Gloria and I finish dinner at a table in the back of the restaurant. A Parisian-style bistro she frequents on the Upper East Side, it’s close to her home. She can walk there.
We stand up to leave and Gloria leads the way. She’s wearing black pants, a red sweater, a belt around her waist—her classic look, which was never intended to become a classic look. She’s been described before as “cool,” and I took that as a reference to her manner—substantive without being aggressive, self-deprecating and unflappable. Or it could have been a reference to her style. Actually, it’s both.
As we move toward the coat check near the exit, I’m walking a few paces behind and observe as diners hold their forks in the air, swivelling their heads. Time freezes as she passes by. It’s like trailing Gandhi—or at least the image I have of when Ben Kingsley played Gandhi and the acolytes followed.
Just then, I spot it before she does. A table of six well-groomed women gasping at the sight of her. One of them jumps up out of her chair. In unison, the others join in. Suddenly, a coven of bold and awestruck women surrounds her. “I just had to say something,” the woman with the silk scarf around her neck begins. “I’m Sarah Morgenthau and I’m running for Congress and your support would mean the world to me!” I’m on the perimeter of this circle now. Am I supposed to step in? Is it my job to say something to usher her along? To rescue her? I do nothing. Gloria asks if she’s related to Robert Morgenthau, the famed longtime district attorney for Manhattan. “Yes,” she exclaims. “He’s my uncle!”
Gloria accommodates every photograph that she’s asked to pose in. There’s an arm around her shoulder. An arm around her waist. An iPhone is thrust into the hand of the waiter. A group photo is taken, examined, then taken again because someone’s eyes were closed. Then Gloria gives Sarah Morgenthau her personal email, which she writes down on a piece of paper. She also converses with the campaign manager, who asks a multitude of questions. I stand by. She is listening—always listening.
Ten minutes pass. Finally, Gloria says, “I really have to go. My friend is waiting for me.” The women are jolted out of the moment and apologise for keeping her.
Now, we are outside. It’s cold and late; the streets are empty. We walk down Lexington Avenue, and I can’t tell if Gloria minds being approached. She shrugs and tells me she’s used to it. “It doesn’t bother me,” she says. “I’m happy to help if I can.”
Trying to help is what Gloria has been doing all her life. It started when she was a child caring for her mentally ill mother. Later, she became an acclaimed journalist, a sociopolitical activist, a women’s rights advocate all over the world, a soulful writer, and a trailblazing leader of the feminist movement. For over half a century now, she has been guiding the global conversation on gender equality and ushering in a fair and just feminist worldview. What distinguished her then is what distinguishes her now: she’s engaged. She is not curating an image. She is not interested in legacy. Her most valuable resource is time, and when she gives it, as she often does, it’s because she genuinely cares.
Her endorsement is a signal—one that puts people in the spotlight. It also telegraphs that a candidate shares her values. As Senator Kirsten Gillibrand, who received Gloria’s endorsement, tells me, “It told voters about the kinds of issues that would be important to me: support for women in the workplace, combating pervasive inequality, reproductive freedom as a fundamental human right, protecting women from violence and harassment.” She goes on to say that on a personal level, she viewed Gloria as an icon for as long as she could remember: “She was inspirational, strong, and made a difference. I was so grateful to have her in my corner.”
When Bella Abzug was running for Congress in the early 1970s, things were different. During that time, Gloria campaigned for presidential candidate Shirley Chisholm in 14 states where she was on the ballot. “It’s a different set of demands now,” she says. “There’s an assumption that the women’s movement will not support Trump. So it’s not a surprise that I support Biden or Kamala Harris. If there was a new candidate who didn’t have name recognition and needed help, I would try to help.”
But giving so freely of her time, whether in person or on email, can be draining. She will be 90 next month, and it seems her down-time is non-existent. "Do you need that?” I ask. She thinks for a minute and says, “My down-time, I guess, is late at night when I’m watching Law & Order."
Maybe there’s something satisfying in the procedural element of an injustice that’s prosecuted and wrapped up in 60 minutes. A problem that can be solved.
I first met Gloria when I was six years old in the living room of my apartment on 79th Street. She was with Flo Kennedy, a dynamic force of nature, who rejoiced in being outrageous. Flo wore chunky jewellery and a leather cowboy hat; she used words like “motherfucker” and spoke to me like a forty-five year old. Unlike some of the other flamboyant characters who came around, Gloria was subdued. She always seemed to me like a real grown-up.
