Recently I made the unfortunate decision to join women I didn't know well for a day trip, despite knowing that such adventures should be ones that allow for quick bailing. During the car ride to our destination, I learned why I hadn't spent more time with these women. They terrified me. Their favorite topic of conversation was their husbands, whom they loved to talk about but didn't seem to like very much. They shared stories of husbands who were so stupid they couldn't do laundry or who were so inept that they could not "babysit" their own children. What bothered me more than what these women said, though, was how they spoke: they seemed proud to one-up each other in stories of clueless men, beginning tales with, "Oh, you think THAT is dumb! Well MY husband..." They showed no sense of injustice or any desire to change the situation. Seeing their husbands as clueless seemed to give them a role, a sense of power. I tried to wipe the incredulous look from my face while I wondered why anyone would marry someone they didn't respect or why I had the great idea to go on a day-long outing with people I barely knew.
Yet these supposedly stupid husbands seemed cunning to me. They had someone to do laundry, cook, raise children, and also work a job to provide half of the household income. If I could somehow convince my husband that my wee little lady brain lacked the ability to comprehend the sorting of laundry or the cleaning of toilets, I'd be tempted to give it a shot. Credit for egalitarian relationships is not only due to the non-knuckle-dragging men who cook and clean (and please, it's not "pitching in" when it's their own home), but to women who resist outdated gender roles and require men to do their share. Merely complaining about it has all the effectiveness of breathlessly clutching at pearls.
When venturing beyond my egalitarian-loving social circle (where men do laundry without expecting a merit badge), I realize that a good deal of the inequality women face is perpetuated by women themselves; we're going down by friendly fire. The chaos is understandable, though -- the enormity of the social shift that our generation finds itself in cannot be overstated. Many of us born in the 70s were born during a transitional time of mixed messages. While many of us were raised with the idea we could be anything we wanted to be, any professional success came along with a duty to marry, have children, and handle the duties of the home. Most of us were not raised with the expectation of becoming as professionally successful or as financially savvy as our husbands. Yet our generation was the first where women not only outnumbered men in the college classroom, but outperformed them as well; some sociologists believe women now show greater professional ambition and work harder in the workforce (my offices have shown anecdotal evidence supporting this). Women are in unchartered marital territory full of options but not much precedent; taking on new responsibilities seems easier than delegating old ones. Venting with girlfriends is easier than insisting on new rules with husbands. I read a quote from the 70s in which a feminist (Steinem, I believe?) offered a married woman the advice to pretend she was dividing household duties with her best friend and then not to lower that standard with her husband. While this 30-year-old advice seems forehead-smackingly obvious, apparently this memo has not been widely circulated. It's easier for some women to think of their husbands as stupid than to realize they're victims of the patriarchal systems of their own making.
There's an email forward that gets passed around every few years in which a wife details the average night in her home. The wife announces she's going to bed and then bathes the baby, does the dishes, folds the laundry, makes tomorrow's lunches, prepares for a morning meeting, and THEN goes to bed. The man says he's going to bed and then just goes to bed. Somehow, there are women who find this email hilarious, who add smiley faces and "Isn't this the truth??" before forwarding on. I sit there screaming at this fictional woman who doesn't tell this dude to get his butt off the couch and make some lunches, which is not prevented by the presence of a Y chromosome. I usually direct much of my feminist angst towards laws and policies which place women in unfair and subordinate positions. Yet during times like my fun little day trip, I realize that my little group of progressive friends doesn't always represent who's really out there, and more of my feminist angst should go toward the women themselves who are more comfortable confronting a boss about a promotion than a husband about the laundry.
Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts
Friday, February 20, 2009
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
You like me! You really, kind of, sort of like me!
I find that the gap between who we pretend to be and who we really are is an area infinitely interesting to examine in others and terrifying to notice in ourselves. It seems to be our most telling detail: that gap is where we’re exposed for the flawed, hypocritical creatures we really are; it’s where we look into the magnified mirror under florescent lighting and shudder a little at the truth. But I believe it’s good to know our whole selves, who we’re dealing with on a daily basis, and this is a good place to start.
