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Anne Roiphe's Arguments Against Feminism Fall Short.
By Nancy Mairs
Fruitful: A Real Mother in the Modern World. Written
by Anne Roiphe. Houghton Mifflin, 1996. $22.95
INSIDE THE 260 pages of Anne Roiphe's peculiar critique
of modern feminism, Fruitful, languishes a single substantial
essay, too smothered in repetitions, logical inconsistencies,
and a gush of prose to give birth to itself. Where, I found myself
wondering as I read the book, was the editor whose midwifery might
have delivered a lucid little gem?
Such editors belong to an all-but-extinct species, alas, and
the writer who can't or won't discipline herself winds up producing
passages like this one: "[My husband] still grows silent
and hard to reach when something goes wrong. He drives too fast.
He curses at cars that try to cut him off. He never asks directions.
He never admits to pain. If something is wrong he grows quiet."
Wait a minute, dear, didn't you say that just four sentences
ago?
The multiple flaws in Roiphe's presentation are especially regrettable
because feminist concepts are still commonly misapprehended, as
I discovered to my startlement several years back. "As a
feminist you won't approve," my daughter told me shortly
after falling in love with her future husband, "but I just
want to marry this man and have his children." What on earth
did she suppose a feminist to be? I had done just what she described:
married her beloved father and borne his children. Why would I
want to deny her similar satisfaction?
"As a feminist," I said, "I want women to have
a full range of choices, and that includes marriage and motherhood."
My daughter's limited understanding, at 23, might be excused.
Roiphe must be 30 years older, yet she presents the feminist viewpoint
in fundamentally the same terms--as anti-male, anti-marriage,
anti-family--and herself as a heroine for having resisted its
blandishments to stay at home with her "fragile patched-up
family": her daughter from her first marriage, her second
husband and his two daughters from his first marriage, and the
two daughters they produced together.
The problem with Roiphe's portrayal of the war between feminism
and motherhood is that it rests on the flawed but common assumption
that "feminism" is a singular noun, a monolithic system
within which "being a mother [is] an unfortunate surrender
to the old social design."
In truth, however, feminists come in many stripes. Some really
do hate men. Some love men but despise the social structure that
has fed their desire for dominance and thereby distanced them
from the very beings--lovers, wives, children--who could most
benefit from their full and equal participation in familial life.
Some have elected not to bear and rear children (which is probably
a good thing, since this is one endeavor that can ill afford reluctant
recruits), but the majority of my feminist friends have formed
unions and produced offspring with approximately the same mixed
results achieved by the rest of the human race.
In short, Roiphe rails against a straw woman, the image of "the
feminist," created in large measure by the media and thus
based on a relative few of the most press-worthy models, such
as Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, and Germaine Greer. Her reference
to these influential figures from the early days of the women's
movement, but not to more recent and theoretically sophisticated
feminists, renders her approach to the issues reductive and a
little quaint, as though one had been sucked into a temporal vortex
and spat out into a black-and-white version of the 1970s. She
even drags out the old chestnut that only childless women may
create distinguished work, that "the female biological story
in some way limits the woman artist with children."
For Roiphe, biological determinism accounts for the urge to motherhood--except
when it doesn't. "Whether we like it or not Darwin gets under
the bedclothes and drives us on" to produce and care for
our children; yet in the context of adoption, mothering is "an
act of mental connection not genetic connection." Whichever
theory she subscribes to at a given moment, she depicts the condition
in overblown, almost (you should pardon the pun) hysterical terms:
"To care for a child was not an alien duty imposed on me
by a hostile culture, it was rather the core, the emotional wellspring,
the gravity that held my soul in place."
Its consequences sound dire: "Something in the way that
we were mothers makes it impossible for us to regain the beauty
of a freestanding human being: we are more like ghosts attending
a feast after our death, haunting the happy guests." Good
grief, if ghoulhood is the state the soul requires for anchor,
let me drift!
"It seems that the clash between feminism and motherhood
is an artificial one," Roiphe writes two pages before the
book ends. I wish she'd made this point at the outset, so that
I could have spent the past few hours doing something more productive
than slogging through an argument based on a false premise. Sound,
if hardly startling, assertions are scattered throughout: that
abortion permits every child's birth to be wanted; that fathers
need to be incorporated fully into the project of parenting; that
for working parents, adequate child care is imperative; that "women
have real needs that include being near and with their children.
The effort to deny these needs is as cruel as the pre-feminist
effort to deny women their minds. It is in fact the same maneuver,
just turned inside out." There aren't enough such insights,
however, to counteract the book's questionable argument, frequently
querulous tone, and pedestrian prose and turn it into a rewarding
read.
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