Abstract
Lately I find myself contemplating links between recollection and premonition, between lessons from history and dreams of a future. Perhaps this meditation is natural for someone entering her middle years, conscious of how historical distortion in her own lifetime has promoted calamity (as the misrepresentation of American aggression in Southeast Asia fosters our current wrongheaded interventions in Central America and the Middle East). I come from a generation who thought we were both history and the future. Now humility settles on my shoulders as I find body parts creaking and as I observe a whole new generation with us on the streets. I studied history at college as well as literature, but that didn't do me much good in understanding women's lives or letters. I never heard of Sappho or Elizabeth Cady Stanton or Sojourner Truth or Mary Wollstonecraft or Ding Ling until after I had received my university degrees. Thus, it is with amazement and then great distress that I hear people volleying the word postfeminist . With this term journalists and academics imply that feminist activism, analysis, and art have peaked, that we are now in a new stage where issues of
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