I recently came across, bought, and read a book before it actually appeared in the New York Times Book Review. I don't actually read the Sunday Book Review, but David does and he mentioned the book to me on the Sunday that I was finishing it. So that's how I know I found the book before the New York Times did.
I found the book in a small ad in another magazine – could it have been the Smithsonian my new favorite magazine? I don't remember. The book had me written all over it: it was Caitlin Flanagan's To Hell With All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife.
I ordered it from our local bookstore – The Book Cellar – supporter of local businesses that I am. Well, I ordered it from them after I searched the shelves trying to find a book about housewifery that was not by Maureen Dowd and I'm pretty sure it had a bad word in the title. A helpful employee did a search for me, figured out what I was looking for, told me it wasn't released yet, and then promptly offered to order it for me. Since the Book Cellar saved my butt during the Amazon-Harry Potter debacle, I thought I'd throw them the business.
I'm already making what should be short entry long but not in the way I wanted, so I am not going to enter into the now growing debate about whether Flanagan is feminist, anti-feminist, Schlafly wannabe, etc. See here, here, here, -- you get the drift -- if you'd like to read all about it.
I found Flanagan's book to be sometimes entertaining, sometimes informative, mostly one-sided and reflective rather than well-reasoned or argued. In fact, I'm not really sure what her argument is. The book reads like a collection of essays, does not present a thesis or argument that I can nail down, and often betrays the author's own indecisiveness. I'm still confused by the "feminism"-is-a-bad-word movement, and I'm not sure of Flanagan's age or generation, but my reading of this book makes me think that Flanagan doesn't know if she is a feminist or not because she, like many others, doesn't know what the word means.
Which brings me to my mother and the picture at the top of this entry.
My mother was the first feminist I ever knew -- though come to think of it, I don't know that she would embrace the label either. My mother always taught me that I could be whatever I wanted to be (her examples always included "Catholic-" in front of them), such as a "Catholic lawyer." My mother coached me to not be dependent on a man. My mother also taught me how to make German potato salad, gave me countless opportunities to hone my vacuuming skills, and rarely let me leave the house with an un-ironed blouse on or imperfect skirt pleats. Once I got older I was also tutored on not leaving the house without a little lipstick on "so that you have some color."
My mother supported me in all my pursuits and pointed to other strong, independent women: Ann Richards, notably during her Democratic National Convention Keynote Address in 1988; Mrs. Schwartz, a down-the-street neighbor who was one of the first women to graduate from Washington University's School of Law (and made killer snickerdoodles); Mrs. Cushing, who lived next door to Mrs. Schwartz and who nursed both her husband and her sister through their terminal illnesses and was also an impressionist painter with art hanging in the St. Louis Art Museum (and who gave out full-sized candy bars on Halloween); Sacajawea, the Shoshone woman who made it possible for Lewis and Clark to get where they were going and get help from native peoples without getting killed by them (and was a woman I was fascinated by thus resulting in me portraying her for Halloween and for a school history project for which my mother made my costume and my father helped to fashion a baby board for my papoose -- I still have my string of blue beads made out of blue buttons); and the women in our family who ran local Democratic parties, coped with major illnesses, supported husbands through new business ventures, followed husbands during their war service, supported families back in the old country, and raised their families. There were many others, but I think you get the picture.
My mother also told me in high school when I was upset that boys did not seem interested in me that I should sometimes not talk a whole lot or be smarter than boys because "boys don't like girls to be smarter than they are." She also told me that I had to decide between a career and motherhood -- that I could not devote myself to both at the same time. In my mother's defense, I should note that she currently denies both statements.
Long before my days of teenage hormonal rages and general angst about my future as a Catholic lawyer, my mother had me use a canvas totebag in which to carry my library books on the walk back to the library. I was very young. It was likely the mid-1970s. I remember using it a couple times and librarians and other women commenting on it. I came across the totebag again the last time I was in St. Louis. It was hanging on the door right next to Torso Jesus. I was born liberated.
All of this is to say that I can relate to being confused about a woman's place in the home, in the workplace, in society. Everything my mother taught me is true. And yet, it can't possibly all be true -- at least not at the same time.
I like working in the academy, and I (somewhat secretly) covet most Martha magazines, a few knitting projects, baking cookies, and the cleaning tips in Real Simple. Is it possible to be a woman pursuing an academic career who also dreams of closet organizers and the next great product from Swiffer? Can I reconcile my occasional daydreams of being a stay-at-home mom and my pursuit of becoming a published author? Is it okay that I have my groceries brought to my door and have twice now had non-English speakers at a local laundromat wash mine and my husband's dirty underwear when my mother did all of those things herself?
I am a feminist and I was born liberated and I do want it all. I'll admit that I collect cookie recipes and I have tried more than once to learn how to properly fold fitted sheets and I take pride in my doctoral degree. In my 30s I have grown to learn that I am a multifaceted person with diverse plans and dreams. I get the "loving and loathing" part in Flanagan's title, but unlike Flanagan, I accept both sides and know now that they make me the liberated woman I am today.
