In my self-introduction, I mention that I am married and have six children. In one way, the question amuses me. Is the questioner assuming that I have to get my husband’s permission to do things, especially things that could result in my being arrested? Or going on long trips? Or devoting much of my life to the women’s movement? Nevertheless, I try to answer the question briefly and frankly. Although Frank separated from me for a few months after I had been a feminist activist for a few years, and we have our share of disagreements, we are still together, and I think I speak for both of us when I say that we’re happily married. I have never asked my husband’s permission to be politically active. He has been concerned for my safety at times, and he has protested when I am away for a long time or when I am extremely busy, but then he remembers how miserable I was before I became a feminist.
Frequently, the questioner’s response to my answer is, “Well, you’re lucky you have such a supportive husband!” Well, yes, I am lucky that I found a man that I’m compatible with. I’m also lucky that he’s handsome, lots of fun and a good father. But, getting and keeping his support is not a matter of luck. It’s a matter of constant effort and determination on my part to act in such a way that we maintain an egalitarian relationship despite all the pressures on me that come from our society to act like the obsequious wife who actually gets her way with her feminine wiles.
I came to my first NOW meeting in 1969 in Los Angeles. I first heard abour women rising up to protest in May of 1969 on the same day that I observed the direct relationship between dressing to please men and success in the work place. I was on a temporary assignment as a typist-clerk in the office at a drab Los Angeles factory near the concrete lined Los Angeles River. My immediate supervisor had re-assigned me that morning to sit at a desk in the reception area, just outside the purchasing agent's glassed-in office. I screened his incoming calls, and ushered salespeople in to meet with him. In between, I sorted purchase orders by vendor and date. I liked this new job assignment. Looking out through the never-been-washed windows, I saw spindly tree standing in its small opening in the concrete sidewalk. The room was crowded with desks. Clerks took a purchase order from a stack in their "in"-basket, looked up items in large books, added up totals on their large calculators, and then deposited each one on top of another stack in their "out"-basket. The pale spring sunshine and the music from the purchasing agent's radio brightened my spirits.
For the prior two weeks I had been working completely alone in a tiny windowless back room whose walls were formed by tall wooden file cabinets filing stack after stack of the papers from the clerks "out" baskets.
What had brought this improved assignment about? My mini-skirt. I had worn one to work that day for the first time. Before, my skirt length had been the same as it had been my entire adult life-just below my knees. Mini-skirts had come into style a couple of years ago. I had fought against adopting the new style. I was a grown woman, not a teenager. Could my children respect an authority figure who bounced around in a skirt so short that when she sat down, her thighs were plastered to the chair? Then, I came into a bonanza of like-new clothes from a friend who had recently gained weight.
In particular, there was a pastel lightweight woolen pink and blue plaid suit with a mini-skirt. I was reluctant to even leave my bedroom to model it for the family. "Mom, you look great!" Laura, my 16 year old, enthused. I paraded around until I got used to the breeze between my legs and figured out to move so that the crotch of my panties didn't show when I sat down. "Wear it tomorrow." I protested that I looked ridiculous, but both she and Frank continues to compliment me, and I did feel great to wear an expensively tailored, lined suit that showed off my figure instead of my usual Mode O'Day work uniform of long-sleeved white blouse and knee-length dark skirt.
Monday morning, as I passed by my supervisor, a woman who was dressed in the same "uniform", had called me over. "Carol, come with me. We need someone to work up front."
I had suddenly become visible in my new outfit. Co-workers exchanged little pleasantries as they passed my desk. I resolved that I would henceforth wear only mini-skirts to work, even though underneath my smile, I vaguely disturbed that showing my legs seemed to get me father than diligence.
While musing about this, I heard a news announcement that seemed directed right at my agitated state of mind. "On Mother's Day, women belonging to the National Organization for Women demonstrated at the White House." Women were chaining themselves to the fence, protesting against such indignities! Looking as passive and ornamental as I could, I quickly made a couple of calls and found that the next meeting of the local N.O.W. chapter would be that night at the Original Bar-B-Que restaurant.
Leaving Laura in charge of the kids, Frank and I drove to the meeting. Frank asked, "What is this meeting?" I wondered what kind of women were they? When I recount this first experience with "women's liberation", I laugh about how my husband drove me. I don't recall why he went with me. I drove alone to work and to night school. Perhaps he was concerned that I was going to a different part of town, or perhaps he wanted to be sure that I wasn't leaving home to join an army of women rebels.
Frank dropped me off at the corner of 8th and Vermont which was lit by a large neon sign with t vertical letters in red and yellow, "Original Bar-B-Que". It was a large well-lit restaurant with a bustling dining area, an adjoining bar and a banquet room. The walls were wood paneled, the booths were rough-hewn wood with deep red leather covering, wagon-wheel chandeliers hung from the ceiling and sawdust was on the floors. I walked into a banquet room and about one hundred women were seated at long tables arranged in a "U" shape; the officers sat in front. The dinner dished had been cleared and the coffee was being served. I took a seat and looked around. All of the women were white, in their thirties or forties and dressed in business attire, except for a few younger ones who looked like they might be students. It didn't look to me that they had any housewives there. The meeting was called to order, and the Chair conducted the hour-long meeting according to the Roberts Rules of Order, calling for reports of "old business" and "new business" from committee. The only committee that seemed at all relevant to my situation was the abortion rights committee. Lana Phelan, a striking blond woman in her late forties was its chair. She gave her report in ringing tones. I was impressed with her and with another woman, Dr. Theo Wells, a tall,dark-haired,husky-voiced woman who reminded me of Rosalind Russell. Feelings of hostility rose in me against this very group of women whose actions had struck a chord of sisterhood in me.
When the Chair opened the meeting for the comments, I asked, "Why are there no black women or Chicano women here?" I don't even remember the answer that were given by several women, except that the women were defensive. I'm ashamed to admit that this was my first question. This question has plagued our movement. It is a legitimate question that any women's movement needs to ask itself, but it is often posed by those who want to discredit that we are saying. Ironically, I have to respond to this same question myself. While acknowledging the importance of including all women, I also defend my women's right to assert herself.
Having drawn blood, I felt better. After the meeting broke, I went up to Lana Phelan to ask her about the abortion rights committee. She first answered my accusatory question very forthrightly, without a trace of apology "Honey, you work with whoever will work with you. Heavens knows that many of us can get pregnant and often do, so that puts us pretty much in the same boat, don't you think?"
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