It's 1957 -- I am at a posh restaurant in New York. I delight in having my handsome husband sitting next to me. On his right is the first director of the Human Sexuality Center at LIJ Hillside Center. She is charming all of us. Next to her is the couple who have contributed a million dollars to fund the Center. They are our hosts tonight.
Across the table from me are our guests of honor, William Masters and Virginia Johnson. Their work has started the world talking about sex, sex, sex. It is a time at the height of their celebrity. As a newcomer to the field of sex therapy, I can't believe I am having dinner in their company.
My seat at the table faces the wide door that opens into the restaurant. As my glance falls in that direction, I see Margaret Mead coming through the door, followed by a group of about six, all of them in colorful ethnic attire. I think there should be a band beating drums. Dr. Mead moves in a slow, measured way towards her table. She is facing in my direction and notices my smile of recognition. She stops and remarks:
"How nice to see you, Shirley, and in such good company." Masters and Johnson rise to greet her, and they address each other as Maggie, Ginny, and Bill. I whisper to my husband that I can't believe I'm apart of this scene. Is it really happening?
As she moves on, I am asked how I know Margaret Mead. I explain that a few years ago, I was working on my doctoral dissertation. The topic I chose was Husbands in the Delivery Room, a popular practice today but considered radical at that time by both prospective parents and obstetricians.
I wanted to explore delivery customs in other cultures; so, feeling very courageous, I arranged a consultation with Margaret Mead, considered a leading authority in the field of anthropology and revered as a faculty member at Columbia University. (Despite her status, she never became a professor because no women were given that rank then!)
Dr. Mead was interested in my work and became a member of my Doctoral Committee. She opened doors for me in many ways. The one I remember most is the door to her office in the Tower of the Museum of Natural History.
As I told my story that evening, I kept pinching myself (and my husband) that I had become a subject of interest to this amazing group.
Now it's 2010 -- I am one of the few survivors at the dinner party, perhaps the only one left that remembers that bright, shining moment in time for me. I am having lunch with a young student, who tells me that she wants to become a sex therapist.
At some point I bring up the names Masters and Johnson. She dismisses them as irrelevant today. I don't even try to describe to her their enormous impact on our sociey. I reflect on how many young people today probably have never even heard their names.
A few days later, a friend brings up the name of Margaret Mead, a name rarely heard today -- her books frequently unread. My friend describes Mead's findings as inaccurate. I don't challenge her.
As I sit at my desk, I find myself wondering -- What is fame? What survives? What is knowledge? I have no answers -- I decide to go to the gym!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
PUBLISHED IN 100TH ANNIVERSARY ISSUE OF SMITH COLLEGE ALUMNAE QUARTERLY -- Winter 2009-10
AND THEN THERE WERE FOUR -- Back to the Future -- Shirley Dlugasch Zussman ‘34
An invitation came from Smith College to attend the 75th Reunion of my class. Images of my college years floated in my mind. I wanted to be in that time zone again. Never mind that I was 95 years old. I arrived in Northampton in May, 2009, eighty years after my first arrival in the fall of 1930. The campus had that unreal quality for me of a dream state.
I was joined by three other members of my class--fit and energetic – No wheelchairs, no walkers, no dementia, yet! All of us over 95, our lives had spanned almost a hundred years. We related to each other as if no time had passed. We were very much in the present moment. Forty-seven other members of our class still survive. Only a century ago, women died at the age of 48. Today, many women are starting a new life at that age in a burst of what Margaret Mead called menopausal zest.
Women’s lifespan today is almost 80 years. Longevity is one of the dramatic changes achieved by women in this century. In the future, it is likely more women will attend their 75th Reunion, even their 100th. More women are going to college today and now outnumber men in both private and public colleges in this country. Another achievement!
