On the Transatlantic Smell of Feminism

By Annie Mark-Westfall — LETTERS FROM BERLIN

To mark my birthday last week, I retreated solo to rural Germany. B, my good friend and mentor, and passionate feminist among other titles, hosted me at her childhood home in the Westphalia countryside reminiscent of my own childhood farm in rural Ohio. Horses, cows, and fresh air smell the same on both sides of the Atlantic, I noted while taking deep breaths, grateful to be at my destination.

B’s family home was built in the 1960s by her mother, another feminist who lined every wall in the house with books. Feminist theory consumed an entire bedroom. English books, from B’s New York chapter, filled a second bedroom. Inspired by the setting, I sat down next to the Heinrich Heine collection in the living room, to write. My first draft included the story of how my son is named for this German Jewish author, but that part was eviscerated in the editing process. This trip, this weekend, this month, is about women.

Between our bike rides among the asparagus fields, I read fervently, uninterrupted by the needs of my beloved toddlers who remained with their father in Berlin. Only meal times forced me to pause. B’s dining room table sat next to the shelf of 1920s literature by female authors. My eyes scanned the books, as B told me about Olive Schreiner and asked what the hell was happening…