Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, February 18, 2006.
What is it about the word feminism that sends so many people through the roof?
To tell the truth, it's hard for me to love the word anymore myself. It's been beaten up so badly, it's hardly recognizable anymore.
When Wendy Wasserstein, author of "The Heidi Chronicles," died in late January and Betty Friedan, author of "The Feminine Mystique," died earlier this month, the word seemed to re-enter the public conversation.
In the early days of the women's movement, the word described people --- mostly women but many men as well --- who believed in equal rights for women. They were people who thought it wasn't fair to give two people the same job and pay one less because she was a woman; or to tell a woman who wanted a career that her place was in the home; or to wall off whole areas of study to women because they were deemed unfit for serious work; or to hand over control of the most intimate use of her own body to government legislators. They were people who understood how badly women's gifts were needed in the wider world, how wrong it was to seal off all that untapped energy.
Feminists were people who realized that women come in different shapes and sizes, that a model that worked well for one woman couldn't be applied to all. Some women loved their roles as wives and mothers, nurses, teachers, social workers, nuns. They were the lucky ones. And even they deserved opportunities beyond the scope of hearth and home.
Others had different talents, different drives, different dreams. To fit they had to cut off parts of themselves. Anyone raised by a mother who wanted a different life but couldn't let herself have it saw firsthand the damage done, not just to the woman but often to the family she loved and served as well.
One problem with the feminist movement --- and I think it's one reason why so many women to this day can't embrace the word --- is that it gave homemakers the impression that they weren't up to speed. The early feminists, in their efforts to break the stranglehold of the feminine stereotype --- woman as pretty, sweet, compliant, cheerful and demure, sitting on the sidelines while the men played ball --- left those women who didn't want advanced degrees or high-powered careers feeling deficient and defensive. Understandably they pushed back, disassociating themselves from the movement altogether.
Mean-spirited commentators, both male and female, went to work draining the word of its promise and twisting it into an accusation. Feminists were demonized, portrayed as women who had no use for men, disdained marriage and motherhood, dressed in work shirts and Army boots, and raised a fist when you tried to shake their hand. I remember a magazine cover from the 1980s --- it might have been Ms. --- showing two women in boxing gloves facing off against each other --- one in an apron, the other in a pinstriped suit.
Looking back on those days, I see myself caught in the middle --- too radical for the homemakers, too conservative for the radicals. I wanted to be a good wife and mother, but I also wanted to have a life outside the home. (Fortunately, I was one of those lucky women who had a choice. Most women work because they have to.)
I did keep working when my kids were young, but only part time, and never with a crystal clear conscience. I called myself a feminist, but felt compelled to follow up with what I did not mean by that. I didn't hate men, though I did wonder why so many had such trouble with strong women. I didn't want women to run the world, but I did want them to work side by side with men, speaking with clear voices and carrying equal weight. I didn't feel angry or bitter or victimized, but I did believe with all my heart that sexism was a grievous sin, that it was rampant at all levels of society, and that anyone who said this was the way things ought to be --- or worse, that God ordained it --- was dead wrong. I believed it was cruel and unjust to say that the only legitimate love was the love between a man and a woman. I believed that terminating a pregnancy was a terrible choice to have to make, but that when a woman had to make that choice, she was entitled to good doctors and good medical care. I believed this was a pro-life stance.
Today, years later, I still call myself a feminist. I don't explain what I mean anymore, but if I did what would I say? Well, for one thing, I would say the word is bigger than it used to be. It has grown over the years, along with the women and men who have worn it. Feminism, cleansed of the smears, healed of the bruises, and brought up to date, is a word that speaks now not just to women's liberation, but to men's as well, for patriarchy harms us all. It speaks to people who believe in equal rights and equal responsibilities for all people --- female and male, rich and poor, black and white, gay and straight, abled and disabled.
The feminists whose work I value most these days are those who challenge me to go even farther, out beyond my borders, to attend to the call of the powerless in the Third World, and to the cries of Mother Earth herself. They remind me that in the end we are all one human family, together in the same boat, owing each other what G.K. Chesterton calls "a terrible loyalty." We do for the least, for the good of us all. If these people still call themselves feminists, who am I to abandon the word?
