The other night I was watching “Mad Men” — a show ostensibly about the machinations of the Madison Avenue advertising industry of the mid-sixties, but in truth more about what the lives of women were like during that era — when I realized something. The only time in history I could’ve ever existed was during the past forty years.
It sounds silly, but there was something downright creepy about realizing that everything about who you are has really relied on the fact that you were simply born at the right time, the only time. Here I am, a somewhat overeducated single mother and business owner, starting my life over entirely at age forty. At what other point in history would that have even been conceivable for a woman? In what other age or era could a woman be entirely in charge of her own destiny and freely chart the course of her personal and professional life, divorce without taint or stigma, run a household alone, or own a business and be driven and career-minded without apology?
I know. Creepy, right?
Creepy because it’s such a narrow band of time — a razor-thin strip cut into the enormity of the whole of history — and the odds of anyone being lucky enough to be here, now, are infinitesimal. And yet, here I am, here we are.
In one of the first episodes of “Mad Men,” Betty Draper, stay-at-home wife of the show’s protagonist and mother to his two children, is in her very 1960s kitchen with a pregnant friend, both glugging coffee and smoking cigarettes openly and with abandon. There’s another nudge-wink moment when their young children enter the room, one girl wholly enveloped in a clear plastic dry cleaner’s bag, who then gets reprimanded not for her hazardous choice in playthings, but rather for man-handling the clothing the plastic was protecting. Oh those crazy, carefree, noxious sixties! At any rate, what struck me was that as Betty and her friend gossiped, their conversation became downright grim and their voices hushed when they began discussing — with a mixture of pity and muted disdain — the divorcée moving into the neighborhood, whose mere presence it was feared might bring down property values (video here, embedding was disabled, stupid youtube).
I’m that woman, of course. But then, I’m not. Forty-five years later, no one gives a second thought to my marital status or lack thereof. No one blinks an eye at the idea of me, a woman, owning my own home, running a household as a single mother, owning a business. If not common-place or the norm, these are at the very least not things anyone would tsk-tsk, condemn, or look down upon. No, not in the slightest. It’s kind of incredible, the distance women have traveled in just a few decades. Downright miraculous, in fact.
Near the end of that same episode, Betty Draper, plagued with sudden bouts of numbness in her hands that would later be diagnosed as psychosomatic, ie: “hysterical,” loses her grip on the family car’s steering wheel and careens onto a neighbor’s lawn. Watching this for the second time recently, I felt my throat involuntarily tighten. How symbolic that Betty’s hands would numb, rendering her functionally impotent, unable to take care of herself in any complete way, denying her power, control, and any possibility of freedom. What woman could be self-sufficient, independent, without use of her hands? It would be impossible.
And it was, back then, the culture organized as it was around maintaining women’s lesser status, reinforcing false, proscribed helplessness. But here I am, here we are. We’re free in ways someone like Betty Draper couldn’t have fully conceived of. So this Memorial Day weekend I’d like to suggest we each take a few moments to also acknowledge the women before us who bravely fought for women’s rights, many of whom didn’t live long enough to see true liberation simply because they were born at the wrong time. I am so, so grateful for everything they did for us, for making my remarkable life as a woman possible. I am so, so lucky to have been born at the right time.
I too have been thinking a lot about the climate change on attitudes toward divorce, particularly toward divorced women (funny that men never suffered the stigmas of divorce the way women did, isn't it). I still feel that taint around my own divorce (heh, I said "taint"), but thankfully it's completely self-imposed. To think on the fact that 40 years ago we'd be treated like lepers lends some refreshing perspective to the situation.
As a man, it may sound a little weird, but I totally echo your sentiments. I was raised by a very strong-willed, single mother of two. Without her toughness and grit, I wouldn't be half the man I am today. So, not only will I join you in commemorating women of the past, I promise to take the time out to hug my Mom a little bit closer this weekend. Great post, my friend.
Yeah – "we've come a long way, baby." I bet you're not even old enough to remember that slogan from Virginia Slims cigarettes (when they were still allowed to air commercials on TV). Forty is a good age to begin again – and yeah, thank God we live now!
It's funny.. I've tried to explore this before and haven't really hit it – at least not without people telling me I'm not grateful enough for our foremothers who worked for the vote and so much more. I *am* grateful for all that. But I also feel like we've got it better than women ever have – and I don't see how acknowledging that is the same thing as declaring feminism unnecessary.
I was trying to articulate that we can – more or less, compared to past generations – live whatever lives we want. And no, "we" does not encompass the suffering of women in the Sudan who have suffered female genital mutilation. Fair enough. But in the western world, it feels like we've got relative autonomy. It's not perfect, but it's something, and it's happened fast. But I couldn't articulate the celebration of it without people thinking I'm an oblivious or privileged twit.
This is the long way round to tell you that you're not. This was lovely and thinky and good.
So true. Cheers!
You are absolutely correct. It is inconceivable for us to have existed in the (relative) dark ages knowing what we know and being who we are. Very, very nicely articulated and I raise my proverbial glass to the women who refused to believe that they were less than men, paving the way for us today.
Word. Anytime I think about this my head just explodes. You've once again hit the nail on the head with a great post.
To the battles that we've won, to the freedoms that we must preserve, and to the battles that we still must win…
You know T, I've had very similar thoughts, yet unshared, about this feeling of luck. It wasn't THAT long ago that women had it very differently. They didn't even know the options. My hero on MM is the woman who runs the department store–just forgot her name. Though, of course, she ran it because it was her father's store. Still, she took it on. Appreciate your post, Tracey.
Your post is something I have also mulled over on a regular basis. Particularly when I imagine my mother's life…married right out of college, three kids by the age of 27, having her mind blown by reading "The Feminine Mystique and deciding to go back to work, losing her marriage, becoming the inspirational workaholic role model she is today (still working, on a start-up no less, at age 70).
Whatever barriers, obstacles, age-old biases still exist (and I believe many do) there is no denying how different things are, and as you say: how lucky we are.
Once again, you're right.
And you rule.
(Just finished watching the episode where Betty models for Coca Cola.)
My mom was that woman in the sixties. She had three young children (I came along in 1971, with a different husband) and she worked full-time to support them. I don't know how she did it, but it does make me realize just how strong she must have been.
Wow! I've been busy being thankful for the fact that as a newly divorced woman, I've been able to own my own house, keep my bills paid, and kids fed… ALL ON MY OWN…
Thanks for reminding me what else I have to be thankful for!