Once long ago, when I was young and happily married, I had the good fortune to see a woman who is everything I want to be when I grow up.  Now please understand that in the eyes of many people I am quite grown up; I am the mother of three fine children; I am the grandmother of six wonderful grandchildren.  I have earned my own way for a number of years, I know my talents and my short-comings.  And I know the façade I hold up for the world so that I can hide behind it.  

In a sense, I had already “met” her many times through her science fiction writing.  She wrote a series of stories about a futuristic detective named Coyote Jones.   Coyote was a man who was “head-blind”.  In a future where most people could read minds, Mr. Jones could not.  This disability or ability (depending on how you looked at it) was the basis for two or three events in the series.  She also wrote a series of books called The Ozark Trilogy, about a planet where a group of disgusted Ozarkians had settled after fleeing an ecologically distressed Earth.

One fine summer, my ex and I parked my kids with my mother and grandmother and went to Oklahoma to attend a science fiction convention called OKON.  One of the first events I attended was a panel that included authors like Mr. Niven.   All of the panelists, except one, were men.   The woman was Suzette Haden Elgin.

Mrs. Elgin walked into the room and up onto the platform with the aid of a cane.  She was wearing a simple blouse, a print gathered skirt and comfortable sandals.   Her white hair was impeccably neat, and her expression serene.  As the discussion panel warmed to their topic, the men all trotted out the reasons why Faster-than-Light travel, while a superb device for spinning fictional yarns, was impossible and would never be invented.  She let them go on like this for some time before gently making a remark something to the order of historians having at one time proven that the world was flat and that humans stupid enough to sail out too far would sail off the edge of it.  I wish I could remember the exact remark; for all the men stopped arguing for a minute and turned to gape at her.   She then let them again build to a crescendo, and gently inserted a one-liner that left them all agape.  She repeated this remarkable performance several times, and soon had the audience in stitches—those that weren’t incensed at such an idea.

This alone would have left me in awe of this woman; but later in the day I saw my first filk concert.  Mrs. Elgin entered, accompanied by a young man and a young woman who helped her get settled in a chair on the small stage.  She took out a guitar that seemed almost as large as she was, and the young man (I would later learn he was Randy Farran, who sang what he termed “newgrass”, that is filk music with a bluegrass flavor and style.) took out a mandoline.   She sang in a sweet mellow voice that probably charmed the socks off the lads when she was young, no doubt soothed babies to sleep when her children were tadlings, and won my admiration forever.   She had a smooth, bluesy guitar style that went well with her voice.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to buy any of her tapes that trip.  My ex and I were attending on the economy plan—which is to say, we rode with a friend and were camping in his van in the parking lot.   My ex—with his usual aplomb—decided he seriously needed a shower, and took advantage of the free showers in the pool area.   While his trousers were on the bench in the shower room, his wallet was stolen.   As luck would have it, we had divided the little money we had taken with us.  I had not spent any, so we still had food money in spite of everything.

Years later, when I was single and had a job and my own money, I wanted to purchase the tapes of her music.  Unfortunately for me, she had become very busy with her many linguistics programs, and was no longer recording music.  However, asking nicely can get one many things; and the family still had the master copies.  They were kind enough to dub off copies for me to purchase, even though they were no longer selling them as a regular thing.

My children grew up on “Bodacious Goldilocks”, and “Personal, Private Toad”; “Go tell the Dragon” is a favorite song at my daughter’s house.  My daughter and I can become teary-eyed over “Grandmother sing said the child in the Garden” or “Once again Amazing Grace”.  

As I grew out of my convention days into graduating from college, and getting into the adult world of holding down a job, feeding and raising my children and coping in general, I discovered her linguistics books.   She has a way of explaining the ways and means of communication that is clear and usable.   Her series, “The Gentle Art of Verbal Self-Defense” carried me through seven years of sitting next to a supervisor that I swear absolutely hated me and delighted in making my life miserable.

Tonight, as I worked my way out of fatigue-driven writer’s block, I pulled up her web-page at Suzette Haden Elgin  and read a short story posted on the website:  “We have always spoken Panglish”.   As I read, I realized that I no longer want to be just like her; but I do want to find my own voice.  I want to write, I want to read, and I will always remember and treasure the writers and musicians who are my inspiration and mainstay.   I will always treasure the memory of a serene gray-haired woman gently toppling a panel of male experts.  I will always treasure the music.  And above all, I treasure the skills laid out in her professional writing, and the path-breaking example she has set for professional women everywhere.