Fox on Box holds Stocks on Frocks
Drinking quarts of mediocre pre-dawn coffee in the lobby of a Missouri motel (so as not to wake my daughter—still asleep in our shared room), I can’t help but watch Fox News on the big screen TV attached to the wall above the boiled eggs and mini-yogurts. It’s hard to ignore. And there’s no place else to sit.
At first, I’m amused. Then amusement gives way to incredulity that this programming—which I don’t regard as news—should be forced upon me in a place where I’ve paid a substantial amount to spend the night and eat breakfast. But that’s my prejudice. Given the outcome of the recent election, I am now proven to be in the minority.
Gradually, as I pay more attention to the giant squawk box served with my morning meal, my gut moves to some mix of skepticism and disdain. On the screen are three men and a woman sitting on a long curvy bench. The men are dressed in suits—legs generally spread apart in comfort, arms sometimes gesticulating, sometimes resting on thighs. The woman, a blond wearing a form-fitting red minidress, must keep her legs tightly crossed at all times, lest the camera have a straight view up her tight skirt. Her arms stay folded, likewise, for the most part.
Perhaps I make something of nothing. And I assure you I feel strongly that women should choose what they want to wear with no repercussions from observers, whether they be co-hosts, a TV audience, or people passing by on the street. It’s just that I can’t help but wonder if this isn’t the uniform dictated by the news programmers: Suited men who spout what we are to perceive as the truth, and some eye candy to keep viewers tuned in when the men cease to captivate their audience.
When I was young, the objectification of women was rampant. Our culture plainly dictated females should strive to be beautiful. (Extra points for being blond.) Not too smart or outspoken, but certainly suggestive of sex. Yet if one was too suggestive, she was a slut. Not enough—a cow. If married, there should be just a hint of what a lucky man her husband is.
Women whose behaviors consistently violated this prescription for social order were “bitches” and “ball busters.”
In junior high and high school, goals for girls (and boys) were reflected in the mandatory curriculum: Girls take home economics. Boys take shop. And never the twain shall meet. Girls should expect to find husbands and become homemakers. Of course, some girls might wind up in college—but presumably most of those were merely searching for a higher class of husband.
I thought we, as a society, had finally begun to put this model to rest. But I fear it’s creeping back.
I am old enough now that my sex appeal has pretty much passed its use by date. And that’s fine, as long as I’m allowed to exercise all the other aspects of my womanhood (and not be duty-bound to caring for minor children, as our VP-elect suggests should be the primary function of elderly females.)
But if “making America great again” includes objectifying its women like in the good old days, I fear for women of all ages who were on the cusp of becoming true masters of their own destinies. The ride backward is bound to be bumpy and painful. And I fear the tickets are not round-trip, at least not on the current modes of MAGA transportation.