THE MOMENT I READ THAT MICHELE LANDSBERG’S newspaper columns were collected in Writing the Revolution, I knew I would place my online book order.
I recognized Ms. Landsberg’s name, of course, and recalled her articles being published when I was in my late teens and early 20s. Her feminist viewpoint was lost on me; I was a young upstart in search of a corporate career who liked to head to the bar on weekends with friends, and I believed that the thoughtful, political issues she wrote about—abortion, women’s rights—were not issues I faced. They had nothing to do with me. At that time, my concerns were superficial; they revolved around my appearance and maintaining pretence that I was a professional, making my own way in the world. In short, the articles were a downer.
Landsberg had pegged this infrequent reader as part of a new generation of women heading into the workforce. And while I took my career seriously, I never gave the women whose footprints I stood in a second thought. The hard work had been done for me. Wasn’t reaping the benefits my birthright? Wasn’t I entitled to vote? To attend post-secondary school in a program of my choosing? To have career options? To support myself financially? Oh, yes it was. My life was unrestricted, unlike the women of previous generations—my mother’s for example.
How could the world that Landsberg wrote about which seemed so bleak, so depressing, as if we had not made any gains, relate to my young life?
Years later, I realized that some of the reasons that I went into office work was that my career options were indeed limited.
I liked to type, so secretarial work was option #1. My pre-teen, make-believe world consisted of stuffed animals as students, so teacher was option #2. There was not a third option, which was good because dentistry seemed a bit too much work on the scientific end of things. (My real dream was to be an actresses/dancer/singer, but I had neither the training, nor a talent for the Performing Arts.) What I did not understand at the time, as we come to wisdom through age and hindsight, the subjects Landsberg tackled in her columns, these feminist struggles, were paving the way for options for girls coming of age in the 1970s and 1980s.
The work was not done, it was just beginning.
As a woman nearing 50, reading the columns collected in Landsberg’s book, it was like I was reading my own history. At least in the workplace. The uphill struggle to be taken seriously in the workplace, and I personally made gains in this arena because, I believe—as did my male colleagues—that I made these gains because there were women decision-making positions who promoted me. In my first few years in the workforce, I faced considerable opposition from men much older than I was. Then there were co-workers who commented on my body and its separate parts, the boss who stalked and harassed me. As a 25 year-old with a supervisor’s title and business cards, I not only felt as if I’d made it, but I felt that I was treated equally, and here was Michele Landsberg, spouting off about inequality. Where was this inequality? I wondered. Female associates were moving up the ranks in the banks and investment firms in the 1980s, the fight had been fought, and we had been victorious. If only.
As my child passes his mid-teen years, I wonder if I have been raising a feminist son.
When I had a child in the mid-90s, I saw firsthand what I was up against: my own ingrained perceptions of what a boy should be, what a girl would be. This belief would manifest itself in stereotypical ways with expectations, even encouragement, especially when it came to play: trucks, roughhousing, sports. And later, a curfew past dark. And much later, with occasional trash-talk. Yes. I know. I am embarrassed to admit to it, but it’s true.
I allowed curse words to cross my lips when driving in congested traffic, when cut-off in line at Chapters, when served by rude waitstaff, and often my son was within earshot of my barely-under-my-breath comments. Of course, there’s no denying that my use of swear words is a holdover from my rebellious teens, perhaps even the result of spending my youth in a blue-collar town, but I often wondered if I would openly swear as much, if I had given birth to a daughter.
As liberal as that seems, and as irresponsible as it appears, I do draw the line.
Calling another person “stupid,” “retarded,” or “loser” is not acceptable. Sticks and stones and all that, but words are not to be used as weapons, no name calling, derogatory comments to embarrass, humiliate, or bully a person was not allowed. And drop as many f-bombs as you want on the ice when playing hockey, but don’t use it at grandma’s house. With my own vocabulary rooted (and somewhat stuck) in a lunch-bucket town persona, I wanted him to express his thoughts and feelings without punctuating sentences with “effin” for emphasis.
When I consider the words he hears in sports, at school, with friends, even the ones he uses on Twitter, I realized that it took decades to bring home Michele Landsberg’s point-of-view.
I wanted him to express himself without using “effin” for emphasis
I wanted to teach my son the flexibility of language. Some words are fads—they come and go. What’s “cool” for one generation is “hot” for another. What’s “rad” and “awesome” is “filthy” and “dirty.” Even words from the 6os like “groovy” and “copasetic” made a mild, albeit brief, comeback in the years ago.
Curse words, too, were flexible, and were okay to use if you say, slam your thumb with a hammer, stub your toe—my father’s favoured curses could be overhead on such occasions in his workshop—spill red wine on the carpet, drop glass on the ceramic floor, pour windshield washer fluid into the radiator overflow bin.
Those situations aside, I do not use or condone the use of words I deem offensive for their anti-feminism. Not even those accepted in popular culture. It’s been so long that I don’t remember when their use started to bother me, but they there are: in the midst of many conversations.
In his pre-teen years, my son found rap music. Almost immediately, I took issue with the lyrics. After all, I had listened to rap long before he discovered it.
This was no longer a matter of intent behind the words, it was the use of language I found offensive and not just from a feminist perspective. As a woman, the common use of the words “bitch” and “ho” in rap songs, and now their overuse in everyday conversation is as tiresome as it is insulting. It is meant to demean a gender. This is not theoretical; we know sexism when we hear it. Just as much as anyone can feel the intent of someone’s ugly thoughts.
Let’s look at the obvious examples of “bitch” and “ho.”
In dog breeder’s terms, “bitch” is the term for a female dog whose sole purpose is to birth litters of puppies, several times over in her lifetime. These breeders make money off her ability to produce as many saleable pups as possible. Now, ask yourself (your son, your daughter), does that sound like a word you would apply to your female friends? Your aunts? To your mother?
If “pimpin’ ain’t easy” as a popular rap song claims, imagine what life is like for the “ho”?
A whore’s purpose is to earn money by pleasing men sexually. A pimp takes that money. She must service men to serve the one who owns her. When she’s worn out, used up, unable to earn money for her pimp, and when she does not obey his demands, she is beaten, maimed, murdered.
It may be that women more thoroughly understand the effects of language—used and misused. As young girls, we wield it to hurt, as well as heal. We learn quickly how to wield that power to hurt, and we very much understand the power of the silent treatment—both given and received. We understand the meaning of a pregnant pause, particularly if it follows a question about our appearance, and especially when it is asked of our mother, and it is just as hurtful as a disapproving look.
I am not sure if Ms. Landsberg covered the issue of language, but if she were still writing a column, I am fairly certain that it’s a topic she would write about. Sadly, feminist viewpoints are lacking in mainstream media.