Pretty Lies: TV Housewives of the '50s

            The next time you see your friends, try this little trick.  Tell them: “I want you to touch your finger to your chin– like this.”  As you speak, touch your forefinger to your cheek.  Watch your acquaintances to see what they do, and I guarantee that, ninety percent of the time, they will touch their cheek rather than their chin.

            The fact is that we emulate what we see, not what we hear.

            Any good parent can tell you that this is true.  There have even been articles concerning behavioral psychology that have come to the same conclusions.  It’s an undebatable fact that the phrase “Do as I say, not as I do,” is an empty and useless expression.

            Given humanity’s predisposition to learn by observation, is it any wonder that we are powerfully influenced by what we see on television?  The portrayals of race, gender, and class broadcast across the country greatly influence how we view reality, and this influence has, in some cases, helped to mask or even cause social issues.
           Television families have been America’s measuring stick for what it “normal” and “real” for decades.  This is not to say that we believe these fictional families actually are real, or that we think they accurately portray actual reality, but rather the fact is that we feel these TV households are an entertaining commentary on what is real.  They might be more perfect, more interesting, more dramatic or more farcical than the truth, but we perceive them as being based either on what is or what should be.

            Take, for example, the role of women in the household in 1950’s programming.  June Cleaver personified the perfect mid-twentieth-century television housewife.  She always looked immaculate, she never frowned or became angry, she was too incompetent to do practical things like driving a car, and she got a huge kick out of cleaning, laundering and cooking.  To see June at work, one would think that life as a wife and mother in the 1950’s was heaven on earth. 
            The reality is that housewives in booming suburban America were isolated, stressed and bored out of their minds.  As families moved out of close-knit city neighborhoods and into new suburbs, women found themselves cut off not only from old friends, but also from shops, parks, libraries and such.  In an era when families only owned one car, which was used by husbands to commute to work, and bus lines rarely serviced suburbs except to bring men to and from jobs, housewives were stranded in the midst of sprawling residential wastelands with little access to the outside world.  They had nothing to entertain themselves with other than housework, and shirts can only be ironed so many times.  As women were not expected to take particular interest in things like history, politics, economics and foreign affairs, there was little of substance to occupy minds and conversations.  A housewife’s only friends were usually other housewives in the same suburbs who, like everyone else, had nothing to talk about besides laundry, children, and gardening.  It must have been a lonely existence.

            Nonetheless, TV mothers like June Cleaver were held aloft as the role models for housewives everywhere.  This is how women were supposed to act.  This is how life was supposed to be.  Indeed, these characters were often aimed at women.  It was common at that time for characters and TV personalities to advertise sponsors’ products during the show, and whether by accident or design, the message was sent to women that these products, or the lack thereof, was what separated them from the contented, picture-perfect ladies on the screen.

Hello, My Name is Career: The American Search for Self in the Professional World

            I have always known I wanted to be a writer.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  As a very young child I wanted to be an artist.  I can still remember standing at a child-sized easel in three-year-old preschool, covering a large sheet of paper with clumsy streaks of primary colors and imagining I was a great painter creating another wonderful masterpiece.  Then I discovered the written words, and found my true love.  Books!  What glorious, magical things they were!  And to think that I could become one of the people whose thoughts were turned into pages!  To think I could be the one to bring a book to life!

            In kindergarten I taught myself to spell new words so that I could write books about them.  (I distinctly remember using a fairytale-themed alphabet border, which ran along the classroom wall, to teach myself “unicorn,” “dragon,” and “castle.”  I couldn’t spell more ordinary things like “said” correctly, writing “sayed” instead, but, being only five years old, I felt that mythical creatures were more important that little things like verbs.)  I wrote stories for every writing assignment, regardless of what that assignment was.  I quickly became an expert at finding ways to connect writing prompts like “summer vacation” and “my best friend” with fictional plots.  After all, the unicorn queen had to take a vacation sometime, didn’t she?  And no one had said my best friend couldn’t be an imaginary friend.

            So let us say that I knew I wanted to be a writer from a very early age.  It’s a good thing, too.  In my freshman year of college I watched many fellow students scrambling, suddenly realizing that high school was over and that they were expected to have bigger goals than being crowned prom queen.  The race was on for these suddenly disenchanted young adults to decide what they wanted to do with their lives.  Some had some idea, some had none at all.  A few, like me, had always known.

            “It must be hard,” one of these, a friend and fellow English major, said to me.  “I can’t imagine it.  Think about it, it isn’t like you’re just choosing a job, it’s more like you’re choosing who you are.  I can’t imagine having only a year or two to make that decision.”

