Real Feminism
The clock strikes 6 pm, I’ve just only turned ten years-old, and I’ve been observing my grandma, my Babcia, slave over her stove and oven, continuously wiping sweat from her brow. The wrinkles are well pronounced around her eyes — eyes well trained at spotting the exact moment when one should pull the Zygmuntówka; a cake rich with chocolate mousse, cranberry jam — from the oven. The sound of Babcia chopping up the kielbasa is a constant ringing in my ears. I stare at these u-shaped, sausage-like links and wonder,
Will this be the rest of my life — cooking for hours every day just to produce a grossly under-appreciated meal?
My grandma tosses a heaping serving of butter into a pan, bringing it to a sizzle. The kielbasas are thrown in and I’m rewarded with the savory smell of cooked meat permeating the small kitchen space. As mouth-watering as the kielbasas are and as enjoyable as they were to make, spending most of my time perfecting the broil of salty Polish meats could not be my only lot in life. The pre-teen aged version of myself had no real concept of what feminism was or how one could exercise it, let alone that how my Babcia assumed her role in the household was considered deplorable by contemporary standards.
“Look here, Rebecca, see how I add salt to the pot of water before I boil the water for the noodles in the Rosol?”
I’m not really paying any attention to the preparation for this glorified polish-style chicken noodle soup, still pondering how my grandma could be satisfied with such a different life than what I was taught to desire.
When at my Babcia’s house, the role of the woman was always apparent. The wife was to be the oil and the machine of the household. Preparing meals, folding laundry, and cleaning everything in sight: that was to be the honorable duty of the wife. But at my own home, domestic life looked quite a few shades different.
My mother lived her life as the epitome of the modern, autonomous woman. She completed a doctorate in industrial psychology, married, and had children at the respectable age of 32. Even after creating a family, my mother did not sacrifice one inch of her agency, rarely deigning to cook family meals while maintaining her 9–5 job.
As the years went on and I was granted time away from Babcia’s teachings, I did wonder if my grandma had actually chosen this life — if she had and wasn’t simply submitting to this role as a result of social pressures and the lack of my grandpa’s ability to provide such things.
Was her making the choice to live a life of a homemaker somehow better?
Could there be an in-between for the housewife like my Babcia and the ‘modern woman,’ like my mother?
This dichotomy in female agency would help shape my idea of what feminism means in the modern context. As I grew into my adolescent years, I began to wonder what role I wanted to fit into as a woman chasing her own agency.
Could I choose my career over learning traditional women’s household skills?
Would choosing to live as my Babcia stick a metaphorical sign on my back declaring, “I love the patriarchy,”?
The answer to some of the questions my young mind was plagued with can be explored through a woman embracing the very best of both of these worlds. This fantastical woman can be found in the mother of Adichie, a revered Nigerian novelist. In her piece, Real Food, she preaches that loving one’s sacred cultural food (in her case, Igbo food) does not equate or disqualify one from their Igbo identity. She implicitly paints her mom as a hard-working woman, with a respectable job and a family all of her own. Adichie’s mother does not stop there, though, as she chooses both the life of the ‘liberated’ woman, and the life akin to that of a housewife. Adichie’s mom is ‘responsible’ for organizing all of the quintessential Igbo dishes for the family.
However, it is evident that her mother does this more out of her desire to preserve their Igbo culture than out of any perceived pressure to do so because it is a “womanly duty.” Although Adichie’s aim in her article was more so comment on her experiences with her own cultural food, it is clear in her piece that her mother found her own version of feminism in exercising her choice to uphold Nigerian gastronomic traditions while simultaneously entertaining the life of a working woman.
This leads me to uncover the unintended theme of the piece — -that the power of feminism is in making your own choices.
It is important to note that Adichie’s piece is not intended to be some sort of ode to feminism, but it is obvious that the women in Adichie’s narrative assume “traditional” roles out of cultural duty, and not any expectations forced upon them. Knowing this, similar parallels could be drawn to my Babcia.
“Eyes here, Becca! My teachings are important, you’ll want to remember how to make the food of your Polish ancestors when you are the one making the meals for the family!”
Ten-year old Becca simply rolled her eyes and obeyed her Babcia, ignoring her ramblings without much more thought. But as the years passed and I grew to respect my Babcia’s work not only as a function that supported her family, but as an extension and preservation of our polish culture.
I began to wonder if her job wasn’t so much as a “job” more so than it was a way of finding agency and comfort through providing for your family and preserving tradition. A woman isn’t only ‘independent’ if she rejects any and all traditional roles of women throughout history.
In another couple of years, I would again work to grow and challenge my own views of the independent woman, and the possible condemnation of the kitchen for women. Emily Matchar, a journalist from Harvard University, in her article, Is Michael Pollan a Sexist Pig? challenges the idea and connotations accompanying the 21st century stay-at-home mom. More specifically, Matchar writes about healthy eating and food culture, with of course the honorable mention of women’s role in it all.
Matchar admits that for some women, the kitchen represents a place of oppression and a time when women were without the choice to forgo these duties. However, Matchar presents a new view on the stay-at-home mom, even going as far to help recoin the term “femivorism.” Matchar explains that, “the term “femivore” [describes] a certain breed of stay-at-home mom whose commitment to providing…foods has become a full-fledged raison d’être,” going even further to assert that, “Femivorism is grounded in the very principles of self-sufficiency and autonomy… that drove women into the work force in the first place.”
Women, or “femivores” can use the very role that has been traditionally thrust upon them as a ticket of agency in their own lives. Women can become the quintessential “housewife,” and by doing so of their own accord, act independently of the bounds of the patriarchy and are thus embracing their own brand of feminism.
Applied to my own experience, this suggests that both my Babcia and my mother are feminists in their own right. With Matchar’s work in mind, it may be that embracing both the concept of destroying the “housewife” ideal and encouraging women to fill this role is closer to the ultimate form of feminism.
The obvious answer to the question of,
“Am I not a feminist if I choose domestic life to career?”
will be a resounding yes only for those who consider only surface level feminism. However, I would argue that this viewpoint considers feminism only in the context of rejecting the idea of the traditional woman. How can we say that we support equality and fair treatment of all women, if we reject those that want to live as my Babcia did? We can’t.
It is the choice we can present women with to live out these two lifestyles that allow women to exercise their agency.
