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Yes to the accolades:
“Thank you for this award.”
Yes to the acclaim:
“My sister really deserved this.”
And yes to seizing the moment:
“I wish—” She looked up, her eyes beginning to adjust, seeing forms and faces. “I wish my sister, PJ Wallis, were here to accept this. This aw
ard would have meant everything to her.”
Would have? Did. Does mean everything. She was giving her own eulogy. She didn’t have to guess how she might feel. She knew.
“Most of you knew my sister as the creator of Monica. Or even as the real-life Monica. And while she was that, she was so much more. An artist. A writer. A person who lived and died by her work. A person who gave everything to her work. And, like so many of you who give it your all, she also knew about the struggles. And the disappointments.”
She took a breath and hearing murmurs of approval from the audience, she continued.
“But PJ Wallis never gave up. And that is why this award would have meant so much to her.”
On the screens around the room, a close-up of the statuette, the Warrior Woman’s bow and arrow raised high, followed by a shuffling of images of herself—PJ Wallis—through the years. Followed by that iconic image of Monica.
“Monica!” someone cried out.
Pandy sighed. “Good old Monica,” she said as she looked at Monica—hair flowing, striding across the top of the New York City skyline. “Monica meant everything to Pandy.” Pandy paused, allowing for the smattering of applause to die down, and continued.
“Sometimes, Pandy wondered who she would be without Monica. But then she realized, when you ask yourself that question, what you’re really asking is: Who would you be without a label? And we all have them: Mother. Wife. Single Girl. Career Woman. Soccer Mom. But what do we do when we find that our label no longer applies? Who do we become when our label expires?”
A gasp swept through the audience like a fresh breeze.
“Well, ladies, it’s time to let go. It’s time to let go of those labels. It’s time to let go and let grow.”
“Let go and let grow!” came several shouts from the audience, as the words “Let go and let grow” appeared on the screens.
“Let go and let grow,” Pandy repeated, her hand resting on the top of the statuette. “And while Monica isn’t real, PJ Wallis was. A real woman with real aspirations. A real woman who aspired to what women aren’t supposed to aspire to: to be the best. And to be recognized for her talents. And not by the standards of male hubris, but by the standards of excellence. To be free from the confines of what society and culture say a woman may or may not be. Can a woman be ambitious without apology? Can a woman dedicate her life to her work without apology?”
“And can a woman say thank you?”
SondraBeth’s voice was right in her ear.
Pandy turned her head. Glaring into a white-hot spotlight, she realized the black chess piece that was Monica had moved across the board and was now leaning next to her, clapping.
The audience, Pandy noted, was also clapping, politely, with a sense of relief.
Pandy took a step back. She understood: Her fifteen seconds were over. She turned to look for the steps.
“Hold on,” SondraBeth said, coming forward and taking Pandy’s arm. And then cocking her head as if she had a hidden earpiece, she said into the crowd, “Mira from Mumbai would like to comment.”
Mira’s face appeared on all the screens. “Hello, ladies.”
“Hello, Mira,” the audience called back.
“I am the head of the international feminist organization Women for Women. And I would like to say that after a while, Monica no longer belonged to PJ Wallis. Nor does she belong to SondraBeth Schnowzer. Nor does she belong to even the audience, which is mostly women.”
“What do you mean by that, Mira?” SondraBeth asked.
“I am saying that Monica now belongs to a corporation. She is owned and controlled by an entertainment corporation that decides whether or not and how to make money off this entity that was created by PJ Wallis. I hope PJ Wallis made a lot of money from her own creation, but I suspect she did not.”