How different today’s curriculum is than in our time! Today, Smith women are being prepared to take their place in the worlds of engineering, government, medicine, computer science, and economics—wherever their dreams take them. Our curriculum, with its emphasis on literature, music and art, was shaped to meet the expectations of women to become educated wives and mothers; however, despite the limited career expectations of the class of 1934, many went on to successful careers in many different fields, their early expectations greatly enhanced by women’s changing role in society and the opportunities it provided. Julia Child, our glorious classmate, provides a perfect example of having started out with a domestic skill and elevating it to a professional and world-famous level.
“What was it like to be here way back then?” That was a question asked us by current students who served as our guides throughout the reunion. They thought of us belonging to the Victorian Age. Not so! That age ended at the beginning of the century followed by the Roaring Twenties, the first emergence of the emancipated woman. World War I had brought women out of the house to work in offices and factories and given them a new freedom. The harsh sexual repression of the Victorian Age had begun to subside. It was against this background that the class of 1934 began its college experience. The excess of the 20s was somewhat diminished by the Great Depression which had begun 1929. But the new freedom for women was relished by the students. Smoking was common, its dangers still unknown. Drinking was seen as part of the new freedom, even though Prohibition was the law until 1933.
Our young guides found it hard to believe that some students had sex lives. They knew I was a pioneer in the field of sex therapy--and of them had read my blog—and wanted to know my ideas about women’s sexual feelings and experiences at that time. As I look back, we were not knowledgeable about our sexual selves--about what we needed and wanted. We thought men were the sexual experts and that pleasing our partners was what it was all about. We read books like Lady Chatterley’s Lover and all of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novels, probably reading these more fervently than our assigned reading.
The sexual revolution had yet to come and the pill had not yet appeared on the scene, although diaphragms and condoms were in use. The great contribution to female sexuality came from the works of Alfred Kinsey and Masters and Johnson. These researchers forever eliminated the Victorian concept of women as frigid – they presented scientifically validated evidence that women were equal to men in their capacity for sexual response and they even reported that aging had little effect on female sexuality.
Although we still have much to learn about our sexuality and its role in our lives, as women we are more comfortable today with ourselves as sexual beings, freer to give and receive pleasure.
So here I am writing this piece on my computer—95 years old—my journey back in time is over—so many changes—so much we owe to the combined efforts of so many women to enhance our lives, to overcome “the feminine mystique.” There will be others in the next one hundred years to carry on the mission in a world that even our fantasies cannot construct. But carry on they will!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Best Sex Advice From the Last Century - Glamour December 2009
Former GLAMOUR sex columnist Shirley Zussman, 95(!), shares what’s better and worse for women now, and how to have a blissed-out sex life.
BIGGEST ADVANCE
Women Are More Body Confident
"How to have an orgasm was the top question during my Glamour days," says Zussman, who’s still a practicing sex therapist. "But today women know how to make themselves feel good.." There’s only one problem: "Somehow they still aren’t always comfortable conveying that to their partner." Zussman suggests using action instead of words. "Words can sound like criticism," she admits. "Instead, put his hand on yours while you do what you like - he’ll pick things up."
BIGGEST SETBACK
All Those Gadgets!
"The most frequent problem I see in my practice today is lack of desire," says Zussman. "A lot of that has to do with the never-ending workday we have with phones and computers. They are very seductive." Bedrooms used to be just for sleeping and sex, and that’s how it should be, she says. "Don’t let your bedroom become an office."
WHAT’S THE SAME
The Importance of Your Sexual Health
"We learned early on that many sex problems aren’t just in your head; there is a real underlying cause, such as side effects from medication decreasing your libido," says Zussman. "That’s still true." So it’s important to make regular visits to your GP and ob-gyn. "Being diligent now is key to having a healthy body - and great sex - for the future," she says.
-Mikki Halpin
BIGGEST ADVANCE
Women Are More Body Confident
"How to have an orgasm was the top question during my Glamour days," says Zussman, who’s still a practicing sex therapist. "But today women know how to make themselves feel good.." There’s only one problem: "Somehow they still aren’t always comfortable conveying that to their partner." Zussman suggests using action instead of words. "Words can sound like criticism," she admits. "Instead, put his hand on yours while you do what you like - he’ll pick things up."