            I confess I had never thought of things that way, but I realized she was, to an extent, quite right.  In America, and I suppose in much of the rest of the modern world, a person’s career is a large part of their social identity.  When two people are introduced, one of the first questions that usually arises is: “so, what do you do?”  The answer, I have noticed over the years, varies depending on whether the proverbial collar around one’s metaphorical neck is blue or white.  Non-professionals are more likely to keep their job and identity separate, and will respond with something like: “Oh, I work in retail.”  A professional, however, will say something such as: “I am a lawyer.”  Not “I work as a lawyer,” but “I am a lawyer.”

            Professionals have a lot invested in their careers.  Even as a mere undergraduate student I find this to be obvious.  By the time a professional enters the work force, he or she has already spent a great deal of time and money pursuing his or her chosen career.  The degree which states that this person has been sufficiently educated to fulfill a particular position in society represents a great commitment on the part of the professional.  This is not only because of the commitment necessary to earn the degree, but because of the commitment imposed by the degree.  A pediatrician cannot one day decide he would rather be dentist, or an architect, or a museum curator.  It doesn’t work that way.  His degree says he is a pediatrician, and he cannot change that without returning to school and obtaining another diploma.  Similarly, that pediatrician fills a role in society that cannot be filled by any other professional.  His friends and family– those that accept him on the first level of socialization– may know him as good ol’ Danny, who loves fishing, live theater, dogs and chocolate pound cake, but as far as the rest of the society is concerned, he is Mr. Pediatrician.

            It is, perhaps, only natural that a professional’s career becomes a part of who he or she is.  Such careers are purposefully chosen because, for one reason or another, the individual wanted to become a professional in that field.  Nonetheless, it can sometimes be hard to balance identity, or perhaps I should say pre-career identity, with one’s profession.

            In Neil Gaiman’s humorous fantasy novel, Stardust, which was later produced as a feature film, Captain Shakespeare, an infamous pirate, is revealed to be a likeable, flamboyant, and good natured cross-dresser.  This is extremely funny to both readers and audiences– partly because of the character’s ostentatious actions, but also largely because of the disconnection between his profession and his self-identity.  Society has a particular perception of what a pirate is, and that perception does not include someone who dresses in frilly ladies’ undergarments and dances the can-can.

            This example is both fictional and hilariously extreme, but it makes the point.  For a professional, career and identity are inevitably connected.  Forget being what you eat, you are what you do.  Perhaps the only way to maintain our identity, or at least to partially reconcile who we are with who society thinks we ought to be, is to choose our professions carefully.  It is not something that should be chosen on a whim, or based solely on potential income.  It is something that should be based on our love for the thing, and on our personalities.

            As I said, I’ve always known I wanted to be a writer.  It’s a good thing, too.

Suburbia: Selling a Dream

            We have all heard of the American Dream– the ideal that the economic and social equality of America offers everyone a chance for prosperity and happiness– and we are all aware of its connection with the suburbs.  The suburbs are America’s mythical Place Between Places, where the convenience of city dwelling meets the wholesome pleasure of rural life.  These are places that were based on dreams– such as the Rural Ideal– and could in fact be argued to be dreams themselves.  The Rural Ideal is, according to an article written by Larry D. Barnette for the Journal of Biosocial Science: “… the strong desire to live in areas of low population density and close to nature.”  It is an idea largely based on pastoral beliefs prominent in American society.  Consider this: When is the last time you saw a commercial advertising laundry soap or children’s vitamins that centered around a happy, healthy inner-city family?  Chances are, you’ve never seen such a thing in your life.  If a commercial wishes to project an image of a wholesome, family-friendly product, it is likely to be set in a rural or suburban home.  It may display images of children gallivanting through a green meadow or freshly washed clothes blowing on a clothesline, but it will not involve kids playing in an apartment while their mother tosses the laundry into the dryer.

            This is all part of the dream of suburbia– an ideal family life that many Americans chase throughout much of their adulthoods.  When Americans buy mini-mansions in manicured neighbourhoods, it is a dream that is sold to them, not merely a house.  The suburbs are thought to be a place for families, and a place where wholesomeness and happiness are supposedly easier to come by.

            Nothing I have said thus far is surprising, but what I write now may be.  I will admit to experiencing a certain amount of shock when I discovered how long suburbs had existed.  In the 1850’s architects began designing a new sort of dwelling– “picturesque enclaves.”  The word picturesque needs no explanation, but the word enclave may be unfamiliar to some.  It is defined in Merriam Webster’s dictionary as “a distinct territorial, cultural, or social unit enclosed within or as if within foreign territory.”  The term could be applied to many suburban neighborhoods today, as they are walled communities with internal social structures and rules.  The enclaves of the mid-nineteenth century were similar to suburbs in another way as well.  In her book Building Suburbia Delores Hayden describes these Picturesque Enclaves as being “borderlands” between cities and rural areas, which supposedly gave residents the best of both worlds.  They were refined and fashionable like city dwellings, but provided landscaped gardens and little yards which gave the illusion of being closer to nature.  Anyone who has ever seen a modern upscale suburban neighborhood will likely agree that this all sounds very familiar.  In fact, Hayden asserts that these enclaves were, indeed, the predecessors of modern suburbs.

