The Feminine Mystique (Reprise)
Yesterday I was watching a commercial for a cleaning product that shall remain nameless. It started off in a sunny living room – white walls, white sofa, white carpet. Yellow tulips in a vase on the dining room table. A woman was standing at the door as her husband and children left for the day. “See you later, family!” she sang.
After she closed the door the blonde, perfectly put together mother (dressed in khakis, a yellow cashmere sweater set, and a pearl necklace) proceeded to clean the house. Moments later she put away her dust mop and settled onto the sofa for a day of pleasurable reading. Her hair and make-up were still in place. Not a drop of sweat graced her brow.
When her family returned home, the woman’s husband exclaimed, “Wow, honey! You must have been cleaning all day!” She winked into the camera with a knowing smile.
This commercial immediately came to mind when I was re-reading Betty Friedan’s "The Feminine Mystique." I’m a high school English teacher and every year I teach a unit on feminism. Betty Friedan won critical acclaim for her writing about housewives, many of whom (despite the standard assumptions about women in the 1950s) did not find ultimate bliss washing dishes and ironing. These women had achieved their supposed American dream: a husband in a suit, children in ball caps, and a roast in the oven but, surprisingly, they were actually quite miserable.
In the 1950s it was common to see advertisements like the one described above, because society was determined to convince women that the secret to happiness could be found in a bottle of Windex. Supposedly this is no longer the case. Which begs the question, why is this blissful, cleaning housewife still appearing on my TV screen in 2008 with the only real difference being that she’s wearing slacks instead of a poofy Donna Reed skirt?
Now, I’m no dummy. I know how cleaning products are marketed and I know this was an advertisement and not a realistic depiction of the average American woman. I’m not asking why the ad agency chose to sell the product this way. I’m asking why it still works.
Here’s a dose of reality: today’s women never clean the house in cashmere, khakis and pearls. On the days I actually have time to clean the house I wake up, put my hair in a pony tail and I don’t shower. I throw on an old t-shirt, paint-stained shorts and a jogging bra (that is, if I wear a bra at all), and no matter how wonderful the cleaning product is, I always end up hunched over the tub scrubbing and sweating. I attempt to de-clutter the living room, dig through piles of mail, lug the vacuum cleaner up and down the stairs, separate the recycling, haul old banana peels and chicken bones out to the trash, and pick up a sack of dog turds along the way.
By the time I’m finished cleaning I’m covered in stains, sweat and dust. My joints ache and my throat burns from inhaling bleach fumes. And here’s the real kicker – I live by myself. I can only imagine how this task is compounded for women who are actually cleaning up after kids, pets, and spouses – for many, all of this in addition to the pressure of their careers outside the home.
The most disturbing thing about commercial Blondie and her fantasy cleaning product is not the fact that these products are still marketed mostly to women, it’s the fact that Blondie’s lifestyle is still considered the ideal. And, just like in Friedan’s time, women who feel unfulfilled or stressed out by their “traditional” gender role become confused and self-deprecating, thinking they must have done something wrong if they fall short of the status quo.
In a sense women are still experiencing Friedan’s “problem that has no name.” Though we are encouraged in a variety of pursuits, we are also expected to find fulfillment as wives and mothers. Only now, a woman is supposed to be some kind of hybrid 1950s housewife and modernist: partner in her firm, soccer mom, grad. student, and scrap-booker all in one.
Yet, when it comes to perpetuating an impossible ideal, ladies, we have no one to blame but ourselves. We’re so committed to maintaining the status quo that we refuse to let people see the truth. Case in point: Last year I visited a friend of mine three weeks after she had her first baby, and I quickly learned that having a newborn is nothing like the prim and proper spectacles of joy that our Aunts describe at baby showers.
When I arrived at her house my friend answered the door looking beaten and cadaverous – hair hanging in her face, dark circles under her eyes. One leg of her sweat pants was hiked up to the knee. She wore a gray t-shirt stained with breast milk and vomit. “I haven’t slept in 42 hours,” she sighed as she flopped on the couch, which was piled with a mountain of laundry, diapers and bits of graham cracker. Then the baby let out a blood-curdling scream that made me want to dive under the couch to shield myself from what I could only assume was an incoming siege. My friend stumbled over a toy train to pick up the baby and was greeted with a smear of molten green poo erupting out of the child’s onesie. I gazed at the scene in utter shock. I was sure that within the next five minutes the President would somehow get wind of the situation and declare a state of emergency.