BIGGEST SETBACK
All Those Gadgets!
"The most frequent problem I see in my practice today is lack of desire," says Zussman. "A lot of that has to do with the never-ending workday we have with phones and computers. They are very seductive." Bedrooms used to be just for sleeping and sex, and that’s how it should be, she says. "Don’t let your bedroom become an office."
WHAT’S THE SAME
The Importance of Your Sexual Health
"We learned early on that many sex problems aren’t just in your head; there is a real underlying cause, such as side effects from medication decreasing your libido," says Zussman. "That’s still true." So it’s important to make regular visits to your GP and ob-gyn. "Being diligent now is key to having a healthy body - and great sex - for the future," she says.
-Mikki Halpin
Once Upon a Mattress
A few weeks ago, I purchased a new mattress for my bed. I had recently bought one for the bed in my guest room and I decided I deserved equal treatment.
Mattresses come in all sizes, variations in quality, differences in firmness, and a nice variation in price. The salesman who was helping me make a decision emphasized the importance of durability in choosing a mattress. He was proud that his store’s policy was to guarantee that the mattress would be in good condition after five years or your money would be refunded, or you would get a replacement.
At 95 years of age, I would have preferred a guarantee of my survival to use the mattress - I didn’t even consider the idea of being replaced.
My age, however, didn’t seem to get in the way of my selecting a high quality mattress, at an exorbitant price. Evidently I still cling to the belief that the best is the cheapest in the long run. I think, too, that age has heightened my sense of entitlement - that I deserve the best.
Although I looked forward to the delivery of the mattress, so that I could enjoy its comfort, I feared that my sleep would be disturbed by concern about the hole in my budget that this purchase had made. But no, I had no such concern.
As I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts focused on the virginal twin sized bed I had slept in growing up in my parents home.
I smiled as I recalled the squeaky iron bed I had recently slept in at my college reunion - had I really slept on a bed like that for four years in my turbulent youth?
The king sized bed I had shared with my husband loomed large in my dreamlike state. It took up most of the space, deservedly, so we both thought, in the bedroom of our first apartment. After his death, I bought a queen sized bed. The king had died, but not my expectation that there would be someone else to share my bed.
When I made this recent purchase I chose a full size mattress - no return to the virginal twin size bed of my youth, but evidently the expectation of sharing my bed was no longer there.
Interestingly, after a few weeks I am glad I bought a new mattress - the cost is forgotten, I’m enjoying its comfort, but I feel a sense of regret that I did not buy a queen sized one. Even without a partner I evidently still want to feel like a queen!
Mattresses come in all sizes, variations in quality, differences in firmness, and a nice variation in price. The salesman who was helping me make a decision emphasized the importance of durability in choosing a mattress. He was proud that his store’s policy was to guarantee that the mattress would be in good condition after five years or your money would be refunded, or you would get a replacement.
At 95 years of age, I would have preferred a guarantee of my survival to use the mattress - I didn’t even consider the idea of being replaced.
My age, however, didn’t seem to get in the way of my selecting a high quality mattress, at an exorbitant price. Evidently I still cling to the belief that the best is the cheapest in the long run. I think, too, that age has heightened my sense of entitlement - that I deserve the best.
Although I looked forward to the delivery of the mattress, so that I could enjoy its comfort, I feared that my sleep would be disturbed by concern about the hole in my budget that this purchase had made. But no, I had no such concern.
As I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts focused on the virginal twin sized bed I had slept in growing up in my parents home.
I smiled as I recalled the squeaky iron bed I had recently slept in at my college reunion - had I really slept on a bed like that for four years in my turbulent youth?
The king sized bed I had shared with my husband loomed large in my dreamlike state. It took up most of the space, deservedly, so we both thought, in the bedroom of our first apartment. After his death, I bought a queen sized bed. The king had died, but not my expectation that there would be someone else to share my bed.
