relatives and friends in the locale. Oh, and they told the men to leave the property on the designated afternoon.
“Why can’t the men go to the hen party?” we kids wanted to know.
“Because we want to be just with the women,” my mother explained. Further questions did not clarify the mystery.
Cooking and baking preparations for the hen party started the next day and extended into the following morning. Women wanted to show off their skills for other women. As the appointed time approached, the men trudged off with a last loving look at the pies lining the tables. Being a little kid, my brother was given the option of staying with the women or going off with the men. He was curious about the party, but in the end he decided his loyalties lay with the men, and he left with them.
As near as I could tell, the women didn’t do anything at their hen party that they wouldn’t have done if the men were there. They just talked, and they didn’t even talk about anything of much interest to a young girl. I got to see my girl cousins, which was nice, but we would have had more fun swimming or riding ponies than sitting around talking.
The importance of that afternoon, for me, would not become evident for more than a decade. What came back to me later was how that party juxtaposed with my experience as an adult when I tried to create women-only space with other women. Because we always had backlash and we always had to justify ourselves to both women and men. Even before the issue of trans women self-ID’ing as women to enter women-only space, it was an uphill battle. There have been boycotts, denial of venues, vicious backbiting, and even involvement of law enforcement (targeting us!).
As feminists, we have always had clear well-thought-out reasons for taking our space, whether for an hour-long group or a dedicated “wimmin’s land” commune. We say we are creating as women, we are strategizing as women, we are expressing our spirituality as women. We explain our reasons patiently, to ourselves and other people, and sometimes those reasons are even accepted. We strategize how to carry out our women-only vision for an hour, an afternoon, or a week. We rent a hall, we go into the wilderness, we congregate at a residence undisclosed until the time of the meeting. Sometimes we even meet unmolested.
It is a sad commentary on our patriarchal indoctrination that women-only space seems like such a victory, such an experiment, and (for many women) such a new experience, because it should be taken for granted. My mother and aunts didn’t carve out a spot in the wild to hold their “women-only space,” though there was plenty of unoccupied land and they could have done that. They told the men to leave the house and property, and I don’t think it would have occurred to them to do otherwise. They didn’t resort to an ideology to make their exclusionary party plans permissible. They didn’t think they needed a reason. They certainly didn’t think they needed permission.
At the end of the designated time for the hen party, the men swooped onto the scene and made a beeline for the food tables. Grown women don’t eat much, and there was plenty left over. I always assumed that the men went along with the inconvenience of finding a place to congregate for an afternoon, without grumbling, because they knew they would get an unusually fine meal for the sacrifice, but maybe not. Maybe they wanted their space, too, and the terms of banishment did not feel onerous. Maybe they recognized that women work harder than men, and that the women deserved some time to themselves away from male demands. I wish I had asked, but at the time a group of women making decisions for themselves, and a group of men deferring to those decisions, only seemed natural.