One such gap I have deals with likeability. I believe that women are sold a false bill of goods when we’re girls -- that, above all, we should be pleasing and likeable to all. Cinderella craved the acceptance of the horrid step-sisters; Snow White made it her mission to win over seven distinctly different personality types. We use code words like "charm" and "etiquette" for the true goal: to make girls universally pleasing, liked, and utterly and sadly generic. Boys should be respectable, girls should be likeable. And if you think that doesn't hold true through adulthood, just listen to the different adjectives used to describe the men and women of politics or even your workplace.
That’s why I dug the Hillary Clinton and Martha Stewart of yore. These women were too busy living to vie for our acceptance. Clinton (and I mean the pre-candidate Clinton) seemed to give a flying flip whether she was liked. Respected? Sure. Listened to? Absolutely. Liked? Whatev. Martha Stewart (and I mean the pre-prison Stewart) cut the chit-chat short and got to her work of running a business empire. She was trying to build a brand, not her Facebook friend list. (Sadly, both women have faced the choice of irrelevancy or learning to adopt behavior more suited to The View. That's another topic for another blog.)
As much as I may fancy myself otherwise, a Hillary or Martha I am not. I’ve taken strides since my early twenties, back when I found it a talent to meld into any number of groups; however I still experience moments of wanting to be liked by all. This is not a reasonable or admirable goal. Despite being generally amiable, social, and up for a laugh, I have personality traits that prevent universal friendship, as does anyone with a hint of personality or self awareness. Yet appallingly I’ve realized that I have the nerve to become offended when someone I don’t even like doesn’t like me back. I know that popularity is a poor indicator of substance, as indicated by Nicholas Sparks’ eternal presence on the bestseller lists, but despite everything I know to be true, it sometimes bugs the crap out of me not to be liked.
When this gap emerges between who I claim to be and who I really can be, it’s an immediate indicator that I’ve fallen away from my center. That’s when I return to the Gospel of Didion (Joan Didion’s excellent essay, “On Self Respect”): “The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others--who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without… Character--the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life--is the source from which self-respect springs.”
So there it is. Placing value upon being liked is the cheap, knock-off version of respecting and liking oneself. The gap that appears in my psyche from time to time is merely an indicator that something is off elsewhere, and that something has everything to do with me and not with you. And although recognizing that the "official" versions of ourselves don't always match the real deal is not a fun exercise, it's a meaningful one nonetheless.
But I really am a nice person. Really.
One such gap I have deals with likeability. I believe that women are sold a false bill of goods when we’re girls -- that, above all, we should be pleasing and likeable to all. Cinderella craved the acceptance of the horrid step-sisters; Snow White made it her mission to win over seven distinctly different personality types. We use code words like "charm" and "etiquette" for the true goal: to make girls universally pleasing, liked, and utterly and sadly generic. Boys should be respectable, girls should be likeable. And if you think that doesn't hold true through adulthood, just listen to the different adjectives used to describe the men and women of politics or even your workplace.
That’s why I dug the Hillary Clinton and Martha Stewart of yore. These women were too busy living to vie for our acceptance. Clinton (and I mean the pre-candidate Clinton) seemed to give a flying flip whether she was liked. Respected? Sure. Listened to? Absolutely. Liked? Whatev. Martha Stewart (and I mean the pre-prison Stewart) cut the chit-chat short and got to her work of running a business empire. She was trying to build a brand, not her Facebook friend list. (Sadly, both women have faced the choice of irrelevancy or learning to adopt behavior more suited to The View. That's another topic for another blog.)
