阅读理解 My grandmother Rosalind Einhorn was born exactly fifty-two years before I was, on August 28,1917. Like many poor Jewish families in New York City, she lived in a small, crowded apartment close to their relatives. Her parents, aunts and uncles addressed her male cousins by their given names, but she and her sister were referred to only as "Girlie”.
During the Depression, my grandmother was pulled out of Morris High School to help support the household by sewing fabric flowers onto undergarments that her mother could resell for a tiny profit. No one in the community would have considered taking a boy out of school. A boy's education was the family's hope to move up the financial and social ladder. Education for girls, however, was less significant both financially, since they were unlikely to contribute to the family's income, and culturally, since hoys were expected to study the Torah while girls were expected to run a “proper home.” Luckily for my grandmother, a local teacher insisted that her parents put her back into school. She went on not only to finish high school but to graduate from U.C Berkeley.
After college, “Girlie” worked selling pocketbooks and accessories at David's Fifth Avenue. When she left her job to marry my grandfather, David's had to hire four people to replace her. Years later, when my grandfathers paint business was struggling, she jumped in and look some of the hard steps he was unwilling to take, helping to save the family from financial ruin. She displayed her business ability again in her forties. After being diagnosed (诊断）with breast cancer, she beat it and then devoted herself to raising money for the clinic that treated her by selling some watches. Girlie ended up with a profit that Apple would envy. I have never met anyone with more energy and determination than my grandmother.
When my grandmother had children of her own—my mother and her two brothers—she emphasized education for all of them. My mother attended the University of Pennsylvania. When she graduated in 1965 with a degree in French literature, she surveyed a workforce that she believed consisted of two career options for women: teaching or nursing. She chose teaching. She began a Ph. D. programme, got married, and then dropped out when she became pregnant with me. It was thought to be a sign of weakness if a husband needed his wife's help to support their family, so my mother became a stay-at-home parent and an active volunteer. The centuries-old division of labor stood.
Even though I grew up in a traditional home, my parents had the same expectations for me, my sister, and my brother. All three of us were encouraged to do well in school, do equal routine tasks, and participate in after-school activities. We were all supposed to be athletic too. My brother and sister joined sports teams, but I was the kid who got picked last in gym. Despite my athletic shortcomings, I was raised to believe that girls could do anything boys could do and that all career paths were open to me.
When I arrived at college in the fall of 1987, my classmates of both genders seemed equally focused on academics. I don't remember thinking about my future career differently from the male students. I also don't remember any conversations about someday balancing work and children. My friends and I assumed that we would have both. Men and women competed openly and aggressively with one another in classes, activities, and job interviews. Just two generations removed from my grandmother, the playing field seemed to be level.
But more than twenty years after my college graduation, the world has not evolved nearly as much as I believed it would. Almost all of my male classmates work in professional settings. Some of my female classmates work full-time or part-time outside the home and just as many are stay-at-home mothers and volunteers like my mom. This mirrors the national trend. In comparison to their male counterparts (相同能力者), highly trained women are scaling back and dropping out of the workforce in high numbers.
