Posts tagged sexism

Women’s bodies, men’s work (part two)

17

women

Carrying on from part one, in which I discussed cleavage and how views of women’s bodies affect our views of ourselves and the way we are treated, I want to talk about women’s bodies as they relate to the workplace.

When women were finally integrated into the workplace, the move was largely concessionary. Women at that time were only ‘allowed’ in after many, many years of political and social struggle and after proving their worth doing men’s jobs during World War II. Gradually, more companies became open to or were forced to begin hiring women, with great big shoves from bodies like the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) in the US and passage of the Equal Pay Act 1970 and the Sex Discrimination Act 1975 in the UK. That these laws were only passed a few years before I was born reminds me that this really was a long and hard-fought battle by the women of my grandmothers’ and mother’s generations and that they completely revolutionised the way we navigate public spheres and live our lives. Hell, it was only 45 years ago that it became illegal for companies in the US to fire a woman immediately upon marriage! These were not easy trails our foremothers blazed.

Unfortunately, when these women fought to get into the workplace they largely based their arguments on the premise that they could do the same work as men and, therefore, should be treated exactly the same as them. While I’m sure these pioneering ladies had done what they felt was necessary to get that first foothold on the ladder secured, I’m not sure they properly contemplated and anticipated the negative aspects of this kind of strategy. Because let’s be honest — the working environment didn’t change all that much when women moved in, and they didn’t ask it to. They were expected to simply fit in with the guys and draw as little attention to their gender as possible. That is, if they wanted to do a ‘man’s job’; if they were doing traditionally female jobs (like secretarial work, nursing, etc..) they were expected to be a bit of helpful eye candy and not much more. You’ve seen Mad Men, right? The ass-slapping, “c’mere, darlin” open patronisation and blatant sexism? It’s a true portrayal of working life for many at the time.

But that was then and this is now, or so say those who claim we are living in a ‘post-feminist’, non-sexist, utopian (read: imaginary) society. Women’s lib, equal opportunity laws and sexual harassment lawsuits took care of all that, didn’t it? We have maternity leave (though only an extremely paltry 12 weeks in the US) and the right to report our sexist co-workers or bosses to the proper authorities if they bother us and only a 17% disparity between our pay packets for the exact same work. What the hell else do we want, some wonder?

The problem is this — nearly all of the business world was built around the male biological and social imperative. It was understood that a working man was either single and carefree or with a wife at home who took care of his house, his children and all domestic tasks, aside from the more ‘manly’ chores like grass-cutting, wood-chopping and car repairs. The male worker had no need for flexible hours that fit in around school or shopping hours. The male worker had no dramatic hormonal changes, pregnancies, breastfeeding or post-partum recovery to deal with. The male worker was not the primary caregiver for his offspring and, if his wife did work for some reason, he was not held responsible for arranging their care. If a project needed more work or clients needed schmoozing or the boss wanted more hours put in, it wasn’t much of a problem. A quick phone call to say he’d be late and to keep his dinner warm in the oven was all that was required.

For women who were wives and had children, it was not so easy. Because their jobs were often seen as insignificant  or merely ways to  ’keep them busy’ — rather than sources of personal fulfilment, empowerment and financial independence  – they were still expected to put their responsibilities to their children, husbands, husbands’ careers, home and image before their own aspirations. The fact that they were paid less and so were nearly always the secondary earner in the relationship (hence, with the ‘less important’ career), didn’t seem to register, or even matter. We’d thrown our hats into the ring and now we were going to have to take it on the chin…like men. No special treatment here, sweetheart!The fact that women were (and still are, in some quarters) viewed as irrational, emotional and lacking in intelligence didn’t help either. Hundreds of years of gender stereotypes and male privilege made sure of that. And though the distinctions are not so black-and-white as they used to be, the division between men and women in how they are expected to prioritise their careers and families is still prevalent.

But one of the biggest problems remaining, in my view, is that women’s bodies have not been integrated and accepted into the workplace. Pregnancy and maternity leave are still career-killers. Taking time off for antenatal appointments or to look after a sick child is still met with groans and rolled eyes from a sizeable minority who wonder why mothers don’t just chuck in their jobs and stay at home already, like they’re supposed to. We’ve all heard of colleagues who make that asinine remark, “I wish I could have a few months off,” as if taking time off to give birth and care for a newborn was a beach holiday with cocktails.

