On International Women’s Day in Portugal, I saw lots of female pedestrians carrying large, long-stemmed flowers. It turns out that shops and businesses all over town were handing them out to women patrons in celebration of their day. Has that tradition started in the US? It was a lovely gesture, and it got me thinking about Portuguese women.
Every single day, wherever I go in Setubal, I am surrounded by tiny women. Most of them appear to be older than I am – maybe in their 70s or 80s. I’m fairly tall by American standards, but I don’t tower over my fellow females back home. Here, I feel like a stilt walker. I would go so far as to say that most of the older women I see are less than five feet tall – many of them miss five feet by several inches. We were walking to dinner with friends last week when one of them observed he’d spotted a new candidate for the title of Portugal’s Shortest Woman. It seems, he and his wife have also noticed the decidedly diminutive ladies. In fact, our friend had done a little research on the subject and had come up with a theory. Apparently in the post WWII era when these older women would have been in their formative years, Portugal was going through exceedingly hard economic times. Our friend Wayne theorizes that the nutrition was so terrible during those years that the children never had enough to eat, which ultimately stunted their growth. My Portuguese friend Helena, whose mother is among that generation, says Wayne’s theory may be right on the money; there were severe food shortages back then. Helena is about my height but her mother is very petite. When I see these women walking with their heads held high and their shoulders erect, I offer a silent salute to their courage and persistence. They made it through very difficult times and they’re still here.
But there’s more to the story of Portuguese women. Helena was 17 years old when the revolution that overthrew the government of longtime dictator Salazar happened. She has distinct memories of oppressive times before the revolution. She has told me stories of her family wanting to go to Spain for a vacation. Men and children were allowed to travel freely across the border, but married women had to carry husband-approved, government-provided permission papers in order to leave Portugal. Helena recalls her father going to the local governmental offices to obtain the travel documents for his wife so she could accompany the family on a holiday. She also recounts that there was a popular cafe in the village where she grew up. In addition to great coffee, they were known for the cakes and pastries they made. When Helena’s mother wanted something special to serve at dinner, she would send her little daughters to the cafe to buy the goodies. It seems, most of the patrons of the cafe were men. Women who showed up there in the middle of the day were, at best, thought to be lazy housewives who should have been home cooking, cleaning, and tending children. At worst, they might have been perceived as brazen women attempting to draw the attention of men who were not their husband. That kind of repressive culture can leave a mark on the psyche of any woman. Knowing a little about their life experiences, I have greater respect for these women whom I’ll probably never know personally.