When I made this recent purchase I chose a full size mattress - no return to the virginal twin size bed of my youth, but evidently the expectation of sharing my bed was no longer there.
Interestingly, after a few weeks I am glad I bought a new mattress - the cost is forgotten, I’m enjoying its comfort, but I feel a sense of regret that I did not buy a queen sized one. Even without a partner I evidently still want to feel like a queen!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
FEATHERING MY NEST
When I was a teenager, oh, so long ago, I began to have fantasies of a prince who would enter my life and soon we would go off and live together forever after! Soon the place where we would live became the major focus of the fantasy. It was never a cottage in the woods; it was never a mansion in a fashionable suburb. No, it was always similar to places in which I had lived with my family—a brownstone facing a park—a spacious city apartment.
The difference was that in the fantasy I could make all the decisions as to how our living quarters would be decorated—the colors, the furniture, the art—how it would be arranged in the space my prince and I occupied.
It wasn’t that I found my parents’ décor distasteful, but I wanted to make the decisions; and in the fantasy, I could.
Now that I look back, older and wiser, what troubled me—and fed my fantasy, was that my mother often consulted my sister before making any decorating decisions—my sister had "the eye," the talent for design and composition; and indeed, in her adult life she became an interior decorator. To this day, in her 90s, she is frequently consulted about anything that involves "the eye."
Years passed. The prince and I found each other and we did go off together to set up our first home—to feather our nest. I must confess that I turned to my sister that first time for some guidance. After that I took the plunge and made my own decisions and took pleasure in the process.
Over the years, to make changes in our home, to create a new ambiance, to be au courant, it was exciting to leaf through magazines, to shop, to talk with friends; and, yes, my sister and later my daughter. It was not a major preoccupation in my life; it didn’t call upon my best skills, but feathering the next did give me a sense of pleasure and satisfaction. It was as if I were doing something that came naturally.
Recently, I’ve become aware that I no longer derive pleasure from feathering the nest. If I’m attracted to a set of dishes in a display or see a beautiful piece of furniture, the inner pressure to acquire it is no longer there. I no longer ask my daughter what color carpeting to get for my den. I like my furnishings, and there is no excitement attached to making changes, as there was in the past. Is there an internal pressure to feather nests at certain periods of time as there is for birds to feather their nests at a fixed time in their pregnancy?
There is a feeling of loss attached to no longer feeling that inner urge, just as there are many other feelings of loss as we age—the loss of our youthful vitality, our reproductive function, the loss of loved ones. We cope with these losses in various ways.
Are there gains along with the losses? To some degree, yes—in the case of feathering the nest, some relief from the instinctual pressure, from the competitive factor that is part of the nesting process in our culture, and maybe among the birds, too. There is also the freedom to fill the gap, with other interests and pursuits—to say nothing of the money that is saved to use for other urges and purposes—perhaps to help the next generation to feather their nests.
The difference was that in the fantasy I could make all the decisions as to how our living quarters would be decorated—the colors, the furniture, the art—how it would be arranged in the space my prince and I occupied.
It wasn’t that I found my parents’ décor distasteful, but I wanted to make the decisions; and in the fantasy, I could.
Now that I look back, older and wiser, what troubled me—and fed my fantasy, was that my mother often consulted my sister before making any decorating decisions—my sister had "the eye," the talent for design and composition; and indeed, in her adult life she became an interior decorator. To this day, in her 90s, she is frequently consulted about anything that involves "the eye."
Years passed. The prince and I found each other and we did go off together to set up our first home—to feather our nest. I must confess that I turned to my sister that first time for some guidance. After that I took the plunge and made my own decisions and took pleasure in the process.
Over the years, to make changes in our home, to create a new ambiance, to be au courant, it was exciting to leaf through magazines, to shop, to talk with friends; and, yes, my sister and later my daughter. It was not a major preoccupation in my life; it didn’t call upon my best skills, but feathering the next did give me a sense of pleasure and satisfaction. It was as if I were doing something that came naturally.