As much as I may fancy myself otherwise, a Hillary or Martha I am not. I’ve taken strides since my early twenties, back when I found it a talent to meld into any number of groups; however I still experience moments of wanting to be liked by all. This is not a reasonable or admirable goal. Despite being generally amiable, social, and up for a laugh, I have personality traits that prevent universal friendship, as does anyone with a hint of personality or self awareness. Yet appallingly I’ve realized that I have the nerve to become offended when someone I don’t even like doesn’t like me back. I know that popularity is a poor indicator of substance, as indicated by Nicholas Sparks’ eternal presence on the bestseller lists, but despite everything I know to be true, it sometimes bugs the crap out of me not to be liked.
When this gap emerges between who I claim to be and who I really can be, it’s an immediate indicator that I’ve fallen away from my center. That’s when I return to the Gospel of Didion (Joan Didion’s excellent essay, “On Self Respect”): “The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others--who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without… Character--the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life--is the source from which self-respect springs.”
So there it is. Placing value upon being liked is the cheap, knock-off version of respecting and liking oneself. The gap that appears in my psyche from time to time is merely an indicator that something is off elsewhere, and that something has everything to do with me and not with you. And although recognizing that the "official" versions of ourselves don't always match the real deal is not a fun exercise, it's a meaningful one nonetheless.
But I really am a nice person. Really.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
On Palin and Feminism
The selection of Palin as Republican VP nominee pulled me in several directions. As a Democrat, I was thrilled. (An inexperienced Alaskan governor known for ethical reform who is currently under investigation in an illegal firing? Are you serious?) McCain’s pick of someone whom he proudly proclaimed as an unknown within the Beltway completely discredited his criticism of his opponent as inexperienced. The idea of a Biden-Palin debate gave me a maniacal laugh and a Mr. Burns-esque proclamation of, "Eeeeex-cellent."
But as a feminist, the selection of Palin left me angered and embarrassed. It didn’t anger me so much for her socially conservative views; although they are far from my own, they make sense for McCain’s running mate. The selection of Palin angered me because she is so ill-prepared for the job. This 44-year-old former beauty queen with a BS in journalism became a television sports reporter upon graduation. She began in the city council of Wasilla, a town of 6,000, and worked her way up to mayor, where she was two years ago. She’s now spent a year and a half as governor of Alaska. Good for her. A good start to a political career. But good enough to be president?
This unknown and largely untested woman with not a day of foreign policy experience would serve as VP under a man in his 70s with recurrent cancer. She'd be a heartbeat away from leading a country mired in economic recession and two wars (perhaps three or four, if McCain gets elected). McCain would rather pander for the female vote than to select someone who would effectively manage this country upon his death. It speaks volumes about his judgment.
And it speaks volumes about his views on women. He seems to believe that women will support a candidate not based upon record, but upon the ever-important issue of who has a hoo-hoo or a wee-wee. McCain seems to bank upon we Clinton supporters bailing Obama to support the new potential hoo-hoo in office -- never mind that her meager record stands in opposition to the core values Clinton represents. Having my rights taken away by a woman leaves me no more empowered.
Talking heads ponder how a Republican female nominee will affect the feminist vote. I’ll fill you in on a secret: we feminists don’t meet in secret weekly meetings to determine the choices we will make en masse. This will be largely made up of individual decisions across the country, and this is my own.
As a feminist, I’m embarrassed that the first Republican female name on the presidential ballot will be an utterly inexperienced candidate who was chosen for her gender, not her record.
As a feminist, I’ll stick with the candidate promoting universal healthcare, reproductive rights, equal pay, increased funding to education, and an end to the Iraq War – issues that impact women’s public and private roles.
As a feminist, the past few days have left me wanting to take a long nap.
But as a feminist, the selection of Palin left me angered and embarrassed. It didn’t anger me so much for her socially conservative views; although they are far from my own, they make sense for McCain’s running mate. The selection of Palin angered me because she is so ill-prepared for the job. This 44-year-old former beauty queen with a BS in journalism became a television sports reporter upon graduation. She began in the city council of Wasilla, a town of 6,000, and worked her way up to mayor, where she was two years ago. She’s now spent a year and a half as governor of Alaska. Good for her. A good start to a political career. But good enough to be president?