But there was also a formidable presence about her, like Wonder Woman personified. There might even have been a silver cuff on her wrist. My father, Harvey, newly divorced, was dating Rita Waterman, one of the pioneers of Ms.—or, as she was known there, Rita Waterperson. Gloria witnessed my mother’s unstable and out of control behaviour—the endangered minefield of my childhood—and possibly because she too survived a troubled childhood, she consistently displayed kindness towards me throughout the years. Though Rita and my father broke up when I was six years old, Rita remains in my life, and Gloria often emphasises the importance of chosen family. When my father died, Gloria immediately called me on FaceTime from her friend’s ranch in California; we spoke about him for hours.
We’re in the living room of Gloria’s townhouse on the Upper East Side, surrounded by artefacts from her travels. It’s the same living room where, in 1971, the original women from Ms. huddled dreaming up the publication that would ignite the modern feminist voice and bring the movement into a magazine. The first issue was printed in 1972; 300,000 test copies sold out in eight days.
Above the sofa, there’s a framed photograph of a majestic elephant with a young boy kneeling down in front. She bought the photograph in a store on Lexington Avenue because she loved it. It represents the human condition, she thought. “I later discovered it was Photoshopped,” she laughs.
We begin speaking about masculinity in American politics. Over the course of an hour, our conversation becomes more personal, ranging from where her moral compass comes from to regrets, the importance of chosen family, and why she imagined Louisa May Alcott was her best friend.
Below, you’ll find our dialogue edited for length and clarity.
ESQUIRE: Why is America still struggling to elect a woman as president?
GLORIA STEINEM: Most people in the world, I believe, are living in some stage of patriarchy. It hasn’t been that long since women could even vote. Or in some parts of the world, since people of colour—male or female—could vote. So we are inching towards democracy. It isn’t as though we’ve ever had any.
Do you mean in terms of gender equality in politics?
In anything. Democracy is supposed to mean everybody is equal. And as long as we have a patriarchy—indeed as long as women raise children more than men do and men earn more money than women do—we don’t have democracy at home. So democracy is a goal which we are approaching, I hope. But it isn’t an existing reality. We grew up with a certain degree of (hopefully diminishing) patriarchy and racism. Not everywhere, but in most major countries, those have been the systems. Democracy is a statement of hope. Not reality.
Is there a woman now you think could win?
I think Hilary Clinton could win.
Do you think she would run again?
That I can’t speak to. I don’t know. But I think she could win. I think Kamala Harris could win. Part of what it takes to win, male or female, is a nationally known name. So that is usually a precondition. We tend to think of women and men who already have some public identity. Even if Trump’s was negative, people actually knew his name.
How do you personally feel about the state of the union?
It’s obvious that we’re frequently missing half of the talent in our country, which is an obvious deficit. We have to get over this. I have confidence that we will eventually.
How?
Well for one thing, we do see elected female leaders in Europe. I think we’re getting more used to it. But one of the big elements that would be helpful is democracy at home. That is households in which men take care of the children as much as women do, and women are as active in leadership outside the home. That would help a lot. We would grow up with more normalisation of both male and female leadership, and then hopefully get rid of the idea of male and female.
Is that possible?
To see individuals? Yeah, I think so. I mean, of course it’s connected to procreation, we know that, but femininity and masculinity are elements. They’re not the definitive rule of everything in life.
When I hear you speak, it’s always hopeful and optimistic.
We should never let anyone take our hope away. Because hope is a form of planning. Hope is an imagination of what could be. Our imagination has to precede action, or we don’t have any motivation to move there.
How do you sustain hope during challenging times?
I stay hopeful because I love my friends. My friends are my chosen family.
Have you felt gratified by the progress that’s been made? Or frustrated?
Both. It depends on whether it’s Monday or Tuesday. I think one of the helpful ways of moving forward is to look at our own microcosm. Who are our friends? Do our friends look like the country? If not, why not? What are we missing? After all, we learn from difference. We don’t learn from sameness.
Do you have Republican friends?
I’m talking about race. I’m not talking about systems of belief.
Right. But we tend to have friends who are like-minded.
There are things that have happened in my life—accidental things—that I value. One from childhood is that my father owned a little dance pavilion summer resort in southern Michigan. So the bands that came through in those days were either all white or all Black. There was no restaurant any place for miles and miles. My mother cooked for the bands, which meant that when there was an all-Black band, there were all Black guys sitting around our dining room table. I was four or five. I remember asking my mother about this colour difference. And my mother answered in a wonderful way: “People come in different colours, like flowers.” That was the perfect answer at the time. I just thought, “Oh, it’s natural.” It was helpful. I’m grateful she said that. She and her mother-in-law were Theosophists.
Is Theosophy like Buddhism?
No, it was a philosophy that leaned more towards the East than the West, but assumed reincarnation. That we each do our best in our life and then we get born into another life until finally we’ve learned everything and we don’t have to be reincarnated again.
