Rosie

A fictional travelogue; three minute read.

Driving to the Rosie the Riveter museum in Richmond, California, my teen daughter Brittany is scrunched into her car seat. Her knees are pulled up tight to her chest, heels tucked under her.

I wish she’d say something, anything. Tell me about her classes, her friends, boys, anything. To break the silence, I ask, “Do you think the exhibits will be riveting?”

Brittany cranks up the car radio.

When I proposed a father-daughter day at a museum celebrating women, I thought we might talk about something other than her messy room, erratic school grades or provocative clothing choices. It was a sophomoric, clumsy plan, which Brittany is making abundantly clear with a World War III–level sulk.

When I look at her, I see her mother. Strong willed, for sure.

In the exhibit halls, Brittany—her latest outfit is ripped jeans and exposed midriff—is pretending that she is not with her father. I’m used to her public pouts. They give me unplanned time to think about my next classroom lecture.

The history I teach is mostly written by and about men. Museums, monuments, marble busts, the Mount Rushmores give us markers to measure ourselves, to pay tribute to the great and the glorious—most often men. It doesn’t seem like Brittany and I will ever talk about what this means for her.

I want my students, especially the girls, to know that half the world’s progress is the underreported history of their gender. When the war effort needed it, six million women became welders, machinists, electricians, carpenters, mechanics. Before then, housewives worked inside the home, unpaid, or in low-status jobs like maids or clerical positions.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Brittany checking out an exhibit about Marian Sousa, a draftsperson at Richmond Shipyard Number Three. Sousa worked on the plans for liberty ships, landing craft, floating hospitals, frigates. In her own words, “I specifically didn’t do anything great, but I participated in something that was great.”

Without her mom around, Brittany could do a lot worse than Marian Sousa for a role model. I keep my mouth shut, reading a plaque telling me WWII tripled the size of Richmond virtually overnight.

If I weren’t distracted guiding other teens her age through their year-long Western Civilization courses, if I had more time with her, if I knew what she wanted from me, if, if, if….

Brittany can’t figure out how to ask for my help or say ‘thank you’ in a language we both speak, but damn, I hope she knows that I have her back. No matter what.

Waiting for Brittany outside the museum, I’m grasping the pitted metal guardrail at the edge of a sea wall facing S.F. across the bay. As if braced against the next shudder of a crashing wave or a crushing criticism from my daughter, my legs are slightly akimbo.

The choppy waters are like the whitecaps and undercurrents I navigate as a single dad. I feel seasick without even going to sea.

After the museum, Brittany and I stop at a nearby cafe, named Assemble. I order a tuna melt, no chips. She gets a burger and fries.

Halfway into our meal, without looking over at me, she moves a handful of fries onto my plate.

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