Feminism

I’m never quite sure what to make of the term “feminism”. Early in my college years, I called myself a feminist, a moderate one anyway. I was all about breaking glass ceilings, fixing my own bike, checking my own tire pressure and what not. But in the past decade or so, I have become increasingly unsure about how girl-power-gung-ho I am, or want to be.

I blame going to graduate school in Texas for this particular identity crisis. There I became aware of the American perspective on feminism, which, at least in Austin, is far more extreme than anything Europe has seen since the 1970s. I took classes with inspiring titles such as “Gender and sexuality in the media: women, feminism, and body image”, and met the “real” feminists. Girls who had no qualms about working as strippers on the side because they felt it only proved their power as women, girls who wrote man-bashing articles for the local magazine on female issues, women who rejected the male-dominated capitalist American consumer culture, and shopped exclusively at stores owned and operated by women, and so on. These were women who believed being a feminist meant you did not adhere to male-devised standards, such as shaving your legs and armpits, plucking your eyebrows, donning pantyhose, or wearing a bra. It made my desire to change my own tires seem quite juvenile and superficial.

Although I am all about equal opportunities, being strong and independent, and very fierce about treating women as objects of lust, studying in Texas among real die hard feminists made me realize that perhaps I don’t quite deserve the label “feminist”. I mean, I just can’t imagine sporting a unibrow, or never shopping at Victoria Secret again. Not to mention the fact that my boss would probably not approve of me throwing my hose and skirts out the window and coming to work in camo-pants and workboots. Plus I just like guys too much. They really do try, you know?

But moving to Georgia has forced me to once again reconsider my opinions. I’m beginning to understand that perhaps these women in Texas had a reason for being as extreme as they were. Did you know, for instance, that most southern men will not talk to a woman when her husband is present? I can’t tell you the number of times my husband and I have met a man who will not only refuse to introduce himself to me unless husband-dear introduces me first, but who then also simply fails to acknowledge my presence for the remainder of the conversation. Not once has any one of our male neighbors asked me simple questions such as what I do for a living or where I’m from. On the other hand, they inundate husband-dear with questions about everything. They have inquired about his favorite football team, his opinion on every single one of his assignments, his yard work philosophies, and I know that one day very soon they will be asking husband-dear for his shirt size. It is absolutely infuriating.

Husband-dear tells me it’s because southern men like to be polite, and talking to women without them initiating the conversation is considered rude. Right. I must have just missed that one. Husband-dear, sensing my disbelief, quickly backpedaled and added that lots of southern men don’t want strange men talking to their wives (“wacha doin’ talkin’ to my wife?”), and thus many males are too afraid to address any women accompanied by their spouses. Again: Right.

It’s worse when you’re out trying to buy something for you with your husband present. When we went out to buy me a new car a while back, I told my husband right off the bat that if any of the salespeople ignored me after we told them the car was for me, we would leave. The love of my life pointed out that we would, in that case, probably not be buying a car from anyone in town that day. “Fine”, I snapped, “It’s my car. I don’t care.”

And it was bad. The Toyota salesman barely looked at me, and tried to tell my husband we really should go for an automatic. When I informed him that I preferred a stick, the man looked as though he had just discovered crop circles in his backyard, and then tried to sell us the tiniest, ugliest Toyota on the lot. The Suzuki guy told my husband women generally prefer automatics, while the Hyundai dealer seemed to be talking to my legs more than anything. So when we made it to the Honda dealer, I was ready.
“We’re looking to buy a car for my wife.” My husband started, and I could see the man’s gaze just wonder across me and the kids as though we were not even there. And I had had enough.
“Yes, and if you’re going to try and sell the car to my husband like everyone else has been trying to do today, I guarantee you I will not be buying a Honda today.” I snapped.
Well, that did the trick. Jose didn’t even raise his eyebrows, and sold the Honda Fit I own today to me. He talked clutches, rpms, mileage, and maintenance with me. He sucked up to me. Then when it came time to negotiate the price, well, that he did with my husband, but still. I had made my point.

And when I had to go out and buy a refrigerator this summer, I ended up buying it from a woman at Sears. Not that the men at Lowe’s, Flint Appliances, Home Depot or any of the other stores were rude. They were just condescending. When I told them the fridge did not have to match the rest of our appliances, they chuckled and laughed. When I told them I really only wanted a certain width (we had a relatively narrow space for the fridge), they all tried to convince me that I had to have measured it wrong, because that really was very narrow. It was frustrating. Thank heavens for female sales assistants.

Maybe I do need to become more militant to get my point across. I’m not suggesting I’m going to start growing a little hamster underneath each armpit, but perhaps that I need to be more assertive and adamant about how people treat me. Maybe I should even start to put my feminist literature out in the living room and mention how sometimes in wintertime I forget to shave my legs. Let the revolution begin!