Do you believe in Karma?
Well, in a simple way, I think that what you do can either haunt or reward you. How we treat each other. Karma goes a step further. It has to do with reincarnations, and I’m just talking about one life.
Did your values come out of your childhood? If so, who shaped them the most?
Mainly from my mother and her belief in theosophy. I say that because when I was little, in Toledo, there were theosophical lodge meetings in office buildings—they didn’t have a building of their own—and I would be sitting in the back while they were talking, with my coloring book of Lotus Leaves for The Young or whatever. I probably absorbed a certain amount of feeling that yes, we’re all equal and we learn from each other. What we do in this life indicates where we will go in the next life.
I know from our conversations and how you move through the world that you are a compassionate and empathetic person. Can you speak about how valuable empathy is in our world right now, and how it’s connected to politics?
When you were asking me that question, I was thinking how frequently gendered empathy is. Not always—it doesn’t have anything to do with biology, but just from the way women are raised to raise children and be cognisant of a man’s feelings and needs. Still it’s a little bit lopsided.
I hate to overgeneralise, but for the most part, men are rewarded for competition. Whereas women are more likely to be rewarded for cooperation or at least for encouraging cooperation in the family. It’s not men’s fault—they got born into this system too. But given the structure they got born into, they may be encouraged to be less empathetic. Boys compete.
That’s why Biden is so attractive to people. He telegraphs empathy.
Yes, especially given his predecessor. Also given Reagan and Nixon and all kinds of other folks.
It’s hard to know what’s real and what’s performative. People can act empathetic, often for show, and social media has warped our reality. If we were voting people into office based on their human qualities rather than their policies, it would be a different scenario.
I agree with you, especially when it comes to the media coverage of campaigns. I’m old enough to remember the Roosevelt era—they were governing during the Depression. My parents believed they really understood the economic problems that were around.
Do you reflect back a lot or just look forward?
I look forward. I hope I learn something from the past and continue to learn. But probably mostly what I learn is how fast time goes.
I’m shocked by that too. And when a parent dies, it really kicks in. You realise you’re up next. Do you believe in regrets?
In regrets? Oh yeah. Regrets are there; it’s not whether you believe in them or not.
There are people who say they don’t have regrets.
Oh really? Good for them. [She laughs.] I regret that I didn’t write more. That I was not writing in the moment when I might have captured something that’s now dissipated. So it would be there as a record.
An event outside yourself or personal writing?
All of it. There isn’t a separation. When I was living in India, I was writing fellowship reports as part of my obligation. But not that’s not the same.
What about all the writing you have done? The numerous essays and articles and books. Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions has sold over half a million copies since its original publication in 1983. My Life on the Road served as the inspiration for Julie Taymor’s movie, The Glorias. The Truth Will Set You Free, But First It Will Piss You Off!—a collection of thoughts on activism. And many more.
Yes, but given my advanced age, it’s not that much. I was always doing something that took more time than the writing. Ms. Magazine—we never had enough money, so raising money—all of it took up a lot of time. Political campaigns, which I loved.
What are your goals now?
I’ve started a book of essays and I would like to complete that. We’ll see. The jury’s out.
Are they about you? Or about what’s going on in the world?
I don’t know exactly. Writing for me has always been about both.
I hope you finish it.
Me too.
You mentioned you’re traveling less post pandemic, but I know you’re still busy organising, planning, speaking, and lecturing. What do you most enjoy doing with your time?
Well, now, being home. I have a nest. I like this nest. Getting up and having breakfast, answering my email, walking out in the neighbourhood. Seeing my friends—Suzanne Levine, Joanne Edgar—our old editors at Ms. Magazine. We have lunch at least once a month. My closest colleague, who I’m lucky to have—Amy Richards—who is super important to my life…
How did you meet?
I was working on a book and someone was helping me with research. That young woman wanted to go to Smith, so I said okay, I’ll help you get into Smith if you replace yourself as a researcher. Amy was the replacement. Amy walked into my life and helped me with research for the book. She’s the smartest person I’ve ever known and the single most important person in my life. I’m very lucky. My related family are very nice people, but very different people in terms of interests and occupation.
You’ve spoken often about the importance of chosen family. That resonates.
Of course.
Do you recognise the impact you’ve had, and how little girls are growing up now feeling they have the right to be equal because of you?
I don’t know exactly. I love the letters I get. There was a little girl who was in first grade, and she was complaining to me on lined paper that the boys got the better part of the playground. She said, “We girls are as angry as turnips.” [She laughs.] I thought: that kid is going to be a writer.
What about the fact that she’s coming to you with this complaint?