I left my friend’s house and sped home with a mixture of terror and gratefulness. None of my other married friends had ever dared reveal the secrets that lay behind the iron curtain of motherhood. This friend was trying to save me. She was giving me a chance to escape. Then, a counter-argument struck me cold. Immediately commercials for baby shampoo began to rush through my mind –images of adorable little cherubs with soap on their tummies were getting tickled by their exceedingly happy mothers. I shook-off the bubbles and re-focused on the images from my friend’s house. “Those commercials are a rouse!” I exclaimed to absolutely no one. “Propaganda designed by evil capitalists to snare us into mating so that we’ll buy their shampoo!”
By the time I got home I had fully convinced myself that I was never having children. Then, the counter-argument struck again. I immediately felt guilty. “Of course I want children,” I sniffled. “What the heck is the matter with me?” All women want children, right? That’s what we do.
You know, Betty Friedan became famous because she unearthed the seemingly impossible truth that many women want something other than the status quo. I’ll go ahead and concede that things are somewhat different now. The average woman is perfectly free to admit that she’s miserable, and many of them do, repeatedly, while screaming at their husbands and drinking lots of vodka. On a more positive note, it’s now perfectly acceptable for the average woman to take her destiny into her own hands and follow her bliss. I can still want children. But I don’t have to imitate the ads. I can be my own kind of wife and mother and I can want lots of other things, too. Most importantly, I’m free to be content with what I have.
Still, I’m troubled by the few flickering embers of Friedan’s theory that permeate the lives of today’s American women. Single women still feel pressured to find their fulfillment in family life, and as their biological alarm clocks tick on they begin to ask themselves, “What if I never accomplish this goal? Will I still matter just the way I am?” Married women may feel deeply fulfilled as wives and mothers. But they may also feel a little bit betrayed, because no one ever told them they would have to say good-bye to their white sofas and sweater sets. They have discovered the difficult but noble truth of married life: that every day is about rolling up their shirt sleeves and tackling the dirty work that comes along with selfless commitment and love.
If Betty Friedan were still alive and writing in defense of women, I wonder if she would title her latest article, “Would you give us a break, already?” Because there’s no real mystique about what the modern woman needs in order to be fulfilled. We just need a break from conflicting ideals and impossible expectations.
Maybe I’ll write that article one day. I can’t right now, though. I’ve got to slap on my pearl necklace and go mow the lawn.
After she closed the door the blonde, perfectly put together mother (dressed in khakis, a yellow cashmere sweater set, and a pearl necklace) proceeded to clean the house. Moments later she put away her dust mop and settled onto the sofa for a day of pleasurable reading. Her hair and make-up were still in place. Not a drop of sweat graced her brow.
When her family returned home, the woman’s husband exclaimed, “Wow, honey! You must have been cleaning all day!” She winked into the camera with a knowing smile.
This commercial immediately came to mind when I was re-reading Betty Friedan’s "The Feminine Mystique." I’m a high school English teacher and every year I teach a unit on feminism. Betty Friedan won critical acclaim for her writing about housewives, many of whom (despite the standard assumptions about women in the 1950s) did not find ultimate bliss washing dishes and ironing. These women had achieved their supposed American dream: a husband in a suit, children in ball caps, and a roast in the oven but, surprisingly, they were actually quite miserable.
In the 1950s it was common to see advertisements like the one described above, because society was determined to convince women that the secret to happiness could be found in a bottle of Windex. Supposedly this is no longer the case. Which begs the question, why is this blissful, cleaning housewife still appearing on my TV screen in 2008 with the only real difference being that she’s wearing slacks instead of a poofy Donna Reed skirt?
Now, I’m no dummy. I know how cleaning products are marketed and I know this was an advertisement and not a realistic depiction of the average American woman. I’m not asking why the ad agency chose to sell the product this way. I’m asking why it still works.
Here’s a dose of reality: today’s women never clean the house in cashmere, khakis and pearls. On the days I actually have time to clean the house I wake up, put my hair in a pony tail and I don’t shower. I throw on an old t-shirt, paint-stained shorts and a jogging bra (that is, if I wear a bra at all), and no matter how wonderful the cleaning product is, I always end up hunched over the tub scrubbing and sweating. I attempt to de-clutter the living room, dig through piles of mail, lug the vacuum cleaner up and down the stairs, separate the recycling, haul old banana peels and chicken bones out to the trash, and pick up a sack of dog turds along the way.
