My last morning at home during fall break found me happily slaving away in the throes of domesticity, churning out bounties of made-from-scratch pumpkin muffins for the culinary benefit of my castmates in the Drama Department’s production of “Crazy for You.” Incidentally, whilst baking said bundles of sugary goodness, I invited my ex over for a catch-up session.
“I love baking. I love cooking. It’s so soothing,” I quipped to him in passing.
“You were clearly programmed to be a wife,” he replied with a smirk.
And with the passing of those eight seemingly inconsequential words, my blood began to boil — a response that occurs more often than I’d care to admit, but one that in this situation, I found justifiable. I laughed off his comment at first, feeling only the slightest annoyance beginning to growl quietly in the back of my mind.
Our conversation digressed elsewhere, but I remained fixated on his remark. Why did it upset me? Because he immediately, without giving a moment’s pause, associated a fondness for cooking with female domesticity. But really, should I have expected anything more from a 19-year-old boy whose lower-middle class, semi-rural environment has taught him to accept — nay, to embrace — narrowly defined gender roles of a bygone decade?
Baking remains a pastime associated with the feminine sex, as does culinary ability in general, despite the fact that many, if not most, renowned chefs today are male. Indeed, when a woman succeeds in the professional culinary world, she’s lauded as some sort of Herculean hero; it is only when women become associated with such activities in the confines of the domestic sphere they’re branded as anti-feminist baggage to the otherwise progressive, stereotype-shattering female world.
When a woman succeeds in the culinary world, we are to revere her achievements, applaud the talent and dedication that has permitted her to assume a position parallel to that of many men. But why should I celebrate this woman’s accomplishments more than I celebrate those of a male chef who has risen to the same level?
Celebrating a woman’s ability to be head chef, or to fix a faulty carburetor, or even to become president implies a fundamental handicap that she must first overcome in order to achieve such success.
But I, for one, do not feel handicapped. I am handicapped only so far as I allow social stigmas and rules to define my gender and myself. They derive their power from our acceptance.
I’m not sure if I’d call myself a feminist — I seek only the admission that women stand as unequivocal equals to men.
So therefore, from all the men on Grounds, I ask only this: respect me. But do not respect me solely because I am a woman, for to do so would be just as heinous as openly discriminating against me because of my gender. Respect me not for my sex, but merely because I am a human being. Respect me the way I hope you respect everyone you pass on the street.
Standing in my kitchen, readying my muffins for their journey to Charlottesville, I could have made these many points exceptionally clear to my ex after his crude remark. But I didn’t get on my soapbox and lecture him on the fine points of gender equality. Instead, I simply told him, “I hope my fondness for baking isn’t what makes me a good wife. I hope there will be better reasons.”
Afterward, watching him walk from my doorway to his car, I thought, ‘Wow, I really dodged a bullet with that one.’ And then, laughing to myself, I went inside and iced a cupcake.
Laura’s column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached l.holshouser@cavalierdaily.com.
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