Recently, I’ve become aware that I no longer derive pleasure from feathering the nest. If I’m attracted to a set of dishes in a display or see a beautiful piece of furniture, the inner pressure to acquire it is no longer there. I no longer ask my daughter what color carpeting to get for my den. I like my furnishings, and there is no excitement attached to making changes, as there was in the past. Is there an internal pressure to feather nests at certain periods of time as there is for birds to feather their nests at a fixed time in their pregnancy?
There is a feeling of loss attached to no longer feeling that inner urge, just as there are many other feelings of loss as we age—the loss of our youthful vitality, our reproductive function, the loss of loved ones. We cope with these losses in various ways.
Are there gains along with the losses? To some degree, yes—in the case of feathering the nest, some relief from the instinctual pressure, from the competitive factor that is part of the nesting process in our culture, and maybe among the birds, too. There is also the freedom to fill the gap, with other interests and pursuits—to say nothing of the money that is saved to use for other urges and purposes—perhaps to help the next generation to feather their nests.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
AND THEN THERE WERE FOUR
Four women from the Smith College class of 1934 attended their 75th reunion at the end of May 2009. They came to the campus by car, plane, and train. As the youngest of the quartet, I was looking forward to celebrating my 95th birthday in a few weeks--the oldest was 97.
A picture from our senior yearbook was hung on the doors of the dormitory rooms that was assigned to the four survivors. It was hard to believe that we had ever been that young. The four of us agreed we no longer resembled the pictures of our earlier days, but we also agreed that we looked damn good. No wheelchairs, no walkers in our group, no sign of dementia yet!
I remember that one of the four had been a flamboyant redhead. She still had faint traces of red in the bangs on her forehead.
We hadn't been friends at college, but we left Northampton at the end of the reunion feeling a good deal of warmth and admiration towards each other. And there was a lot to admire -- all four had led active and fulfilling lives and they were still "out there" with full days. There was little talk of the early years at college, but it seemed to me we reverted to that time when we used the common, large dormitory bathroom. We walked around, undressed, wrapped in a towel, waiting our turn to shower. We lingered in that ambiance, yes, giggling, as if we didn't want to return to our rooms, as in the past, to study.
We didn't talk much about the past or tell our story. We seemed suspended in time, enjoying the moment, feeling a connection that was fragile and fulfilling.
At least for the moment, nobody could recall who was the President of the United States when we were students. Of course, it was Herbert Hoover followed by Franklin Roosevelt. What the world had in common then, with today, were hard times. The Great Depression that started in the Wall Street Collapse of 1929 was far more severe than our recession is today, as yet.
The depression had a direct effect on our college population. Almost half of the students had to leave because of financial problems. I had my first stirring of being a feminist when I learned that the male colleges were not effected in the same way.
All weekend, beautiful young women, current students at the college, served as "ambassadors" to smooth our way. They were very eager to hear about our college days and the lives we had led. I was curious to know about their college lives and the dreams of the lives they will lead. Some things are impossible so I will never know about their 75th reunion. Perhaps that will be much less astounding to a number of them than it was to the four of us who returned to our college on a beautiful spring weekend.
A picture from our senior yearbook was hung on the doors of the dormitory rooms that was assigned to the four survivors. It was hard to believe that we had ever been that young. The four of us agreed we no longer resembled the pictures of our earlier days, but we also agreed that we looked damn good. No wheelchairs, no walkers in our group, no sign of dementia yet!
I remember that one of the four had been a flamboyant redhead. She still had faint traces of red in the bangs on her forehead.
We hadn't been friends at college, but we left Northampton at the end of the reunion feeling a good deal of warmth and admiration towards each other. And there was a lot to admire -- all four had led active and fulfilling lives and they were still "out there" with full days. There was little talk of the early years at college, but it seemed to me we reverted to that time when we used the common, large dormitory bathroom. We walked around, undressed, wrapped in a towel, waiting our turn to shower. We lingered in that ambiance, yes, giggling, as if we didn't want to return to our rooms, as in the past, to study.
