Last week’s childbirth class brought me a ghost from the past I’d forgotten. I met an 80s-style maternal feminist.
The class was about breast feeding. The woman was monomaniacal about the subject. Although everyone in the class planned on breastfeeding, she sold it as if we were all dead-set against it. She had the partners introduce ourselves with, “I know XXXX will be a terrific mother because...” She all but suggested that we follow the world-wide (read, third world) average length of breastfeeding of four-and-a-half years. She gave a gift to one husband who talked about how his wife was “beautiful, inside and out” and one to a woman who she believed was all alone in the world, though she tried to explain that her husband was working. She gave us cards with letters on them, telling us to think of a breastfeeding-related word that started with that letter, so that she could riff on the subject. She asked the teen with her mother if “Dad was in the picture.” All while being warm, empathetic and implacable.
The best reference I can come up with is the cartoon mother from Pink Floyd’s The Wall (God help me). I got the impression that one could dispute her, whether passionately, logically or from authority, and it would make no difference in what she did and less in what she believed. She would “listen” to you, “hear” what you’re saying, “understand” how you feel and brush aside your arguments. The women in the room took an instant dislike to her. Everyone in the room was a child in her eyes.
The authoritarianism was her own personality flaw. Her frame, though, was very interesting to me, even as I was uncomfortable. It brought back memories of the maternal feminism that was part of the atmosphere in the 80s.
The story as I’ve pieced it together was that the feminism of the 70s was a bit of a washout. It went too fast, too soon. From the ERA to Susan Brownmiller* to Andrea Dworkin, the aim of the movement was to radically alter life on the ground for the average man and woman. The ERA seemed to be the breaking point, being rejected by Jane Housewife for reducing traditional female privilege. I remember the big sticking point being being the elimination of alimony, since women and men were now to be equally capable of supporting themselves and a family. Back then, women wanted to keep their husbands and admitted that they didn’t want to go to a job.
Maternal feminism was the reaction to the failure and, man, we were soaking in it. Taking the slogan “The personal is political” to be a description of a process, feminism taught women that their emotional needs should be everyone’s top priority. Candles, backrubs and “communication” were the order of the day. Taking a cue from the New Age movement that ran parallel to rad-fem, we started hearing about feminine earth-mother power, goddesses and the sacred mystique of childbirth. Not to mention that most ridiculous of phrases, “womb envy.” Basically, “Hooray for what women do!,” with an air of superiority and mumbo-jumbo.
As I started this piece, my original question was going to be, “What happened to it?,” but as I write, I realize that it never disappeared. Maternal feminism became as unremarkable as a wall. Sure, it’s changed a little; the personal did become political. Now women can list all the insensitive things their husband did and the catalog will hold weight in divorce court. The cult of self-esteem is a cottage industry. Custody is built around the mystical connection between mother and child. Women’s feelings are paramount in every situation.
Most importantly, the entirety of beta-formation is built around the message of maternal feminism. Women are gentle and kind, women are precious, women should be idolized and served. Our instructor quizzed the nineteen-year-old boy, doing his best to “man up” and be a dad, as to what Dad should be doing while Mom is breastfeeding. “Uh, rubbing her feet?,” he stammered.
“Ooh! I like that! You get a present!”
*Originally read "Catherine Brownmiller" in error
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