Lately I have been reading rereleases of books that were published more than two decades ago. Some were chosen from references in other readings, and some were finds or recommendations from other people, but most are by women and about women. Two examples are “The Madwoman in the Attic” by Sandra M. Gilbert & Susan Gubar, first published in 1979, and “My Secret Garden” by Nancy Friday, published in 1973. I’m hesitant to mention them in the same breath, since their academic credentials are so different, but both are books I would have struggled to read in the 70s or 80s for many reasons, not the least of which is that I wouldn’t have accepted them as legitimate.
I have a doctorate of education in teaching college mathematics. A strange degree which required me to complete the work of a doctorate of mathematics plus take courses and exams in post-secondary education. I didn’t find the education courses that useful: a course in the history of colleges and universities, interesting and enlightening, and courses in current events and the structure of academia, which lacked the pragmatic nature that I desire in courses I take. In the current events course I was assigned a book on feminist scholarship to read and review. It was a collection of essays from different fields, some in which I was not well versed. I learned a lot about the various disciplines, but allowed my chauvinistic indoctrination to get the better of me, and I viewed the work as too far outside the norm and, thus, unacceptable unless endorsed by the male-dominated mainstream.
Ouch! While I continue to want a unified academy, male and female together, I have realized how my programming as a good female member of post-war society had skewed my past views. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it now but happy that I am not as closed minded, wondering what other scales I must cast from my eyes. I realize from my own experience that I shouldn’t expect my students to change their views suddenly, but I must continue exposing them to differing views with the hope they will make shifts in the future.
Books like “My Secret Garden” would not have been available to me at the time of publication. The book would have been taboo in my conservative family. If I had found it, I’m not sure if I could have overcome an aversion to the language used and acts described to actually read it. How far would my traditional upbringing have prevailed over my curiosity? I often wonder how many of my decisions were made based on my programming rather than by critical thought. How accepting would I have been then of lifestyles so different than what I was raised to believe were “right?” Frightens me to think that I might have chosen not to associate then with the same people that enrich my life now.
I don’t think I would have had the patience for this type of reading in the past either. At this point I am only through the introduction to the second edition of Gilbert and Gubar, and I am already intimidated by the vocabulary and discipline. Not so intimidated that I plan to stop. I am reading the Norton Anthology of Literature by Women, edited by the same authors, simultaneously. It is a daunting task, but one I eagerly take, as a challenge to my patience and endurance and a challenge to preconceived notions I wish I didn’t have.
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7 April 2012
I have since finished "My Secret Garden." The erotic nature of the book and my desire not to provide spoilers for the books I write about (as well as the Puritanical indoctrination I was subject to most of my life) prevent me from talking about the specifics of the book. So, sorry to my inconstant readers, I won't discuss the sexual fantasies of the women that Friday writes about. And though I usually try to connect my life to the books I read, I won't write about my own sexual fantasies either. I beg forgiveness for the disappointment you must feel, but the book is out there for the reading if you're curious.
As I was saying above, I would have been shocked by the book if I had read it in my twenties, or even my thirties. Now, I was more titillated rather than shocked, and somewhat consoled that women do fantasize and doing so is not a more recent phenomenon as some people would want us to believe. We, women that is, are not the Virgin Mother (and even the Virgin Mother is probably not the Virgin Mother). We are sexual creatures no more and no less than men are. Surprise!
I found Friday's book dated and narrow. There were racial descriptions that I was uncomfortable with, even knowing the time in which the book was written. The women who described their sexual fantasies came from a narrow group as well, somewhat diverse in age but not so much in financial situation, race or ethnicity. This latter restriction in the contents is most likely due to the data collection process rather than a conscious effort on the author's part. I found it necessary to ignore Friday's commentary and focus on the stories of the women, because of the outmoded theories of women's sexuality.
I think the book is a good read, regardless, if you are interested in reading about women's sexual lives or if you are looking for erotica. Friday's commentary, while not as scholarly as I had hoped, is also a snapshot of the status of women and the image of their sexuality in the 70s.
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