This unknown and largely untested woman with not a day of foreign policy experience would serve as VP under a man in his 70s with recurrent cancer. She'd be a heartbeat away from leading a country mired in economic recession and two wars (perhaps three or four, if McCain gets elected). McCain would rather pander for the female vote than to select someone who would effectively manage this country upon his death. It speaks volumes about his judgment.
And it speaks volumes about his views on women. He seems to believe that women will support a candidate not based upon record, but upon the ever-important issue of who has a hoo-hoo or a wee-wee. McCain seems to bank upon we Clinton supporters bailing Obama to support the new potential hoo-hoo in office -- never mind that her meager record stands in opposition to the core values Clinton represents. Having my rights taken away by a woman leaves me no more empowered.
Talking heads ponder how a Republican female nominee will affect the feminist vote. I’ll fill you in on a secret: we feminists don’t meet in secret weekly meetings to determine the choices we will make en masse. This will be largely made up of individual decisions across the country, and this is my own.
As a feminist, I’m embarrassed that the first Republican female name on the presidential ballot will be an utterly inexperienced candidate who was chosen for her gender, not her record.
As a feminist, I’ll stick with the candidate promoting universal healthcare, reproductive rights, equal pay, increased funding to education, and an end to the Iraq War – issues that impact women’s public and private roles.
As a feminist, the past few days have left me wanting to take a long nap.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Becoming Jaded
A disclaimer: I have not seen Becoming Jane, nor do I plan to. I know this puts my critique on very shaky ground, but I’ll stand on it. I’ve read many of the letters the following movie is based on, and they put the premise on far shakier ground than this.
From what we know about Jane Austen, she was not especially attractive nor was she lucky in love. She was, merely, a brilliant woman with a cunning wit and keen insight into the human psyche. Becoming Jane seeks to overcome this handicap.
The movie casts the beautiful Anne Hathaway as Jane and gives her a handsome leading man to introduce her to the world of books and her own introspection. Blech. In so doing, the movie credits her success to The Man Who Showed Her The Way; a man who, in reality, knew Jane all of a month. His character is the pseudo-bad boy who seemingly eschews societal norms while putting Jane in her proper role as the wide-eyed female under the instruction of a wise man. (Ohh, the romance of submissiveness! Swoon!) We are so uncomfortable with a woman choosing a life not built around a man! Why do we have to take Jane Austen, a woman who chose not to marry, and find a way to center her life on romance and to credit her inspiration to a guy? Miramax would portray her actual life as a tragedy, as Jane grips her Ben and Jerry’s in one hand while stroking her cats with the other, tears dripping down onto all that she’s got left in life: manuscripts that will become among the most beloved novels for centuries to come. ‘Tis pity.
I adore Jane Austen as a hilariously brilliant and cynical writer with a keen ability to write characters. I adore that she was much more a smart ass than a romantic fool, using romance mostly as fodder for cynicism. What I do not adore is Miramax having Austen come into her own under the instruction of a man. I also do not adore that people find women more accessible when their lives are defined by relationships (romance is sweet; independent success, just sad and somewhat unnerving). The woman saw with her brain – we can’t owe that ability to a dreamy man in town for a month. Here are some quotes from Austen’s personal letters that show the snarky Austen I love, as represented by herself and not by Miramax.
“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal."
[On the birth of a son to one of their sisters-in-law:]
"I give you joy of our new nephew, and hope if he ever comes to be hanged it will not be till we are too old to care about it."
[On another of their nephews, then about three years old:]
"I shall think with tenderness and delight on his beautiful and smiling countenance and interesting manner, until a few years have turned him into an ungovernable, ungracious fellow."
"I could no more write a [historical] romance than an epic poem. I could not sit seriously down to write a serious romance under any other motive than to save my life; and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never relax into laughing at myself or other people, I am sure I should be hung before I had finished the first chapter."
