Being a Moyers Woman Friday September 23, 2005Posted by gingerbreadman in Family.
It’s funny how people nowadays just don’t get it. Find it offensive. What’s really funny is how my MOTHER fusses at me about it.
Serving my man.
Bringing him his dinner. Washing his back for him when it’s really filthy and he has trouble getting to the sweaty spots. Occasionally bringing him breakfast in bed. Heavens help us! I’m bringing down the feminist movement single-handedly!
It all started in my childhood. Church on Sunday. Women shall be silent in the church. Which doesn’t mean women don’t pray aloud, or shout with joy, or testify. It means women have no place in power in the church. That’s mensfolk work. Says so in the Bible. After church on Sunday over to Grandmother’s house. You know, it just occured to me: it was never Grandmother and Grandaddy’s house. Grandaddy lived until I was 26. But it was always Grandmother’s house. Anyway.
At Grandmother’s house, the menfolk ate first. Children and menfolk. Children were served and sat around in the living room or on their momma’s laps somewhere, men sat at the table. Women busied themselves in the kitchen or elsewhere. This wasn’t in the 1950’s I’m talking about here. This is the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, 2000’s. Grandmother died two years ago this coming March. We always did it that way. When the men had finished lunch and dessert, the women in the family warmed up the leftovers and had lunch. The men watched whatever sport the season was showing.
Wonder why I bring my honey his dinner? The better question would be why does my mother fuss at me for bringing him his dinner after 18 years of exposing me to the rampant male chauvinism of my Grandmother’s house?
I don’t see it as a problem. The man works all day out in the elements. I get to be here in the climate control comfort of home. He is called out all hours of the night sometimes. I get to stay in the bed. He pays the bills. I take care of the house. He doesn’t ask me to fetch his drinks, rub his feet, bathe and dress him. He likes it that I bring his plate to him at dinner, and frankly-so do I. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s some mutant Moyers gene rearing it’s ugly head. Maybe it’s simple appreciation for how hard I know his job is physically. Who cares why? If mom doesn’t like it, I won’t bring her a plate.