Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Disclaimer: This is a speech I wrote as an assignment for my English class. I was required to write my own "Professions for Women" in response to Virginia Woolf's address to the Women's Service League in 1931. I'm not the voice here, but her opinions are all mine ... even if I myself would state them more nicely. :) I think Virginia Woolf is a talented writer, but I also think she's one of the most selfish women I've ever studied. You can read her address by clicking here if you're curious. It's a fascinating speech. Here's mine:

I am a homemaker. I often have to defend that title from people who assume I spend my days this way out of necessity or force. I would almost prefer they think I’m simply too lazy to find something else to do. I cringe when I don’t have time to explain that I actually choose this lifestyle before people walk away thinking badly of my husband - as if he somehow holds me captive in our home, intimidating me into submission with a to-do-list in his hand. Actually, the opposite is true if you want to know. He’s much more prone to take the to-do-list from my hand, asking me to take a break. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

First of all I must attempt to explain that I don’t look at “professional women” with distain. In general I don’t think I’m better or worse than they are. I read their articles in the paper, I use their recipes, and I shop in their stores. I must admit there’s a bit of me that pities them for not having the life I have, but I imagine that’s true for both of us. I hope they are happy. I hope they do find fulfillment in their work. I hope they feel the joy that comes from loving and being loved. It is not to the majority of professional women that I address my remarks this afternoon. I believe the majority of women are content to allow all women the same choice of profession. However, there are a select few who belittle my choice and ridicule my character. To them I have several words to say.

I spend my days cooking and cleaning and mending and all sorts of other things that are probably not as seemingly pleasant as writing a book or directing a board meeting. I wholeheartedly agree with those who would rather do almost anything than scrub a toilet or iron a stack of collared shirts. I’m not going to attempt to pretend that I consider those things my favorite pastimes. I do them, but I don’t love it, I don’t crave it, I don’t wake up early just because I can’t wait any longer to roll up my sleeves and get started. Yes, my duties are very similar to a hotel maid, or a hired servant. But I would never choose to do them. What then, you might ask, makes the difference? Why do I find such joy in sharing their duties? This will take some explaining.

There was a poem written in 1854 by Coventry Patmore entitled “Angel in the House.” He wrote it as a sincere tribute to his wife whose character he loved and whose goodness inspired him. The title has since been coined by many to suggest the silly, self-depreciating women who, like the perfect Victorian wife, are oppressed out of proportion and stand as caricatures of intellect and individuality. In her address to the Women’s Service League Virginia Woolf described the angel in the house in this way: “She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed daily. If there was a chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it ... Above all, she was pure.” Woolf also related her experience of killing the phantom “angel in the house” in her mind before she could think for herself and get any true work done. Virginia Woolf is not alone in this sentiment. Taking the meatless parts of the chicken during family dinner is not motivated, cannot be motivated by love, but only by some psychological need to validate oneself through suffering and martyrdom. This woman who places herself between the draft and her husband or child is clearly unhappy, unfulfilled, and entirely lacking a grasp on reality. “Don’t you k now,” Woolf seems to scream. “that you’re being repressed? Don’t you understand that you’re not living your own life or fulfilling your own dreams?”

To women like Virginia Woolf, professional or otherwise, I ask, “Don’t you know that I find joy in sacrifice? Don’t you understand that I relish making my family happy and that I’m living the dream I chose to fulfill?” There is nothing like cleaning a room that your child can feel peace in. There is nothing like cooking dinner for a tired, work-out husband who kisses your hand with gratitude for the meal he comes home to. There is nothing like walking through the door to a house and feeling the love you yourself have infused into every room and corner. If I take the leg of the chicken it is not out of a sense of obligation or self-congratulation. It is out of selfishness to see my child eat the breast and smile at me through a big mouthful. If I sit in the draft I do not do it with resentment. I do it to keep my family from shivering. How is it that I cannot be allowed these simple pleasures without scorn and suspicion? I’m certainly not naïve enough to think my love for my family is somehow superior in quality to the love you have for yours. Would you not do anything for your husband? Would you not make any sacrifice possible for you child? I believe you would. Such little sacrifices as chicken and drafts cannot be too much to imagine giving. There must be another motivation for the criticism.