            Perhaps it is merely human nature to chase unattainable perfection, or perhaps our society has long demanded that we try to balance the natural existence we crave with the necessary modern reality of city life.  Perhaps variations on the suburban dream have existed since the first cities were built.  I cannot be certain, but I am sure that as long as there are young families in America, people will keep seeking the “perfect suburb” as they chase the suburban dream.

Heart Homes: Place as a State of Mind

            Jack Weil, entrepreneur and owner of Rockmont Ranch Wear, said: “The west is not a place; it is a state of mind.”  He was right, of course.  Anyone experiencing the wonder of the Garden of the Gods or the stunning beauty of the Rocky Mountains will undoubtedly agree that there is something undeniably unique about the American West. 

            Mr. Weil’s mistake was not in his statement itself, but in his limiting it to the West alone.  There are many places that become a state of mind when one spends time in them.  There are many places that get under the skin and slip into the psyche, making themselves at home and forever changing the outlook of their bearer.  Yes, the American West, from Yosemite to the Bad Lands, has the capacity to invade one’s soul and make itself a permanent part of them, but it is not alone in that aptitude.

            In his book The Gary Snyder Reader: Poetry, Prose and Translations, philosopher and naturalist Gary Snyder remarked: "But if you do know what is taught by plants and weather, you are in on the gossip and can feel truly at home.  The sum of a field's forces [become] what we call very loosely the ‘spirit of the place.’  To know the spirit of a place is to realize that you are a part of a part and that the whole is made or parts, each of which in a whole.  You start with the part you are whole in."

            Novelist Charles de Lint calls this “part you are whole in” a Heart Home– a very accurate term, when one considers the human tendency to prefer one landscape over another.  (Some people prefer mountains to beaches while others are the opposite.  Some find the greatest inner peace amid sun-bathed plateaus while others find it deep in sheltering forests.)  This is not to say that an individual cannot appreciate the awe-inspiring loveliness of multiple natural landscapes, but, as Gary Snyder suggests, most have a true love among the treasures of the natural world.

            And each of these landscapes can be said to be a state of mind.  Let us play a theoretical matching game.  Let’s say that you have before you six photographs.  On the left-hand side are three pictures of three individuals.  The first is dressed in fitted jeans, calf-high, pointed-toed boots made of hardened snakeskin, a practical button-down shirt and a wide-brimmed Stetson hat.  The second is dressed in somewhat looser jeans, a khaki-green t-shirt, and a worn brown leather jacket.  This person is also wearing boots, but these are made of a water-proofed canvas-like material and lace up past his ankles.  The third person is wearing outdoor khaki pants, a light-weight shirt, sun-glasses and sneaker-like slip-on shoes.

            On your right-hand side are three pictures of natural landscapes. The first is a photograph of Cloudland Canyon.  Forest trees stand sentinel near the mossy bed of a mountain stream.  They dip their woody toes into the flow, casting green tree-shadows across the water as it bounds along its stony course.  In the background a waterfall tumbles from a rocky height.  The sky winks cool blue eyes through woodland branches.  The next picture captures a view of Cumberland Island.  A white, sandy beach stretches up from grey-blue Georgia coast waters.  Like a continuation of the sea, the sand rises into dunes– motionless tides that break against banks of grassy hills.  Driftwood curves into graceful, statuesque forms.  Behind that a beautiful tangle of live oaks rises to form a dream-like maze beneath an azure sky.  The final picture is an image of the Garden of the Gods in Colorado.  Sandstone cliffs and plateaus soar and twist into fantastical shapes.  Sunset dyes stony faces rosy-orange and casts a patchwork of vibrant color and dusky shadows on the rough, scrubby ground.  The painted sky seems to stretch one forever.

            Now, I would like you to guess which person matches which landscape. 

Even without actual photographs, most readers would doubtlessly be able to complete this task easily.  Any American person would be likely to associate these three people with a particular type of place.

Why?  The theoretical photographs of the three people could easily have been taken at a shopping center or on a college campus.  I think most people living in the American South can recall having seen individuals in similar clothing as that described above walking down average sidewalks or through normal hallways.  So what associates these people with a particular landscape?

The answer is simple.  They have, to one extent or another, connected themselves with the state of mind that is a particular place.  The way in which they have chosen to present themselves to society is a reflection of who they feel they are, or perhaps who they want to be.  This is an indicator of certain landscape– or maybe even the idealistic notion of that landscape– has wound its way into them and made itself a part of their self-perception.  A place or certain sort of place has become the setting in which each individual person feels whole.  In essence, it has become their Heart Home.