picture in my mind

I have been reading Philippa Gregory's Wideacre, and as usual, it centres on the oppression of the female species. It just fills me up with frustration and anger. Set in 18th century England, Beatrice Lacey, the daughter of a squire, loves her father's land - Wideacre - but soon feels betrayed when she realises as she grows up, that there is no way in the world she would be able to continue living on Wideacre and be a part of it. When her father dies, everything goes to her elder brother and she, as is expected of her sex, will be married off. Poor Beatrice is driven to dark plots to keep a part of Wideacre to herself. She consented to her beloved father's murder, only to regret it after the deed was done. The story is steeped with acts of betrayal that leaves me breathless with shock, and am only at the beginning.

My entire family, Papa, Mama and Harry, could all die in pain and horror and still I would be no nearer to the ownership of the land. There was a barrier against me no skill of mine could overleap. Generations of men had built defences against women like me, against all women. They had ensured we would never know the power and the pleasure of owning the earth beneath our feet and growing the food that went on our tables. They had built a great chain of male control, of male power and beastly male violence between me and my need for the land. And there was no way, enforced by male-dominated laws and male-established tradition, that I could overthrow them.

I am happy that I live in this century and in this country, where as far as I know, I can do what I want. There are womens' rights and the UN and equality and democracy and whatever-else-in-the-name-of-freedom. But lurking everywhere else in daily life, subtly impressed, are the proprieties of women.

Tell me to do work in the kitchen because my grandma needs help and like any normal, considerate person, I should lend a helping hand. Don't tell me to help because I'm the girl, because that's not a reason! Everytime it happens, I sizzle with anger and my tongue just begs to be allowed to lash out in retaliation. But I refrain, and I let myself simmer, because on occasions when I've given my tongue free reign, it doesn't turn out good and I never win. As is been said: it's male-established tradition.

It shouldn't have to work like this anymore. The woman earns the money too, shouldn't domestic duties be shared as well? I suppose for some families, this has happened, and I applaud them. But not for mine, and I think not for many families. If old-age tradition of wives serving husbands hand-and-foot remains in this era, I don't see why I would want to get married at all. The benefits lie heavily on the male side. The husband is mothered, served in and out of bed and extra money flows in. While the wife serves and serves and serves. The wife doesn't even use the husband's money anymore because she has her own. Women! Where is the logic in doing this other than to conform? (If you're desperate for children, go and adopt like Angelina Jolie. Childbirth isn't so fun, you know.)

Apparently, it is demeaning to wash a dirty plate; a man's pride suffers tremendously. Funny they should think that way. Because I think I would melt if a guy offers to help with the dishes; after which I would insist, eyes shining in admiration, that I do everything myself, while he rests. Which brings me to the topic of love.

Fine, love conquers all. Logic is thrown out the window. Trapped in its snare, one would go to the ends of the earth for his beloved. And so, yes, I can see why a thousand million wives serve their husbands everyday. Ah sigh. My arguments gone to waste because of this mysterious thing called love.