As part of the United Nations 2030 Agenda for Sustainable Development, a subsidiary organization called U.N. Women released a report last year looking at global trends toward gender equality. By nearly every available metric — from access to clean water and a path out of poverty to feeling safe while walking alone in the dark — the report’s authors found that women’s push for parity is losing ground. At the current rate of progress, U.N. Women projects that it will take another 286 years — nine generations — for women to achieve legally protected equality.
Reading Monica Potts’s expansive first book, “The Forgotten Girls,” got me thinking about this grim scenario. The central question for Potts is why the life expectancy of America’s least educated white women has recently been shrinking. Many women are dying from what researchers call “diseases of despair”: suicide, drunken driving, overdoses. Using her rural hometown, Clinton, Ark., as a focal point, Potts drills down into the lives of women for whom such indicators are realities.
She found that their lives were playing out in the same dismal ways the research portended: a teenage bride who, years into an abusive marriage, crashes her car while fleeing her husband; a 14-year-old who goes into labor just days after she learns she is pregnant.
Then there is Darci, Potts’s closest childhood friend. The book opens with Potts, now an adult home for the holidays, collecting a drunken Darci from a disheveled trailer on a Christmas Eve morning. Darci borrows $20 from her current boyfriend, apologizing to Potts for her frazzled state. Darci’s poverty is that of hand-me-downs and empty refrigerators, of a place where “meth was always around. It was easier to get than alcohol.”
As children, Potts and Darci dreamed of a better future, which they imagined taking place in Fresno, Calif., because it “had an exciting, bold name.” Partway through middle school, however, their friendship begins to falter. Darci goes “boy crazy” and, in high school, experiments with pot and crystal meth. Potts graduates and escapes to college at Bryn Mawr, then New York City and, eventually, Washington, D.C. On visits home, people ask if she fears living in big cities. Her answer is haunting: “The worst things that had ever happened to me or to Darci had happened here, just a few miles from where we were born.”
In Clinton, one misstep can derail an entire life. Darci’s life is upended when, despite her good grades, she is informed late in her senior year of high school that she’s missed too many days to graduate. She immediately spirals out of control: early pregnancy, an abusive relationship, drugs, addiction, multiple rehabs, jail and homelessness.
Potts blames a variety of systemic failings for Darci’s fate: gender violence, poor health care, a depressed rural economy and rampant underemployment. But she is at her most persuasive when she describes how religious fundamentalism — nearly every family she knew growing up attended church — marginalizes women, filtering into local policy in such a way that it becomes “less a personal belief system than a tool for social control.”
In Clinton, like other rural Southern small towns, Christianity permeates every aspect of life, from prayers before high school football games to church leaders, invariably men, holding local government positions — as mayors, sheriffs, quorum court justices and school board members. Even those who don’t share evangelical beliefs, like Potts’s family, are forced to live by an authority informed by a worldview that “set girls up to be of service to everyone and in charge of nothing.”
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/17/...tEfMJgr&giftCopy=3_Independent&smid=url-share