I’ve been accused of assuming that going to work is not also a sacrifice, of being insensitive to the financial needs professional women struggle to meet. I’m well aware that there are financial needs to be met because in our home my husband has shouldered that burden and I love him for it. He works so hard for us. I know he would rather stay home to play with the kids than go to the office. But the fact of the matter is he can’t. Bills must be paid, mouths must be fed, and tattered clothes must eventually be replaced. If I went to work outside the home my paycheck wouldn’t be needed for food, or the mortgage, or any other of our basic needs. If I went to work it would be for newer cars, better furniture, fancy cell phones and the latest plasma TV. I want to make sure I’m understood when I make my next statement, because it’s bound to ignite anger. Those things are not worth the time I would lose with my children. I’ll say it another way. I would never trade 4 hours a day with my children for a new car or a nicer wardrobe. I simply wouldn’t. I’ll anger you further and tell you my husband would think less of me if I did. Because when we got married we decided what was important to us, and at the top of that list was giving our children a mother in their home.

So am I saying that you don’t love your kids if you go to work? Of course not. Am I saying they aren’t important to you? No. What I am saying is that when you teach a child that things are more important than relationships and time together you’re making a mistake. When a child spends her hours in daycare so mommy and daddy have fancy cars and mommy gets diamonds for holidays and daddy has the latest electronics to entertain him there is a serious problem. If you’re going to have a child love her enough to give her what she really wants: you. Is that not flattering? Is it not life-altering to know that you hold such power in how she sees her world and how she fits herself in it? But this is not about ego, or self-esteem. It’s about looking at the face you brought into the world and realizing you’re the only one who can make a real difference to her. Realizing that she depends entirely on you. If anything it should be humbling and force you to see your own inadequacy and weakness, not encourage self-aggrandizement.

It’s hard work being a homemaker. Most of you, honestly, probably aren’t cut out for it. It’s as simple as that. It takes selflessness and generosity and forgiveness every minute of every day. If there’s a woman among you who does not look at her child with loving longing I’m so sorry. If there’s a woman among you who has no desire to accept the role as angel in her own house I’m so sorry. That would be hard in its own way. But to those of you who do feel that way but struggle to squelch it: shame on you. For those of you who sadly kiss your baby’s cheek as you walk toward the daycare lobby to your car so you can fill your home with things: shame on you. There will come a time when your baby isn’t a baby anymore and she’ll know what your priorities were during this time. She’ll remember a childhood full of lessons and new clothes but without memories of standing on a stool to help you prepare lunch or learning to read curled up in your lap in the morning light.

I’ve been harsh this afternoon, and I do apologize for that. I don’t quite have a talent for saying things to adults in a gentle way. It was not my intention to offend you, but I wasn’t going to alter my words to avoid it either. If there’s anything I would hope you’d remember about this address it would be that there are women who love being homemakers. There are women who would rather cook dinner for their husbands than go to receive an award at her office’s yearly banquet. There are women who are so firmly and resoundingly devoted to raising children who go to bed at night convinced of their importance and their place in their mommy’s heart that they stay home and make that their life’s ambition. This does not make them weak. This does not make them unintelligent. And this does not make you any less free to choose your own profession. Kill your own angels in the house if you must, but allow the rest of us the privilege of emulating them if we so choose.

Many of you will remain unconvinced after I conclude. You’ll leave this auditorium resolved to consider me to be in a state of complete denial. But let me tell you one last key to how this all works in my mind. I love being a woman. I love that the opportunity to bear and raise children is mine to claim. I love my husband for his willingness to assume his own roles and responsibilities to our family. I love that the opportunity to provide for our children is his to claim and that he does it with such earnestness and determination. We are not the same, he and I, nor were we ever meant to be. The roles of men and women are equal, but certainly they are different. I rejoice in womanhood and find fulfillment in femininity. I know who I am, who I have chosen to be, and I’m not threatened by those who would convince me otherwise.
I’m grateful for you, and for your strength. After all I’ve said that may be difficult to believe. Not one of us is perfect. But I do hope that we are doing our best to remain loyal to whatever principles and values we choose to align ourselves with. I hope we choose those principles and values intentionally rather than accept those that are thrust upon us. Good look to you, professional women. May we all make the contributions we are best designed and equipped to make. Thank you.