From what we know about Jane Austen, she was not especially attractive nor was she lucky in love. She was, merely, a brilliant woman with a cunning wit and keen insight into the human psyche. Becoming Jane seeks to overcome this handicap.
I adore Jane Austen as a hilariously brilliant and cynical writer with a keen ability to write characters. I adore that she was much more a smart ass than a romantic fool, using romance mostly as fodder for cynicism. What I do not adore is Miramax having Austen come into her own under the instruction of a man. I also do not adore that people find women more accessible when their lives are defined by relationships (romance is sweet; independent success, just sad and somewhat unnerving). The woman saw with her brain – we can’t owe that ability to a dreamy man in town for a month. Here are some quotes from Austen’s personal letters that show the snarky Austen I love, as represented by herself and not by Miramax.
“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal."
[On the birth of a son to one of their sisters-in-law:]
"I give you joy of our new nephew, and hope if he ever comes to be hanged it will not be till we are too old to care about it."
[On another of their nephews, then about three years old:]
"I shall think with tenderness and delight on his beautiful and smiling countenance and interesting manner, until a few years have turned him into an ungovernable, ungracious fellow."
"I could no more write a [historical] romance than an epic poem. I could not sit seriously down to write a serious romance under any other motive than to save my life; and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never relax into laughing at myself or other people, I am sure I should be hung before I had finished the first chapter."
Friday, December 22, 2006
There she is...
This week, American media achieved the newsworthiness trifecta. Timeliness, conflict, and prominence, you ask? No, silly. I’m talking about drugs, Donald Trump, and girl-on-girl action. Alert the cable networks! No need to bum everyone out with that whole Iraq business this week!
For those who have better things to do than follow entertainment news, Miss USA was nearly dethroned after her drunken nights in NY clubs kissing her fellow woman and testing positive for cocaine. People seem most unnerved by the underage drinking aspect, which should have all the shock factor as the revelation that the majority of Americans have premarital sex. Maybe we can use the leftoever grant money to discover that teenagers like the rock music and dentists suggest brushing after meals.
Anyhoo, as much as I’d like, I can’t feign disinterest. Much to Jimmy’s complete disgust/bewilderment/shame, I am fascinated by pageants. I must watch them. If you haven’t spent much time watching and comparing these spectacles, please allow me to break them down. There’s Miss America, the classiest of the pageant family, in which a drinking game could be devised around every utterance of “scholarship competition.” You’d be dancing on the table before Miss Alabama introduced herself. Miss USA, Miss America’s trashier younger cousin, is my personal favorite. A Miss USA contestant might not be especially sharp or beautiful, but she is willing to bend a few rules of propriety to garner attention. I do admire the lack of pretense – they’re only a few years of bad ratings away from the introduction of the pole-dancing competition. However, it is Miss Teen USA that brings tears to my eyes. If you’ve never seen Miss Teen USA, I beg of you to tune in for the question and answer round. They might be talking, but they’re not saying a damn thing -- yet the audience goes wild as if the secret for Israeli-Palestinian peace had just been revealed. This ties into the apparent goal of pageants: for a woman to speak without communicating and to appear sexually desirable without seeming sexual. Many people defend pageantry by stating how difficult it is. Let’s not confuse a difficult endeavor with a worthwhile one.
But yet, I watch.
Maybe the reason I watch pageants is because I insist that they must be a big inside joke that I’m not in on. It’s mind boggling to hear charges of sexism so breezily dismissed when we’re not exactly dealing with gray area here. Young women trot like circus poodles, seeking “scholarship money” while wearing bikinis and stilettos, rubbing hemorroid cream under their eyes and Vaseline on their teeth, and speaking without ideas. Talent is restricted to singing, playing an instrument, or some other talent revered in more Jane Austen-esque days (I don't mean to disparage the performing arts, but what about young women who prefer to play with a microscope than a microphone?). The “substance” of the show is about what these young women want to be... their aspirations in law, medicine, or advocacy sound as pretty as they are. Why are pageants restricted to the young and dreaming? Perhaps because the reality of women’s potential isn’t always quite as pretty?
