JANET BENTON in The New York Times, of all places, writes a moving account of the maternal neglect she suffered when her mother became a feminist. Benton doesn’t disavow feminism — she points out that her homemaking grandmother “flew into rages” — but she recognizes the great misery feminism causes and nicely describes why the presence of a woman in the kitchen goes beyond mere food. She writes:
For my mother, the kitchen felt like a trap. When the women’s movement blossomed in the late 1960s, she was ready. She vanquished the spirit of homemaking the way Virginia Woolf had killed her “Angel in the House.”
And then a tidal wave of rage, disappointment and raw desire overtook her. I saw it in her vehemence toward my father and in the raucous consciousness-raising groups that met in our living room. I saw it in the changed contents of our dinner plates: a dried-out chicken leg, a potato collapsed inward from overbaking.
When my mother banged out work correspondence on an electric typewriter way past bedtime, my needs had no standing. On other nights I would lie awake for hours, unable to sleep until she came home at midnight.
Complaining got me nowhere. My mother was an unstoppable force, powerful, beautiful and finally happy. As her days and nights expanded to include solo shows, romance and the founding of feminist organizations, I could see in her radiant face and laughter that she was fulfilling her potential. Her red hair grew ever upward, a hood of curls that shouted out her freedom.
This is a good description of the energizing nature of feminism. It’s a raw and dazzling form of energy, as is all revolutionary fervor. It shoots across the sky of a woman’s life and falls to the ground. Compare it to the “boredom” of homemaking, which is an invisible anchor that holds all in place.
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