By the time I’m finished cleaning I’m covered in stains, sweat and dust. My joints ache and my throat burns from inhaling bleach fumes. And here’s the real kicker – I live by myself. I can only imagine how this task is compounded for women who are actually cleaning up after kids, pets, and spouses – for many, all of this in addition to the pressure of their careers outside the home.
The most disturbing thing about commercial Blondie and her fantasy cleaning product is not the fact that these products are still marketed mostly to women, it’s the fact that Blondie’s lifestyle is still considered the ideal. And, just like in Friedan’s time, women who feel unfulfilled or stressed out by their “traditional” gender role become confused and self-deprecating, thinking they must have done something wrong if they fall short of the status quo.
In a sense women are still experiencing Friedan’s “problem that has no name.” Though we are encouraged in a variety of pursuits, we are also expected to find fulfillment as wives and mothers. Only now, a woman is supposed to be some kind of hybrid 1950s housewife and modernist: partner in her firm, soccer mom, grad. student, and scrap-booker all in one.
Yet, when it comes to perpetuating an impossible ideal, ladies, we have no one to blame but ourselves. We’re so committed to maintaining the status quo that we refuse to let people see the truth. Case in point: Last year I visited a friend of mine three weeks after she had her first baby, and I quickly learned that having a newborn is nothing like the prim and proper spectacles of joy that our Aunts describe at baby showers.
When I arrived at her house my friend answered the door looking beaten and cadaverous – hair hanging in her face, dark circles under her eyes. One leg of her sweat pants was hiked up to the knee. She wore a gray t-shirt stained with breast milk and vomit. “I haven’t slept in 42 hours,” she sighed as she flopped on the couch, which was piled with a mountain of laundry, diapers and bits of graham cracker. Then the baby let out a blood-curdling scream that made me want to dive under the couch to shield myself from what I could only assume was an incoming siege. My friend stumbled over a toy train to pick up the baby and was greeted with a smear of molten green poo erupting out of the child’s onesie. I gazed at the scene in utter shock. I was sure that within the next five minutes the President would somehow get wind of the situation and declare a state of emergency.
I left my friend’s house and sped home with a mixture of terror and gratefulness. None of my other married friends had ever dared reveal the secrets that lay behind the iron curtain of motherhood. This friend was trying to save me. She was giving me a chance to escape. Then, a counter-argument struck me cold. Immediately commercials for baby shampoo began to rush through my mind –images of adorable little cherubs with soap on their tummies were getting tickled by their exceedingly happy mothers. I shook-off the bubbles and re-focused on the images from my friend’s house. “Those commercials are a rouse!” I exclaimed to absolutely no one. “Propaganda designed by evil capitalists to snare us into mating so that we’ll buy their shampoo!”
By the time I got home I had fully convinced myself that I was never having children. Then, the counter-argument struck again. I immediately felt guilty. “Of course I want children,” I sniffled. “What the heck is the matter with me?” All women want children, right? That’s what we do.
You know, Betty Friedan became famous because she unearthed the seemingly impossible truth that many women want something other than the status quo. I’ll go ahead and concede that things are somewhat different now. The average woman is perfectly free to admit that she’s miserable, and many of them do, repeatedly, while screaming at their husbands and drinking lots of vodka. On a more positive note, it’s now perfectly acceptable for the average woman to take her destiny into her own hands and follow her bliss. I can still want children. But I don’t have to imitate the ads. I can be my own kind of wife and mother and I can want lots of other things, too. Most importantly, I’m free to be content with what I have.
Still, I’m troubled by the few flickering embers of Friedan’s theory that permeate the lives of today’s American women. Single women still feel pressured to find their fulfillment in family life, and as their biological alarm clocks tick on they begin to ask themselves, “What if I never accomplish this goal? Will I still matter just the way I am?” Married women may feel deeply fulfilled as wives and mothers. But they may also feel a little bit betrayed, because no one ever told them they would have to say good-bye to their white sofas and sweater sets. They have discovered the difficult but noble truth of married life: that every day is about rolling up their shirt sleeves and tackling the dirty work that comes along with selfless commitment and love.
If Betty Friedan were still alive and writing in defense of women, I wonder if she would title her latest article, “Would you give us a break, already?” Because there’s no real mystique about what the modern woman needs in order to be fulfilled. We just need a break from conflicting ideals and impossible expectations.
Maybe I’ll write that article one day. I can’t right now, though. I’ve got to slap on my pearl necklace and go mow the lawn.
posted by Alice | 5:16 PM
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