Hosts gush that all girls watching pageants dream about their chance, and I admit I’m among them. I’ve had the plan for some time: I’d work my way up the pageantry system, advocating such original platforms as anti-crime or pro-education legislation. I’d show off my mediocre ballet. I’d push up my boobs, cinch my waist, then lick my lips and speak of abstinence. And then when the dream was realized, when I’d stand on that glorious Atlantic City stage, state sash draped across my sparkly gown and lips slipping off my Vaselined teeth, Regis Philbin would ask about my vision for the world.
“I dream of a world in which women control their reproductive health, where men worry as much as women do about balancing parental and professional responsibilities, where Congress and the Fortune 500 don't consist nearly exclusively of white men, where all adults are free to marry whom they choose, and where PACs no longer find tax exemptions as religious organizations. Thank you.” (This is when I’d curtsy and do the cute little wave to the section of North Carolinians, who by this time were taking their state cut-out with them as they walked out of the door.)
For those who have better things to do than follow entertainment news, Miss USA was nearly dethroned after her drunken nights in NY clubs kissing her fellow woman and testing positive for cocaine. People seem most unnerved by the underage drinking aspect, which should have all the shock factor as the revelation that the majority of Americans have premarital sex. Maybe we can use the leftoever grant money to discover that teenagers like the rock music and dentists suggest brushing after meals.
Anyhoo, as much as I’d like, I can’t feign disinterest. Much to Jimmy’s complete disgust/bewilderment/shame, I am fascinated by pageants. I must watch them. If you haven’t spent much time watching and comparing these spectacles, please allow me to break them down. There’s Miss America, the classiest of the pageant family, in which a drinking game could be devised around every utterance of “scholarship competition.” You’d be dancing on the table before Miss Alabama introduced herself. Miss USA, Miss America’s trashier younger cousin, is my personal favorite. A Miss USA contestant might not be especially sharp or beautiful, but she is willing to bend a few rules of propriety to garner attention. I do admire the lack of pretense – they’re only a few years of bad ratings away from the introduction of the pole-dancing competition. However, it is Miss Teen USA that brings tears to my eyes. If you’ve never seen Miss Teen USA, I beg of you to tune in for the question and answer round. They might be talking, but they’re not saying a damn thing -- yet the audience goes wild as if the secret for Israeli-Palestinian peace had just been revealed. This ties into the apparent goal of pageants: for a woman to speak without communicating and to appear sexually desirable without seeming sexual. Many people defend pageantry by stating how difficult it is. Let’s not confuse a difficult endeavor with a worthwhile one.
But yet, I watch.
Maybe the reason I watch pageants is because I insist that they must be a big inside joke that I’m not in on. It’s mind boggling to hear charges of sexism so breezily dismissed when we’re not exactly dealing with gray area here. Young women trot like circus poodles, seeking “scholarship money” while wearing bikinis and stilettos, rubbing hemorroid cream under their eyes and Vaseline on their teeth, and speaking without ideas. Talent is restricted to singing, playing an instrument, or some other talent revered in more Jane Austen-esque days (I don't mean to disparage the performing arts, but what about young women who prefer to play with a microscope than a microphone?). The “substance” of the show is about what these young women want to be... their aspirations in law, medicine, or advocacy sound as pretty as they are. Why are pageants restricted to the young and dreaming? Perhaps because the reality of women’s potential isn’t always quite as pretty?
Hosts gush that all girls watching pageants dream about their chance, and I admit I’m among them. I’ve had the plan for some time: I’d work my way up the pageantry system, advocating such original platforms as anti-crime or pro-education legislation. I’d show off my mediocre ballet. I’d push up my boobs, cinch my waist, then lick my lips and speak of abstinence. And then when the dream was realized, when I’d stand on that glorious Atlantic City stage, state sash draped across my sparkly gown and lips slipping off my Vaselined teeth, Regis Philbin would ask about my vision for the world.