Some people would even begrudge a woman the right to pump milk at work, calling it an ‘extra break’ and complaining that she’s getting ‘special treatment,’ which I think any mother who has ever breastfed or expressed knows is misguided. Trying to get as much milk as possible out of your breasts while hunched over an electronic pump in a storage closet, hoping no one walks in on you, is not a ‘break’. It’s just more work, though of the unpaid, ‘unimportant’ variety in capitalism’s eyes.

And then there’s the super-gross, super-secret monster called Menstruation. Ever dragged yourself into work despite the debilitating menstrual cramps, copious bleeding, excessive bloating, splitting headache and hormone levels that rise and plummet like a roller coaster? Ever had to sit through a round of PMS jokes when you snap at someone or cry after a tense conflict with a colleague? I don’t know many women who haven’t.

No, women’s bodies are not welcome in the workplace. Our biological differences are still shrouded in shame and secrecy. When we walk into our offices, we’re supposed to check our femaleness at the door. No crying, cramps, children or breast milk, please. It’s all man here.

Look also at what is considered ‘professional’ dress code for women and all of the mixed messages therein: be sexy and attractive, but not so much that other women are jealous and men are ‘distracted’ or don’t take you seriously; wear fitted, tailored clothing so as not to hide’your figure (if you have a ‘good’ one) but attire must also not be too tight or revealing, lest men are distracted or don’t take you seriously; etc., etc., etc… The workplace didn’t welcome women (and their bodies) as they were, it tried to force them into the existing mould of masculine power.

Women’s bodies have always been blamed for men’s moral weaknesses; it’s why strict adherents of many religions (and even those of a more secular persuasion) have rules about how covered up women should be and why this is for their own protection from men. From the burqa-clad Muslim to the mini-skirted rape victim, women’s clothing has always been a symbol of her modesty and an advertisement for her chasteness, or lack thereof. It’s a man’s world and we’re just living in it…and so we have to dress accordingly, including at work.

Because industry and business were built upon male norms, the working environment reflects this attitude as well. We got on the ladder alright, but what we should’ve been after was an entirely different climbing apparatus, one in which we could move horizontally across a continuum we helped create, not forced to climb vertically up those rigid, historically-male rungs (in high heels, naturally) before hitting that infamous glass ceiling.

And so the women of the previous generation — not wanting to appear unreliable, uncommitted or in any way inferior to men — shouldered the burden of both work and home and tried to turn the enormous stress and strain of it all into a message of empowerment for their daughters. Saying, “See! We can work and still have kids and houses and husbands! We’re not asexual, frigid, heartless, childless wenches after all! We can have careers and be taken seriously and earn money while still running the PTA, doing all the grocery shopping and ironing everyone’s clothes! This is freedom!”

I don’t blame those women one bit for taking on that message. They did the best they could with what they had and turned centuries of degradation and discrimination into opportunity and possibility. I applaud them. I respect them. My beef is not with them.

But.

‘Doing it all’ is not working. ‘Having it all’ is not possible. Women of my generation have watched as our mothers worked themselves to early graves, ill health, divorces, unimaginable stress, or lives devoid of personal interests once the careers were finished and the kids were grown. Men of my generation have been raised by these women and lauded their efforts, thought it ‘noble’ that their mothers did everything while perhaps their fathers did what they’ve always done — worked, and done the odd bit of housework or parenting when asked. We have, by and large, not grown up seeing functional, equitable, reciprocal partnerships. While what these women did was indeed extraordinary, it needn’t be The Way Things Are.

People of my generation are, more than ever, seeking the kinds of partnerships they saw as lacking in their own parents. More men are involved in the rearing of their children, the cleanliness and order of their homes and the day-to-day tending of their romantic relationships. More and more women are realising that they perhaps can’t or even don’t want to do everything all at once. More mothers are choosing to stay at home when their children are young and then returning to work later. This is, of course, usually to the detriment of their careers. More women with successful careers are choosing not to have children at all due to the constraints of their professions, or delaying motherhood until the possibility of it occurring naturally becomes slimmer and slimmer. So, at the moment, we seem to be faced with two choices, neither of which seems all that appealing: Do it all at once, or choose between career and children.

There must be a better way. There has to be a better way. We deserve it. Men who care about their partners and their children deserve it. Children most certainly deserve it. We can’t carry on the status quo anymore, it is (by and large) not working. This is why we are fighting for the right to decide when and if we will become mothers at all. This is why those who are already mothers are getting angry. This is why I think we’re approaching some of the major feminist dilemmas from the wrong angle. And in the next post, I will outline some of the changes that I think we need in order to really revolutionise the way both men and women combine careers and families and how women are treated within the public spheres.

