Chapter 31 Being Brave
Being Brave
Walt was pulling into the driveway when Margaret returned from Charlotte’s.
Suzy had fallen asleep on the ride back from the ballpark and couldn’t be roused, so Walt carried her into the house and put
her to bed. Beth and Bobby were still wide-awake and insisted on giving Margaret a play-by-play of the game. The Senators
came through in the clutch, scoring two runs in the final inning. But the highlight occurred in the fourth, when Beth caught
a foul ball with her bare hands.
“Bobby was so jealous!” Beth said, smirking at her little brother. “I tortured him for a while. But then he started to cry,
so I let him have it.”
“I did not cry! There was something in my eye.” Bobby held out the ball so Margaret could see. “Look! Three of the players signed it!
Dad said he’ll get me a case to put it in.”
“Wonderful,” Margaret said, ruffling his hair. “I’m glad you had fun. Head up to bed now, and don’t forget to brush your teeth.
Bobby, give me that shirt. I need to get the mustard stains out before they set.”
By the time Margaret dealt with the laundry and made sure the kids were in bed, it was too late to do any writing.
But she was up before the sun, feeling not the least bit groggy, brain buzzing with thoughts about what she wanted to say and how to say it as she sat down at the kitchen table and fed a clean sheet of paper into Sylvia’s roller.
If Charlotte could be brave, then so could she.
Women of the 1960s are living through the Age of Advertising, an era with one sole purpose: to sell products to ladies like
you and like me. And how do those marketing geniuses of Madison Avenue accomplish that purpose?
Easy. By convincing us that the products they peddle will “change your life.” As a reader of this magazine, you know just
what I’m talking about.
Sandwiched between the catnip of entertaining articles and columns, we find endless pages of slickly written advertisements
for time-saving appliances, mild-tasting cigarettes, comfortable girdles, perfumes to make us irresistible, face cream to
erase wrinkles, depilatories to remove unwanted hair, shampoos to make the hair we do want look shiny and more manageable.
Some claims they make seem plausible, others impossibly far-fetched. There is no such thing as a comfortable girdle. We know
this. Yet we continue to buy them, and so much else, because what we’re really buying is a subliminal promise that a product
will change our lives for the better.
Why do we fall for such obvious fiction? That’s easy too. Because so many of us long for . . . something. We’re not sure what
exactly. But something.
Something different. Something better. Something to change our lives. Or perhaps make us feel alive.
We don’t admit this publicly because we know we should be happy. After all, everyone else seems to be. Open a magazine or
turn on the television, and you’ll find yourself bombarded by images of perfect, perfectly satisfied women.
Which means the problem must lie with us, mustn’t it? Perhaps we are weak, neurotic, selfish, or ungrateful. Or simply lacking . . .
something.
And so we buy the product, hoping it will fill the void or dull the ache. It never does.
I know, because I’ve been as susceptible to snake oil as anyone. I’ve bought all of it over the years: face cream, soaps,
toasters, perfumes, instant mashed potatoes, no-calorie gelatin, and yes, girdles. None of it changed my life.
Then I bought a book.
“The Feminine Mystique” by Betty Friedan has changed my life.
Maybe you’ve heard about this book? If you have, it wasn’t here.
The editors of “A Woman’s Place” would rather you didn’t know about books like this, or anything else that might make you
think. If you did, you might start to question exactly what and where a woman’s place is. Or should be. And that might make
it harder for them to sell you soap, depilatories, and girdles.
Maybe you’ve heard that Mrs. Friedan’s book is dangerous, that she herself is a shrewish hysteric bent on wrecking homes, emasculating men, and fomenting feminine dissatisfaction.
Don’t believe it.
After reading her book myself, I’m happy to report that my home has not been wrecked. My children continue to thrive, and
my marriage is rock-solid. In fact, my husband and I are happier than ever before. Some of the credit goes to him. He’s a
good man, the kind who not only can admit his mistakes but take steps to correct them—a rare bird indeed.
But much of the credit must also be attributed to the journey I began by reading Mrs. Friedan’s book, a journey that is leading
me to a more satisfying life that makes the most of my unique experiences, education, and personality. And isn’t that better
for everyone? Wives, husbands, children? How can a home be happy if the homemaker isn’t?
I’m not suggesting that every housewife is discontented. Many intelligent, energetic women find joy and sacred purpose in
tending to home and hearth. It’s an important task, and the women who choose to make it their career deserve our appreciation
and respect. But as I discovered while reading Mrs. Friedan’s book, there are countless good and right ways to be a woman
and only two wrong.
The first is to insist that your way is “the” way, the only way. The second is to buy into that nonsense and to spend your
life limping along an aimless path in shoes that will never fit.
Another lesson I’ve learned in these last months is that the longing for something more, even when I couldn’t put a name to it, didn’t mean I was crazy or selfish or—most important—alone.
When the members of my “Betty Friedan Book Club,” “the Bettys,” for short, met for the first time, some of us were strangers.
