#yesteryear

This is not the direction I’m meant to go in when I talk about my novel or the legacy of the tradwife. I’m meant to focus instead on the rise of milkmaid fashion, the proliferation of handkerchief headbands at Target, the sociopolitical implications of the apron-heavy spring Miu Miu line. I’m meant to talk about those consequences of “the tradwife obsession” that we are reasonably capable of stomaching. I know this because when, in response to a question about my novel, I try to talk about Renee Good, who was shot dead by ICE agents, I am gently encouraged to pivot, or alternatively reminded that what I’m saying is a bit of a stretch, and this makes me feel crazy. I’m not crazy. It’s not a stretch. The tradwife, like the 1950s housewife, is not a real person. She is not a trend, or a cultural obsession. She is an advertisement, a curated performance of womanhood with a link in bio for purchases, who has shown up, like a 1950s advertisement, to remind women of their true purpose: serve, smile, procreate and purchase.

Ascend to the 31st floor, where gargoyles meet stunning replicas of the iconic 1929 Chrysler radiator caps. Finally, witness the majestic 61st floor, crowned with eagles in proud homage to America's national bird. 

But the book has me thinking a lot today about internalized misogyny (of course) and how much feminine energy is required to maintain a substandard quality of life for all women.

Like I have never hated a protagonist faster than I hated Natalie Heller-Mills. Yet i cant help but notice what an incredibly smart choice on Burk's part to make her as hateable as she is. You, a member of the audience, are supposed to be enjoying this woman as she gets her comeuppance throughout the novel.

And if Burke were not a feminist author, that's what the story would be about. Don't get me wrong, on one level it totally is a story of a person who built themselves a coffin.

But on another? We read about a 20 year old girl who had a complicated and (averagely) medically compromising delivery, and her mother, the person who is supposed to care most about her wellbeing, who tells her to jog around the hospital "to get the endorphins moving" against medical advice.

And we can all point at this and say "oh, there's the fundamentalist Christian love we all know and despise", but i find, having sat with this novel for a hot minute, that the book isnt necessarily throwing trapped fundy housewives under the bus as much as it's...

Calling out this weird culture we're all currently trapped in, where women aren't just competing for male attention, but other women's respect and understanding, and the result is this very callous and dismissive "well, your life your choices" message. Perhaps I'm not being arriculate...

I love my life. I physically cant get pregnant, havent chosen to adopt, I am decidedly not Christian, and I'm as far away from traditional social media as I can possibly get. Those things might be related, I dont know.

But I can't imagine I would love my life as much as I do if other women (older women) hadn't reached over to me while I was steering a sinking ship into a craggy, rock lined sea wall and said "Hey! Watch out!" Or "What are your options, sweety?"

Equally, I remember the toxic friendships of a my early twenties, the constant feeling of judgment, and the impact of our collective divestment of the harmful beliefs we grew up exposed to, and how those things didnt fall away until we all worked on ourselves (or didn't), and while we were all trying to figure out how to navigate this weird late stage capitalistic hellscape we're stuck in.

And I guess I'm really getting old now (at the ripe age of 37), because I worry about how much harder it is for young women to have the same freedoms today that I had in my youth. I see policy pushing women out of academic and profesional opportunities, and the shuttering of childcare centers, and the general lack of education all young people are getting in my country right now.

And I think...

Wow.