The Things We Do Best

My friend, just restored to closeness after an absence of 33 years, was taking a daily trip into nostalgia with me, hoping to slowly catch up on what we’d missed in each other’s lives. "Did I ever tell you about the term I spent in Home Economics? I asked.  "Is that anything like a prison term?" he countered. My friend is comically astute. "In my case it certainly was!" I answered. Thus set the tone for a recollection of times in American culture when a girl’s efforts to do her best were fostered by an underlying objective of being accepted, finding a husband and settling down to domestic tranquility.

You’ve heard it before, I’m sure. This was the time when little girls were given nurse’s kits to play with, not a doctor’s valise. When we received dolls as gifts, not erector sets. It didn’t have to be spelled out for us (although in many instances it was). We knew what was expected of us just by the way we were dressed and the toys we were given. We were ornamental and submissive in our pretty party dresses, showing our good manners. We didn’t raise our voices and always said ‘please’. We were "little ladies" and expected to behave as such. This included the necessary steps taken on the way to married life.

All those years in grammar school recitals and Sunday school socials; those little parties and dance lessons were just preparation for the larger stage upon which one would perform after marriage. We all knew it. Somebody invented a game called Miss Popularity, because who wanted to be The Old Maid, after all?  This was all very clear and no one questioned her destiny. The problem was, I really didn’t fit the mold. I liked dolls, but I also wanted that erector set. I knew cooking looked like an ok thing to do, but I thought building a scooter looked like a lot more fun. Once you ate what you cooked you really had nothing to show for it. Deep inside, I really didn’t think it would be much fun to marry to a man who worked every day doing a job  which requires a suit. I’d have to press it. I hated ironing.

I thought it would have been a lot neater to starve in a garret in Paris with a tortured artist or poet or musician. OK, I didn’t say I wasn’t steeped with stereotypical, romantic concepts, but I knew what I didn’t want and I knew where I wouldn’t fit in. Despite my misgivings I went off to Junior High and was automatically turned down for wood and metal shop. It was unheard of in those days for a girl to undertake those things. Besides, what would they do with a girl in class? It was much too distracting. So they sent me to Home Economics. There I was, on the threshold of maturity, ready to be disciplined in the culinary arts. I was about to learn the value of a nutritious meal (which if made well enough, supposedly ensured a husband who wont eat his dinners in other women’s kitchens). I thought, ‘What have I got to lose?’ So I threw myself into the mainstream with everything I had and learned how to burn a pancake ( which I still do to this day, just as well as I did when I was fourteen). Some skills are never lost.

Still not convinced of my wrongful placement, the powers that be sent me to sewing class. Big mistake. I jammed that machine  seven consecutive times. I mean I really jammed it. Repair service kind of jamming. My final project (and my only project as it turns out) was a dress held together with that tape you iron on. The teacher let it slide. That was definitely cheating and she still passed me. When I handed her my yearbook she signed it ‘Happiness!!!!!!!". I counted seven exclamation points, following this declaration. The exact number of times I jammed her machine. Even now, I seriously doubt that happiness was her wish for me. I think she was rejoicing in being released from my company.

Well, domesticity didn’t seem to be in the cards. But lots of women held down jobs as secretaries and receptionists. In fact, some of my peers were opting for this career choice so they could land wealthy executive type husbands. So, with more prompting from my elders, I entered typing class. Unfortunately, I typed about as well as I threaded a sewing machine. My teacher (a small woman who nodded her head like a quail when she was nervous) tried to break the news to me gently. I could tell it wasn’t good by the way her glasses were working their way off her face from the nodding. "My dear", she said, beginning to nod furiously, "You will never be a typist. You type as if you have St. Vitas' Dance!" So much for my career as a secretary.