Now we are inseparable friends, sister travelers on parallel roads with differing destinations. Some of us found new careers,
and others found their way back home. Every one of us, cheered and challenged by the others, tapped into wells of courage
and strength we never knew we had.
The Bettys’ adventures are not finished. Perhaps they never will be. There may be many destinations in a woman’s journey,
many seasons in her life. Time alone will reveal where our roads will lead, whether our paths will diverge or cross again.
But wherever we go, our hearts will remain close, connected by an invisible but unbreakable bond.
Now that I think of it, that has been the true change.
And so I amend my earlier statement. Betty Friedan’s book didn’t change my life. But it did send me in search of a better
life, a life that truly fits, and gave me companions for the journey. For that, I am forever grateful.
And forever changed.
As Margaret was typing the final sentence, Walt entered the kitchen, yawning.
“Is there coffee?”
She lifted a flat hand, signaling the intensity of her concentration and a request for silence. Walt walked to the percolator,
poured himself some coffee, then came to stand near Margaret, watching with a curious frown. After reading the piece one more
time, she pulled the paper from Sylvia’s roller, added it to those she’d already proofed, then handed the stack to Walt.
He set down his cup to read. Margaret waited, clenching and unclenching her fists, until he flipped to the last page.
“Well?”
Walt lifted his hand. “Hang on. Let me finish.”
Margaret hugged herself, arms wrapped tight against her middle, trying to be patient. Finally, his eyes tracked to the bottom
of the page.
“Well?” she asked again. “What do you think?”
He sniffed and flipped back to the first page.
“Not bad. The stuff about your husband seems a little overblown, but other than that—”
Margaret scuffed her foot in his direction, giving his shoe a chastising little kick.
“Be serious. What do you think?”
He lowered the papers and looked her in the eye.
“I think it’s excellent, Maggie. It may be the best thing you’ve ever written.”
Margaret cocked her head to one side and let out a small, bemused laugh.
“How would you know?”
His smile spread slowly. “Because, Margaret Ruth Ryan, I have read every single one of your columns. Even the early ones,
back when I was still acting like an ass and being jealous of your job. Every other Thursday, I stop by Mayer’s Drugstore
on my way to work and buy three copies of the new issue. I keep one for myself and give the others to the women in my office.”
“Only the women?”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “I doubt most of those guys know how to read. But to the secretarial pool, you are a celebrity. Catfights over who gets first dibs on the issue have been known to break out.”
“Okay, now you’re lying.”
“More like exaggerating,” he said, pinching two fingers together. “A little. But the girls really do love your columns. So
do I. But this?” He lifted the typewritten pages. “This is terrific. And do you know why? Because it’s honest and real, something
you really believe.”
Margaret murmured a thank-you. She knew he was right. Hearing him say it out loud felt good, but it added to her conundrum.
“So, do you think I should send it in? Because if I do . . .” She let her sentence go unfinished. Walt had heard her complain
about Leonard Clement for months now, so he knew all about his threats.
“It really is good,” she said, lifting her hand toward her mouth and biting the edge of her thumbnail. “I mean, I can see
why he cut the other pieces. I wasn’t really committed to anything, more like nibbling around the corners of what I wanted
to say without actually saying it. But this, this is different. I’d have to take out the snarky reference to A Woman’s Place, of course. And soften gibes about women’s magazines in general. He’d never go for that.
“But maybe I can work around it,” she said, a hopeful note creeping into her tone. “What matters is that the ideas are clear
and meaningful. The piece could resonate with a lot of readers, I just know it. Surely Mr. Clement will see that too. He has
to, don’t you think?”
Margaret lifted her head and looked up at Walt.
“Maybe,” he said. “But maybe not. You’d be taking a chance.”
Yes. Yes, she would.
Margaret bit her lip, thinking about how she’d feel if Clement followed through on his threat to fire her if she didn’t toe
the line. Then she thought about how she’d feel if she backed away from what she’d written, or if this piece, her best work
to date, never saw the light of day. Both outcomes felt potentially devastating, though in different ways. She looked at Walt
again.
“What do you think I should do?”
“Well, I—” He stopped, clamped his lips together, gave his head a shake. “You don’t need me to tell you what to do. You’re
a smart woman with good instincts. Whatever decision you make will be the right one. And whatever you do, whatever happens,
I’m proud of you.”
He bent low to kiss her. Margaret lifted her arms, twined them around his shoulders, and kissed him back. A shuffling noise,
the wiff-wiff of slippers on wood floors, came from the hallway.
“Mom? Can you make waffles?”
They released their hold on each other. Margaret looked toward the door. Bobby, still in his blue striped pajamas, was staring
at them.
“How about pancakes?”
“Okay.”
Margaret got to her feet. Walt gave her a peck, then grabbed his coffee cup and headed for the door. Margaret took a mixing
bowl from the cupboard, calling after him.
“Honey? Just one thing. The part you thought was overblown, about the husband? I’m leaving it in. From here on out, I only
want to write what I truly believe.”