I am uneasy about not being feminist enough, because I also want to depend on a man—specifically, my husband.
My mother-in-law was a career teacher, a feminist known in international academic circles. When I met her, she was the epitome of a feminist. Compared to the women I grew up with, women who almost always deferred to men, she stood out distinctively.
Now my biyenan is nearing eighty and is almost wholly dependent on my husband, her only son, and on the SSS government pension she delayed claiming for years. Actually, I was the one who pushed her to claim her SSS pension, because she had not taken a proactive stance on it. Her situation angered me until I realized I was staring at my own reflection: I, too, am a woman dependent on a man (at least partially).
In therapy last week, one of my female clients, a medical doctor, spoke about how hard she fought to be independent because she had once been a battered girlfriend. She stayed in that relationship for several years because of her daddy issues—her father abandoned her and her mother when she was six. Now that my client is having marital problems with her spouse, she is angry. Infuriated that she became vulnerable enough to place her hopes on a man. Angry that she let her guard down.
Aside from Doctora, I’ve also had the privilege of meeting strong women who were deeply uncomfortable with their neediness. In some cases, it wasn’t financial, but I saw the parallels. It dawned on me that I am one of these strong, independent, smart women who are uncomfortable with surrender—the surrender of power.
I am Chinese-Filipino. It is a very patriarchal culture—or at least it was when I was growing up in the eighties and nineties. When I was seventeen, I entered college, away from the patrolling eyes of my conservative parents. For the first time, I encountered a reality where I was not my father’s biggest failure for being a firstborn daughter instead of a firstborn son. (This is still a traditional Chinoy thing, wanting sons more than daughters, the last time I checked.)
Partly because of my need to erase my femininity, I developed anorexia nervosa as a young teen. I thought that because I did not have menses, I was closer to being a man. My parents’ dream for me was (a) to marry a rich Chinese guy—as in “my family owns several factories” rich, or “we run a conglomerate” rich; (b) to run my own business; or (c) to work abroad in the United States and send loads of money home. With option C, they could comfortably say, “Go away, spinster daughter, at least you are rich and successful.”
Naturally, I rebelled against my parents’ aspirations for me, as all seventeen-year-olds do. I wanted to be myself. When I was introduced to feminism as part of elective courses in college, my mind was blown. All of a sudden, there was an enemy. And an idealism that could save me.
Zealously, I called myself a feminist because it was a legit way to save face.
Then, at twenty-four, I got married. My spouse has his own values and hang-ups; one of them is the need to be successful. It is his identity, which is why he took on a very stressful job with very good pay.
Sometimes I joke that it is his karma to indulge me. Providing for me, the kids, and his mama is central to his identity. For all the years we’ve been married, I couldn’t deny him his nature.
That is how I ended up where I am now: twenty years married and the non-breadwinning spouse. In short, I am a housewife. When we were starting out, we agreed that I would be a “Trad Wife” (a traditional wife), the one who would watch over the kids while he brought home the bacon. My spouse and I had a deal, and that deal still stands to this day, with some minor amendments.
At present, I still see myself as a housewife, even though I have a job I love. I locate the center of my life and my identity in my home. My nest. It feels natural and good to me.
When the children were really young, I justified being a stay-at-home-mom (SAHM) because they were in their foundational years. After all, seven years and you build a personality—and you better get it right, as the experts say. And I am a psychologist; I should know. What better service than to serve the ones closest to your heart? I wanted to be present during the most crucial emotional building-block stages of my children’s lives.
However, while I can’t count how many full-time moms I admired—women whose lives were centered on their kids, like mine—I also judged. I was judging their value, because I was also judging myself as a needy, dependent woman.
As time passed, my children grew up and wanted less of me around. When I returned to work in my forties, I had to relearn everything and begin almost at the bottom rung. You could say I paid the motherhood penalty with interest accrued. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how hard it is to get back into a career after a decade-long hiatus.
Some feminists keep their maiden names after marriage, but I didn’t. My husband has German origins. I’ve always loved words, and in German, the word Mann—with two n’s—refers to husband, not just a member of the male species. I call him mein Mann. In hindsight, I wanted to be claimed. It was not a transfer of ownership. I changed my name to reauthor my life. They call it rebranding these days.
Housewives, stay-at-home moms, elderly women, strong women who loved and risked their hearts—I am all of them, you know?
The challenge now is to make peace with my neediness. To be more receptive, and okay with having desires I do not want to self-fulfill. I want somebody else to give them to me. I want to be serviced.
My mother-in-law asked us again this week to buy her groceries and maintenance medicines. Unlike months before, I did not feel as irritated. I guess my unconscious is slowly accepting it: dependency.
If I am feminist enough, so be it. I am getting accustomed to surrender gradually because I trust more. I’m stepping away from the need to repay what is given to me freely. I am getting more comfortable with asking for what I’m worth, and not just settling for the least expensive option.
Idealism be damned.