“I dream of a world in which women control their reproductive health, where men worry as much as women do about balancing parental and professional responsibilities, where Congress and the Fortune 500 don't consist nearly exclusively of white men, where all adults are free to marry whom they choose, and where PACs no longer find tax exemptions as religious organizations. Thank you.” (This is when I’d curtsy and do the cute little wave to the section of North Carolinians, who by this time were taking their state cut-out with them as they walked out of the door.)
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Attack of the Killer Career Women
Many people ask me why I call myself a feminist, as if it's a paranoid overreaction to an imagined threat. This is Happy Equality Land now, where men and women work side by side, earning equal salaries for equal work and sharing equally in household chores, right? Just ask any working mother! We’re in the post-feminist age now, baby! Cue the dance music!
Um, no. Last week, an article appeared on the Forbes Magazine web site titled (I kid you not), Don’t Marry Career Women by Michael Noer. After an outcry from readers and staff, Forbes.com yanked the article and posted it days later with a rebuttal. In this article, Noer asserts that the career “girl” (whom he defines as having “a university-level (or higher) education, works more than 35 hours a week outside the home and makes more than $30,000 a year”) is wrecking the institution of marriage. So now homosexuals are in good company – women such as myself are also working to unravel the very fabric of civilization.
Because my attempts at summarizing this article would not do it justice, and any commentary would just be obvious, here are some excerpts (but please, read the article for yourself):
Um, no. Last week, an article appeared on the Forbes Magazine web site titled (I kid you not), Don’t Marry Career Women by Michael Noer. After an outcry from readers and staff, Forbes.com yanked the article and posted it days later with a rebuttal. In this article, Noer asserts that the career “girl” (whom he defines as having “a university-level (or higher) education, works more than 35 hours a week outside the home and makes more than $30,000 a year”) is wrecking the institution of marriage. So now homosexuals are in good company – women such as myself are also working to unravel the very fabric of civilization.
Because my attempts at summarizing this article would not do it justice, and any commentary would just be obvious, here are some excerpts (but please, read the article for yourself):
Guys: a word of advice. Marry pretty women or ugly ones. Short ones or tall ones. Blondes or brunettes. Just, whatever you do, don't marry a woman with a career.
A recent study in Social Forces, a research journal, found that women--even those with a "feminist" outlook--are happier when their husband is the primary breadwinner.
According to a wide-ranging review of the published literature, highly educated people are more likely to have had extramarital sex (those with graduate degrees are 1.75 times more likely to have cheated than those with high school diplomas). Additionally, individuals who earn more than $30,000 a year are more likely to cheat. And if the cheating leads to divorce, you're really in trouble. Divorce has been positively correlated with higher rates of alcoholism, clinical depression and suicide.
If a host of studies are to be believed, marrying these women is asking for trouble. If they quit their jobs and stay home with the kids, they will be unhappy. They will be unhappy if they make more money than you do. You will be unhappy if they make more money than you do. You will be more likely to fall ill. Even your house will be dirtier.
You heard it, fellas. Even your house will be dirtier. But I suppose the upside is that you have a scapegoat for any and all personal failures.
So why am I a feminist? With schmucks like Noer walking the streets, with an article like this in a mainstream economic magazine like Forbes, why ISN’T any self-respecting person a feminist?Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Monday, November 14, 2005
The Cynical Bride
When it comes to weddings, I admit it. I can be snarky. Cynical. Easily nauseated. It's easy to dismiss the pseudo-drama of it all. Call it feminism, call it snobbish, but so often the giddiness over bridal magazines and china patterns makes me queasy. I'm not talking about all weddings, but just those that give the bride that crazy glint in her eye when discussing centerpieces. As someone who's saving and longing for my return to grad school, I want to cry when I realize that with the time and money some women devote to wedding planning, they could have a Masters in their chosen field.
