Feminism: We've Come a LONG Way

While the social debate has shifted towards whether or not leggings are appropriate to wear in public (are leggings really any different from skinny jeans?), I think the subject of feminism deserves a refresher. Several months ago, I was going through some old women's magazines from the 1920s to the 1960s. It was a fascinating anthropological study, though my purpose was a more creative one. I make greeting cards from old books and magazines. The art is charming, the word "gay" is used innocently, and most importantly, I don't want this part of American culture to ever be forgotten. 

In my search for sentences I could take out of context and iconic "Dick and Jane"-type images, I noticed something profound. The role of women during this time was "Mother" and "Wife" and ONLY mother and wife. Nothing else. (If single, there was "money in art" or secretary training.) 

Though I had always been a slightly messy procrastinator who loved school and work, I envisioned my married, mother-life to be much like June Cleaver's, minus the heels and curlers. I assumed I'd be a 100% stay-at-home-mom and that I would feel 100% fulfilled by that role. Surprisingly, when I got married, my personality didn't change at all. I continued going to school, I worked a full-time job that I loved and I left dirty dishes in the sink for days. Then, I had a baby, and STILL my personality didn't change. Two weeks after he was born, I worked for a few hours one Saturday while he slept in the back of the store. This one-time shift turned into working 10 hours a week for over a year. And I LOVED it. I loved having a reason to leave the house that didn't cost me any money. I loved my break from my adorable baby so that I could actually have a chance to miss him. And I really loved continuing to learn about something not baby-related. 

Did you know that today, in 2015, it is not only possible to have a career and be a mom, but that it's encouraged? (Maybe not as strongly in the unique culture that is Rexburg, Idaho, but I don't care what anyone there thinks of my choices.) This realization made me think about those old magazine ads and the messages (or rather, singularly, message) they convey. Let's take a look at some of my favorites:

"Domestic Science" - Teach 'em young.

Is this legible? A most intimidating and offensive list of "Model Mother" characteristics.

Emily Taylor's identity made even more apparent by the picture's companion:

And Emily Taylor isn't the only one. So many wives cleaning!

And wives sewing...

And wives cooking...

"Domestic Hands"

So, it's NOT okay to be yourself.

              

And be sure to ask your husband's permission.

And, the best for last:

With "more luck than brains" - just let that sit for a second...

Uncovering these gems made me laugh at first. But then I grew solemn and grateful for the bra-burning, man-hating women of the 1960s. Though radical, they brought about such necessary change. 

I've created a different definition of feminism that is less man-hating and more natural-birthing, but my point here is to remind myself and you that we've come a very long way since the misogynistic "Mad Men" era. Today there are 26 female Fortune 500 CEOs - so, whatever, that's only 5.2%, but a 5.2% that deserves celebration! Fifty years ago, there were 0.

Who cares about what's modest and what isn't? Women today are allowed to wear whatever they want! And who cares if you're a stay-at-home-mom or one who works away from home 40 hours a week? What matters is that, today, YOU can make that choice! 

I've always said that I was born in the wrong decade - the 60s certainly had the best clothing, furniture and music - but the 2010s are pretty great, too. 

Give Me Clutter or Give Me Death

One of my oldest treasures. A small hand puppet with a wooden face. Bought at an antique shop 

in El Paso, Illinois when I was 12.

Thrift store finds, gifts and original art by my uncle Mark Mittlesteadt.

Tyler, Coltrane and I recently moved to Las Vegas. We ordered a 14’ U-Haul truck per A-1 Rental’s suggestion when I told them we lived in a 900 sq ft apartment. HA! I didn’t take a picture of the inside of the truck because I was too busy shouting expletives in my head out of embarrassment that I had so much freaking stuff, but it was packed, quite literally, top to bottom, front to back, side to side. My eternal gratitude goes out to Ben Mathews, Sean Poole and Andrew Pincock for their genius and optimism at making everything I couldn't part with fit.

Every family needs a Kewpie photo-bomber. And, yes, that shelf was so full,
it was bowing in the middle.

I’ve never been a minimalist. My bedroom growing up had walls covered in photographs and posters and bookshelves full of books and tchotchkes (don’t you just love the spelling of that word?), all of which was kept, boxed up and moved to my first married-person studio apartment. After crying for three days from claustrophobia, I parted with about a tenth of my things and had a garage sale. We moved three more times since then and again, only parted with a couple of boxes each time. Keep in mind, I had not stopped accumulating - when you see a street sign at an antique shop with your dad that says “FERTILE” on it, it must be bought and kept without negotiation. When your mom gives you a stack of vintage women’s magazines from the 1920s-60s, you accept them, savor that vintage paper smell, and giggle at the misogynistic advertisements for years to keep the past alive. And some things are just plain useful and I don't want to have to buy them again.

The creepier, the better, I always say. And that cookie jar was purchased by my
equally unique sister at a thrift store in Merrill, WI. Midwest thrifting is
where it's at.

Have you any idea how many articles, books, blogs, and YouTube videos are dedicated to the subject of de-cluttering and simplifying your life and space? There are times I feel bombarded by them, as if the only way to find happiness and peace is to get rid of all of your crap and create a home that is Architectural Digest magazine worthy. But, one day, I read an article that brought tears to my eyes about a woman who, with her family, had decided to build a small, eco-friendly home, which required some serious downsizing. She remembered telling herself how free and light she would feel at getting rid of things, but after her yard sale, all she felt was that she “deeply missed [her] stuff.”

Those boxes are full of wonderful, tiny things: doll parts,
keys, bird''s nests, dollhouse furniture and more! All
organized by type and labeled.

For the first time ever, my feelings about my “things” were validated. I love my stuff. I love my “Language of the Whistles” card table, my stuffed puffin with its leather beak and feet, my Yamaha CP-70 Electric/Acoustic grand piano that weighs a thousand pounds but is just too unique and weird and awesome to ever let go. These things are irreplaceable, make me think of my sweet and loving family and childhood, and make me happy when I look at them. And, inevitably, they will follow me to every residence until, upon my death, my children will have to make that difficult decision to keep it or throw it away.

Appropriately positioned, I thought.

Instead of feeling embarrassed while the missionaries unloaded our 14’ truck, I was excited to be reunited with my strange treasures and find a place for them in my new home. My stuff is awesome, my decorating style is eccentric and a little cluttered, but I like it. And to anyone who disagrees, I’m sad for you and your boring and editorially pleasing home.