We didn't talk much about the past or tell our story. We seemed suspended in time, enjoying the moment, feeling a connection that was fragile and fulfilling.
At least for the moment, nobody could recall who was the President of the United States when we were students. Of course, it was Herbert Hoover followed by Franklin Roosevelt. What the world had in common then, with today, were hard times. The Great Depression that started in the Wall Street Collapse of 1929 was far more severe than our recession is today, as yet.
The depression had a direct effect on our college population. Almost half of the students had to leave because of financial problems. I had my first stirring of being a feminist when I learned that the male colleges were not effected in the same way.
All weekend, beautiful young women, current students at the college, served as "ambassadors" to smooth our way. They were very eager to hear about our college days and the lives we had led. I was curious to know about their college lives and the dreams of the lives they will lead. Some things are impossible so I will never know about their 75th reunion. Perhaps that will be much less astounding to a number of them than it was to the four of us who returned to our college on a beautiful spring weekend.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
LOST
A few weeks ago my microwave oven failed to function, and I had to face the fact that I needed a replacement. Shopping in the kitchen department of an electric supermarket, I found a microwave that met my requirements. Looking around the store, I realized that my stove was of ancient origin too, and it seemed practical to buy one while I was in this kitchen heaven.
A few days later, the new equipment arrived. For a brief moment, I had a fantasy that I was the mistress of one of the glamorous kitchens so often displayed in the media. That fantasy soon faded, but I did enjoy the shiny black additions to my kitchen.
Since cooking is not one of my passions and I rarely make succulent roasts in the oven nor do I any longer bake cookies for my grandchildren, over the years I have stored pots and pans in the lower part of the oven. As I continued to gaze in awe at my new appliances, I suddenly realized that I had failed to remove the pots and pans from my old oven before it was carted away!
Although pots and pans are not inexpensive, it was not the replacement cost that upset me. It was the sudden awareness that I was attached to those old friends. They had played an endearing role in life over the years. One of them went back to my time as a bride. One old pot had seen me through both success and failure as a cook -- held many a Thanksgiving turkey and just recently had presented a delicious apricot chicken at my home.
And that old frying pan (more fashionably called a saute pan today) had produced wonderful French toast to many overnight guests before they started to worry about calories. When I told my son about the lost pots, he wistfully asked if the pot that had cooked his favorite childhood food was gone -- it wasn't. Many of my pots and pans still remain. They weren't all stored in the oven. But those that are gone seem to have joined with all the other old friends that have disappeared from my life -- but leave poignant memories of times past.
A few days later, the new equipment arrived. For a brief moment, I had a fantasy that I was the mistress of one of the glamorous kitchens so often displayed in the media. That fantasy soon faded, but I did enjoy the shiny black additions to my kitchen.
Since cooking is not one of my passions and I rarely make succulent roasts in the oven nor do I any longer bake cookies for my grandchildren, over the years I have stored pots and pans in the lower part of the oven. As I continued to gaze in awe at my new appliances, I suddenly realized that I had failed to remove the pots and pans from my old oven before it was carted away!
Although pots and pans are not inexpensive, it was not the replacement cost that upset me. It was the sudden awareness that I was attached to those old friends. They had played an endearing role in life over the years. One of them went back to my time as a bride. One old pot had seen me through both success and failure as a cook -- held many a Thanksgiving turkey and just recently had presented a delicious apricot chicken at my home.
And that old frying pan (more fashionably called a saute pan today) had produced wonderful French toast to many overnight guests before they started to worry about calories. When I told my son about the lost pots, he wistfully asked if the pot that had cooked his favorite childhood food was gone -- it wasn't. Many of my pots and pans still remain. They weren't all stored in the oven. But those that are gone seem to have joined with all the other old friends that have disappeared from my life -- but leave poignant memories of times past.
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