So even though I've been with a great guy for many years, I assumed marriage wasn't for me. I'd be the Goldie to his Kurt. Not just the wedding rituals scared me, but also the expectations of the institution: the submissiveness, the passivity, the evenings spent in front of Wheel of Fortune. I'd hear women never referring to their husbands by name but by "hubby," or financially successful women exclaiming, "Oh, he'd KILL me if I bought those shoes!" I wanted to spend my life with him, but geez, I didn't want that. So we did what people like us do: we moved in together.
But a funny thing happened on the way to shackin' up. Having him as a roommate made me want him as a husband. We make a great, if not odd, team. We share the chores, write little notes, and have a weird penchant for National Geographic documentaries on architectural catastrophes. We talk to our dogs more than sane people ought, and he laughs when I express everyday emotions through song or dance (my theory is that people in musicals are always so gosh darn happy; maybe the rest of us are missing out). But it wasn't the happy or silly moments that convinced me he'd make an amazing husband. It was the bad times that really showed me what a great man he is. He listens and assuages when I stress about things that haven't happened yet (my specialty); he's seen me delve into despair and stuck around to see me out of it. When we argue, we fight fair or apologize quickly. He's a man -- and it's a life -- that I want forever. When I realized that I wanted to marry him, the idea was no less radical than had I invented the institution itself. I'd like to say that the discovery was full of hearts and flowers, but for every utterance of love was a, "Holy crap, are we really doing this?"
And holy crap, we are... in just three weeks. But I still don't "oooh" over invitations (they're just paper, c'mon), I still read that the average wedding costs nearly $30k and cry a little. Bridal magazines only make me want to elope with their million synonyms for fiance: darling, honey dear, shnookie pie. Please.
So in the words of ol' Frank, we'll do it, but we'll do it our way. My gown has no pouf, the guest list only has 14 names, "hubby" will never pass through my lips. It won't be about veils or cakes or "the perfect day." It'll be about celebrating what we've already built, honoring what formed long ago. It'll be a vow of forever, with a whispered, "Holy crap, are we really doing this?"
So even though I've been with a great guy for many years, I assumed marriage wasn't for me. I'd be the Goldie to his Kurt. Not just the wedding rituals scared me, but also the expectations of the institution: the submissiveness, the passivity, the evenings spent in front of Wheel of Fortune. I'd hear women never referring to their husbands by name but by "hubby," or financially successful women exclaiming, "Oh, he'd KILL me if I bought those shoes!" I wanted to spend my life with him, but geez, I didn't want that. So we did what people like us do: we moved in together.
But a funny thing happened on the way to shackin' up. Having him as a roommate made me want him as a husband. We make a great, if not odd, team. We share the chores, write little notes, and have a weird penchant for National Geographic documentaries on architectural catastrophes. We talk to our dogs more than sane people ought, and he laughs when I express everyday emotions through song or dance (my theory is that people in musicals are always so gosh darn happy; maybe the rest of us are missing out). But it wasn't the happy or silly moments that convinced me he'd make an amazing husband. It was the bad times that really showed me what a great man he is. He listens and assuages when I stress about things that haven't happened yet (my specialty); he's seen me delve into despair and stuck around to see me out of it. When we argue, we fight fair or apologize quickly. He's a man -- and it's a life -- that I want forever. When I realized that I wanted to marry him, the idea was no less radical than had I invented the institution itself. I'd like to say that the discovery was full of hearts and flowers, but for every utterance of love was a, "Holy crap, are we really doing this?"
And holy crap, we are... in just three weeks. But I still don't "oooh" over invitations (they're just paper, c'mon), I still read that the average wedding costs nearly $30k and cry a little. Bridal magazines only make me want to elope with their million synonyms for fiance: darling, honey dear, shnookie pie. Please.
So in the words of ol' Frank, we'll do it, but we'll do it our way. My gown has no pouf, the guest list only has 14 names, "hubby" will never pass through my lips. It won't be about veils or cakes or "the perfect day." It'll be about celebrating what we've already built, honoring what formed long ago. It'll be a vow of forever, with a whispered, "Holy crap, are we really doing this?"
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