One of the core beliefs of Second Wave feminism was that women in power would speak for all women. Well, now that we have some women in power—not as many as we might prefer, perhaps, nor in as many places as we might like, but some—it seems that one thing we can count on them for is to speak for themselves. Thus, we have Maureen Dowd and her gal pals crying in their drinks about the loveless lives of well-educated, well-remunerated, well-connected women. And we have the Mommy Wars.
You might suppose, given all the ink spilled over the battle between stay-at-home moms and mothers with careers, that the choice of whether or not to work was the most pressing issue facing mothers today. You might also conclude that there is a right answer and wrong answer when it comes to staying at home v. working outside the home. Hence all the hairsplitting and maddeningly circular logic from women like Caitlin Flanagan, women who pursue successful, paid careers while praising the virtues of the domestic life because their offices happen to situated inside their houses rather than in a high-rise downtown.
What you would never know from most of the articles and op-ed pieces is that, for a lot of women, work is not a matter of choice; it is, rather, an absolute necessity. It seems that the moms with media access have little inclination to speak for these women.
It seems, however, that this might not be such a bad thing. In her Atlantic Monthly review of the new anthology, Mommy Wars, Sandra Tsing Loh makes it pretty clear that the only thing worse that an affluent essayist who neglects her sisters in the lower classes is an affluent essayist who actually tries to feel their pain. As she discusses an essay by the book’s editor, Leslie Morgan Steiner, Loh writes:
Steiner [argues] that although stay-at-home moms do, in their own intimate way, add value to their communities, “without the money, the power, and the loudspeaker successful careers bring, women will never have the collective bargaining power to make the world better for ourselves, our children, and all the women who can’t leave abusive husbands, the ones who wear veils, the moms who earn less than minimum wage cleaning houses and don’t have choices about birth control or prenatal care or any other kind of care.”
Then there’s the affluent essayist who not only feels the pain of her lower-class sisters, but the affluent essayist who tries to co-opt it. Loh quotes Sara Nelson, editor-in-chief of Publishers Weekly:
About half of the mothers of kids in Charley’s class are working at least part-time. There’s Maria, who designs handbags; Lauren, who works in advertising; Paulette, who writes children’s books. The mother of Charley’s friend Nick is an independent management consultant. And for the most part—and I gather this is unusual in the fiercely competitive world of New York private schools—there’s little conflict between the employed mothers and the ones who stay home…
Still, there is some tension bubbling under the surface. One morning one of the stay-at-home mothers referred to herself, quite pointedly, as a “full-time mom.” Those three words made my blood boil. I’ve been a mother every second of every day for the past ten and a half years, whether I’m researching an article or pushing a swing. Would anyone dare to suggest that a woman who worked in a factory, or as a cop or a firefighter—a woman who worked at least partly so that her children could have food and shoes and the occasional trip to Toys “R” Us—was any less a mother than my school acquaintance, who’d had the privilege to opt out of the workforce?
Loh answers Nelson’s rhetorical question thusly: “No, but apparently someone would dare to suggest that elective employment in the upper reaches of the publishing world is on a par with wage slavery and required-second-salary public-sector work.”
Loh notes that, even though writers like Nelson and Steiner might make indistinct gestures towards the classes from which their hired help spring, none of them refer to any real social action they have taken: “I didn’t notice any successful career women in the book mentioning specific campaigns they’re waging on behalf of the less fortunate, nor did I catch to what women’s or children’s charities proceeds from the book will be given… These days, I suppose, it is feminist enough an action to edit a women’s anthology, get on Oprah, sell a million copies, and make a pile of cash….”
It’s that “pile of cash” that bothers me the most, as putting more money in the hands of these women can only inflame their “afflufemza,” a disease described by Loh “wherein the problems of affluence are recast as the struggles of feminism” and lead to more anthologies like this one.
The new anthology, About What Was Lost: Twenty Writers on Miscarriage, Healing, and Hope, is a much-needed addition to the literature of mourning. I contributed an essay, and I recently interviewed the collection’s editor, Jessica Berger Gross, for Literary Mama. We talked about loss, the publishing process, and what it’s like to edit a famous author.
