ERROR, ERROR:

“ERROR ERROR”

BASED ON A TRUE STORY!

It was warm weather in 1976, and I was being my usual mischievous self, or as to quote my MeeMaw, “Fanny is being bad (again).”

My mother cleaned me up for the third time that morning. Hair in pigtails with green bows, she put me down with a pop on the tush to stay put. My brother, Robert, who is two years older, snickered. The minute she left the room; I showed him what my front teeth could do.

“Mom, Fanny bit me… AGAIN!” he cried, biting me back. Before I could punch him, MeeMaw descended with a fly swatter, her shadow darkening the room like a cloud. Spanked, cornered in ‘Siberia,’ and forced to repeat the Lord’s Prayer ten times, I was on the highway to hell, and I hadn’t even heard the song yet.

My dog joined me in Siberia, rolling all over the floor, getting my green shirt with the fancy letters dirty. Mother came out, her red hair sprayed high to give credence to “the higher the hair, the closer to God!” She just stared at her wayward child, pigtails lopsided, and I caught a flicker of exasperation mixed with amusement in her eyes.

“Patsy, you'd better have on a bra. Your husband’s the principal. You can’t jiggle. March for women’s rights all you want, but don’t be vulgar.”

“Vulgar” was MeeMaw’s favorite word, used with a sharp edge and a snap of her eyes. Mother’s favorites were ‘Siberia’ and ‘sacrilegious!’

“Well, I have one on, Mama!” She did a little bounce, and they stayed in place. MeeMaw nodded. “Good. The newspaper may be there. You want to look pretty.”

“Looking pretty isn’t important. Our rights are!” Mother pumped her fist like her heroine, Gloria Steinem.

Back then, I didn’t get it. My father had taught me that “Ms.” stood for “mistake,” so I didn’t understand why Mother adored a magazine named for something bad. But I understood her excitement that day, the way her eyes glinted like a secret she couldn’t wait to share with the world.

MeeMaw rolled her eyes and lit a Virginia Slim. “Have fun with Fanny. Robert and I are going to put in the tomato plants today.” I’d rather have been in the dirt than at a rally, but off we went, bouncing in the car and chattering nervously about what we were about to do.

We arrived in Richmond. I jumped out as we parked near my best friend Jenny and her mother. We were four, wearing green shirts spelling “ERROR.” My father had tutored me the night before so I would chant correctly, a ritual of precise repetition that made me feel both empowered and ridiculous. Jenny whispered back that I had it wrong, her tiny face scrunched in concentration and confusion.

At the rally, we followed our mothers among women of all shapes and sizes, holding signs high above our heads. “So many people!” Mother exclaimed, scanning the crowd. “We are going to change the world!”

Banners flapped in the breeze, and the hum of voices rose into a melody that felt alive with purpose.

“You wore a bra?” her friend asked, peeking down with a raised eyebrow.

“Mother nagged me. How do I look?”

“Vain,” Vivian laughed, her voice carrying a musical note of amusement. “Fanny’s shirt is dirty again. Can’t you keep her clean?”

We began to chant “ERROR! ERROR!” just as my father had drilled me, each syllable sharp and proud. Jenny whispered corrections and gave me a shove. I shoved her back. Then, I bit her, and chaos ensued, our tiny voices clashing amid the roar of thousands. In the middle of the march, the daughters of women fighting for the Equal Rights Amendment were bickering over spelling, a moment of comedy against the backdrop of history in the making.

Mother broke us apart, spanked me, and walked away from Jenny and Vivian. I have no memory of being invited to another Virginia ERA rally. The state did not even vote to ratify the amendment, but my mother’s native Kentucky did, and so did my father’s Tennessee.

Somewhere, in a faded Richmond newspaper, there is a little girl with lopsided pigtails and a green shirt, holding a sign, yelling “ERROR! ERROR!” Her small image frozen on the page for anyone who might notice, a footnote in the story of women’s struggle and determination.

By January 27, 2020, Virginia had completed the ratification process, formally becoming the 38th state to ratify. My father would often chuckle at how my message of “ERROR ERROR” must have immortalized the state’s final decision. It was too late.

#Virginia #ERA #EqualRIghtsAmendment #Fathers