 My
late mother was one of those who supervised the affairs of a household
and, far as I knew, was proud of it. Honorable occupation, I always
thought. Then sometime in the late 1960s -- holy moly! -- a man dares
not utter the word in the presence of a member of the distaff persuasion.
I have had that proscription reinforced by all of my most recent marital
partners. Yet, along the way, I have permitted myself to be known
simply as a "husband."
The term "wife" -- especially preceded by a possessive pronoun -- has become a soft-core obscenity. And housewife? Like I say, holy moly. Who can doubt that Americans owe this linguistic redirection to Betty and Germaine, Gloria and Helen -- opinion makers who encouraged women and mothers, with or without husbands, to seek fulfillment outside the home. "Liberation" meant employment and paychecks and independence. Independence? "Liberation" also meant keeping hours,
doing exactly what another person tells you to do and how to do it and
when to take a break or eat lunch. Anybody notice? And if you
make a mistake or otherwise displease that person (not a husband -- a boss,
with whom you would never profess to be in love), he or she will surely
chastise you in a soul-grinding style beyond the intensity essayed by the
most brutish husband in my mother's day.
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