I do think that given the role of gender—the prisons of gender—females are the most like our own selves before we are ten or eleven, and then after we’re fifty or sixty. The feminine role comes down on us like an iron maiden sometimes. It’s mostly about reproduction. So little girls and older women—I don’t mean to overgeneralise—but I think it’s possible to be your own unique self in those times.
What do you consider older?
Beyond the period of raising children.
Did you find that to be true? That as you got older, you became more of your true self?
Yes, I think so. I’m not sure I’ve commented on it to myself because it’s gradual.
You couldn’t have planned the life that you’ve led.
No, except for going to college—but that was the end of planning.
When, as a child, do you think you were really the most you?
When I was growing up, I wasn’t going to school that much, and I felt that Louisa May Alcott was my best friend. I read everything she wrote. She wrote for children and she wrote for grown-ups. I would imagine that she came back to life and what I would show her first.
What was it about her writing that you connected to so much?
Little Women is the story of four very distinct women and a female society. Their father has gone off to the Civil War, so it allowed female human beings to be their own selves. Beth was different than Jo. Because I wasn’t going to school that much during the winter months when my father’s summer resort was closed, we would drive to Florida or California with our house trailer and stay in trailer camps, with my father making a living by buying and selling antiques to shops along the way. Because of that, I was living in books probably more than most children.
Do you still read Louisa May Alcott?
No, but I still have my childhood books downstairs someplace.
What are you reading now?
Uh… e-mails. [She laughs.]
Well, your emails are probably a lot more interesting than most.
I don’t know, but it certainly accounts for most of my reading time.
An hour has passed. I mention this, and that I could continue talking, but I was told that she has another appointment. Gloria consults a small rectangular red leather diary. She opens it up to the day we’re on; her handwriting is precise and tiny.
“I have something to do downstairs with Amy, but not this minute, or she would come up and remind me,” she says. “We can keep talking. And before you leave, we can light a candle for Harvey.”
It’s poignant that she has suggested this. She and my father were, as he put it, “good pals.”
“You’re not religious, are you?” I ask.
“Spirituality to me is less formed than religion,” she says. “I certainly recognise there’s lots I don’t know.”
“Is it your own form of spirituality?”
“Probably not. As I was saying, my mother and grandmother were Theosophists. So I absorbed that.”
“Does that give you a sense of there being something bigger than just us?”
“I have no idea. I just don’t know.”
“I want you to know.”
She laughs.
Gloria is well acquainted with loss and grief. There was the death of her mother in 1981. The 2000s brought the death of her sister, as well as her husband, David Bale, an entrepreneur and animal rights activist, who died from brain lymphoma three years after they married. There was also her close friend, Wilma Mankiller, the activist and first woman to serve as chief of the Cherokee Nation. They were kindred spirits and their friendship spanned a quarter of a century, as they bonded over issues both political and personal.
“Wilma’s death changed me,” she says. “Because Wilma as a Cherokee person spoke of death as going to the other side of the mountain, which is a lovely imagery. Also, after she died, I was present at the ceremonies that her family were having for her. It was spoken of in that way: the other side of the mountain. I remember that somehow we got messages from ancient cultures and various places, and they had lit bonfires at the highest points around them to light her way to the other side of the mountain.”
“When someone gets sick, it challenges one’s view of fairness,” I say. “At least to me. I’d like to think there’s some fairness in life and that often reminds me there isn’t.”
She nods. “We can convince ourselves there’s a rightness to it, but it’s still not fairness.”
“Why do terrible people live long lives? Do you think about that?”
“No,” she says, laughing. “There’s nothing I can do about it. Just go forward. And survive.”
“Do you ever get discouraged?”
“I get discouraged with myself—that I haven’t done what I thought I would do—but I do think, as we started out saying, that hope is a form of planning. So I’m not going to give up hope.”
I find this reassuring. That this person who has led such a full and expansive life filled with purpose and meaning, who contributed so much to so many people and continues to advocate on behalf of women and girls for rights they’re entitled to have, would feel there’s more to be done. She is still striving. That’s why she’s ageless.
“Well, I hope that sometimes you recognise how much you have done,” I say.
Gloria looks at me and smiles. “I have to think about it.”
Ariel Leve is an author, award-winning journalist, TV comedy writer and screenwriter. She was a columnist for The Guardian, The Observer, and The London Sunday Times Magazine, where she was also a senior writer on staff for eleven years. Her work has appeared in Esquire, The New York Times, The New York Times Book Review, Vanity Fair, the Financial Times and other publications. Her humor columns were published by HarperCollins in a collection titled, It Could Be Worse, You Could Be Me. She is the author of the critically-acclaimed memoir, An Abbreviated Life and she was a writer on the esteemed comedy series, Better Things.