What is it about the word feminism that sends so many people through the roof?
To tell the truth, it's hard for me to love the word anymore myself. It's been beaten up so badly, it's hardly recognizable anymore.
When Wendy Wasserstein, author of "The Heidi Chronicles," died in late January and Betty Friedan, author of "The Feminine Mystique," died earlier this month, the word seemed to re-enter the public conversation.
In the early days of the women's movement, the word described people --- mostly women but many men as well --- who believed in equal rights for women. They were people who thought it wasn't fair to give two people the same job and pay one less because she was a woman; or to tell a woman who wanted a career that her place was in the home; or to wall off whole areas of study to women because they were deemed unfit for serious work; or to hand over control of the most intimate use of her own body to government legislators. They were people who understood how badly women's gifts were needed in the wider world, how wrong it was to seal off all that untapped energy.
Feminists were people who realized that women come in different shapes and sizes, that a model that worked well for one woman couldn't be applied to all. Some women loved their roles as wives and mothers, nurses, teachers, social workers, nuns. They were the lucky ones. And even they deserved opportunities beyond the scope of hearth and home.
Others had different talents, different drives, different dreams. To fit they had to cut off parts of themselves. Anyone raised by a mother who wanted a different life but couldn't let herself have it saw firsthand the damage done, not just to the woman but often to the family she loved and served as well.
One problem with the feminist movement --- and I think it's one reason why so many women to this day can't embrace the word --- is that it gave homemakers the impression that they weren't up to speed. The early feminists, in their efforts to break the stranglehold of the feminine stereotype --- woman as pretty, sweet, compliant, cheerful and demure, sitting on the sidelines while the men played ball --- left those women who didn't want advanced degrees or high-powered careers feeling deficient and defensive. Understandably they pushed back, disassociating themselves from the movement altogether.
Mean-spirited commentators, both male and female, went to work draining the word of its promise and twisting it into an accusation. Feminists were demonized, portrayed as women who had no use for men, disdained marriage and motherhood, dressed in work shirts and Army boots, and raised a fist when you tried to shake their hand. I remember a magazine cover from the 1980s --- it might have been Ms. --- showing two women in boxing gloves facing off against each other --- one in an apron, the other in a pinstriped suit.
Looking back on those days, I see myself caught in the middle --- too radical for the homemakers, too conservative for the radicals. I wanted to be a good wife and mother, but I also wanted to have a life outside the home. (Fortunately, I was one of those lucky women who had a choice. Most women work because they have to.)
I did keep working when my kids were young, but only part time, and never with a crystal clear conscience. I called myself a feminist, but felt compelled to follow up with what I did not mean by that. I didn't hate men, though I did wonder why so many had such trouble with strong women. I didn't want women to run the world, but I did want them to work side by side with men, speaking with clear voices and carrying equal weight. I didn't feel angry or bitter or victimized, but I did believe with all my heart that sexism was a grievous sin, that it was rampant at all levels of society, and that anyone who said this was the way things ought to be --- or worse, that God ordained it --- was dead wrong. I believed it was cruel and unjust to say that the only legitimate love was the love between a man and a woman. I believed that terminating a pregnancy was a terrible choice to have to make, but that when a woman had to make that choice, she was entitled to good doctors and good medical care. I believed this was a pro-life stance.
Today, years later, I still call myself a feminist. I don't explain what I mean anymore, but if I did what would I say? Well, for one thing, I would say the word is bigger than it used to be. It has grown over the years, along with the women and men who have worn it. Feminism, cleansed of the smears, healed of the bruises, and brought up to date, is a word that speaks now not just to women's liberation, but to men's as well, for patriarchy harms us all. It speaks to people who believe in equal rights and equal responsibilities for all people --- female and male, rich and poor, black and white, gay and straight, abled and disabled.
The feminists whose work I value most these days are those who challenge me to go even farther, out beyond my borders, to attend to the call of the powerless in the Third World, and to the cries of Mother Earth herself. They remind me that in the end we are all one human family, together in the same boat, owing each other what G.K. Chesterton calls "a terrible loyalty." We do for the least, for the good of us all. If these people still call themselves feminists, who am I to abandon the word?