Here’s where you come in; I want to hear your experiences, ideas and suggestions. What do you think we need to do to get real change rolling? Let’s think outside the box and brainstorm here. From the smallest detail to the bigger picture, I want to hear your ideas for how we can make motherhood truly compatible with having careers and equitable marriages. What small things are you doing within  your own lives to help reach that goal? What kind of legislation do you think would be helpful in effecting these changes? How can we overcome patriarchal norms and heteronormativity and reach out to those who hold the reins to these stifling structures?

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The name change game

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hello bunny

Everyone knows that you have to pick and choose your battles. Not every single fight can be fought by one person, at least not without compromising one’s mental health, and perhaps even physical health, with all that bashing of heads against brick walls and whatnot.

So it was that I found myself, while eight months pregnant with my first child, changing my surname to my husband’s; something I hadn’t done when we got married six years previously and that I hadn’t envisaged doing at all. The feminist voice inside me screamed but I shut her up by telling myself that it wasn’t that big a deal, really; that I was only changing it from one man’s name (my father’s) to another and that the tradition had roots too far entrenched in society for my stance to make much of a difference. But mostly, I was just tired. I was tired (already) of having this conversation with people:

“So, will Mr. D (my surname) be attending the next scan with you?”

“Yes but he’s not Mr. D, he’s Mr. R.”

“Oh, I see, I’m sorry. I thought you were married.”

“We are but I didn’t change my name.”

“Oh. Okay. So what surname will the baby have?”

“Um, his I guess.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t that I thought he or she was being judgmental of the fact I hadn’t changed my name or that I was embarrassed to be mistaken for an unmarried mother, but something bothered me nonetheless.

I had endured a rather painful pregnancy, with SPD so bad that I had trouble sitting still for any period of time and could often be found on my hands and knees underneath my desk at work, rocking back and forth in agony trying not to cry. Spasms of pain leapt through my back and wrapped themselves around my vertebrae like the fingers  of hot lightning that streak violently through the summer sky during an electrical storm. It felt as if my pelvis were the good-luck wishbone at a turkey feast, being pulled apart with feverish abandon. I couldn’t walk anywhere without a support belt on and even then it was difficult. Needless to say, I had a pretty miserable third trimester.

So when I thought about going through all that pain (not to mention labour!), upheaval and life-changing craziness and then not even getting to share my name with the baby I’d helped create and solely incubated, sustained and birthed…well, it made me quite upset, actually. I knew that, rationally and intellectually, it was just a name and shouldn’t matter what anyone else thinks or what social conventions dictate, but the desire to be a full part of this little family I was creating and not feel like an outsider or in any way detached or different from my little girl was very strong. So strong, in fact, that I gave up on trying to convince my husband to adopt a double-barrelled name with me (he’d grown up with one and hated it so much that he’d officially dropped the second part when he was a teenager) and decided to just take on his. At the time, I had no patience for anything I construed as complicated or a pain in the ass and this was one way to simplify things.

My husband never asked me to do this for him, by the way; it was all my own anxieties and the pressure that I was feeling to conform and be a ‘good mother’ and a ‘good wife’ by the messages all around me, every day, about what that entails. I bought into the idea that not submitting to this tradition would cause more difficulties for myself and confusion for my children than it was worth. And now, almost four years later, I can say that it has and it hasn’t. There hasn’t been any name confusion, certainly. All four of us have the same last name and it is admittedly quite convenient to just jot down ‘The R___ Family’ instead of listing all of the variations. I don’t get misaddressed forms and Christmas cards and paperwork is pretty straightforward.

But that feminist voice inside my head has never stopped whispering “Why’d you do it? Was your reason really good enough? What kind of example are you setting by bucking so many sexist traditions and gender roles but embracing this one without much of a fight? You’re not you any more, you’re somebody’s WIFE.” Sometimes I let that voice get to me and at others, I leave that inner battle well enough alone, content that I’ve made my choice and that there’s no going back now. Let that be someone else’s Waterloo, I say.

Still, I wish women didn’t have to make this decision at all as it brings so many questions of identity to the surface. If by not changing our names we are making some kind of political statement of independence, does that mean that if we do change our names we’ve willingly given up a part of ourselves just for the ease of form-filling and avoiding awkward social situations? Does that make me a (gulp) conformist?

What has been your experience with name-changing after marriage, if that’s an institution you’re involved in? If you aren’t married, have you had any problems with the name presumptions, especially if you have children? Do you ever regret your decision?

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