Can a Stay at Home Mom be a Feminist?

What is a feminist? I would personally describe her (or him) as a person who defends equal rights for women. I would say that one doesn't have to be socially active or label oneself as a feminist (I wouldn't necessarily pick feminist as an adjective to describe myself) to be one. I also don't reject the description if someone called me a feminist. I appreciate all the hard work, blood and tears women before me sacrificed so that I could be able to be what I want to be...but a stay at home mom (SAHM)? Is that a good choice for a a feminist? Would a hard-core feminist approve?

I have been recenly annoyed during the Republican debates but more so when women's issues come along as a topic. Mitt Romney said, "Contraceptions are working just fine. Leave it alone". I believe he meant it because I believe he really doesn't care about what women choose to do to with their bodies. Yet, because he is a Republican, just like many, he has to say he is pro-life. Are there really any candidates out there that are pro-choice AND a Republican? The Huffington Post recently wrote that "All eight major contenders for the Republican nomination are vehemently anti-abortion". I just don't buy it and I don't vote Republican because of this issue. Does this make me a defender of women's rights? Does this make me a feminist then? But, I'm a SAHM...

Besides my daily duties of feeding the children, driving my oldest to school, grocery shopping, cleaning, doing laundry, cooking and so on, I also do all of this for my husband. I will soon be doing all of this for a house full of boys as I am currently expecting my third son. I don't work outside our home, I am college educated and had a career at one point, but I gave it all up for my husband's career that took him (us) out to Tokyo. I delivered my first, Diego, in Japan and because I had no family out there, completely alone, I decided to dedicate myself to solely raise our son. I saw the benefits of staying at home, Diego was thriving, happy, and soon I decided I would invest at least 5 years to each child. But I'm also doing it for my husband. Do I still qualify as a feminist? I make my husband's life easier. He comes home, there is food on the stove, a stocked refrigerator with his favorite beer, wine to unwind, clean clothes, and the car maintaned. He takes out the garbage every night, loads the dishwasher, puts Diego to bed, and he's done! But, he manages our finances, gets up every time if there is a crying child, and is a super hands-on dad. He is loving to me and my best friend. I consider us equals and he does too.

Jose is working late tonight so I stopped for a minute to tuck Diego into bed just now and he's almost five and he has tons of comments and questions. He says to me, "I have to marry someone who is shorter than me." Let's just say I couldn't run back to the computer to finish my thoughts here right away. I may or may not be a feminist to some, but I am going to raise my sons to respect women, be gentlemen, have open minds, be accepting and loving, understand equality...just like my husband.

As I asked others SAHMs what their take was on this topic, my friend Celeste said, "a SAHM is the ultimate matriarch of the modern feminist movement. I consider it more of a career choice than anything else. It's by far the hardest thing a woman can do." Growing up I knew that I wanted to give my children what my mother offered as a SAHM but my only problem with my mom's choice was that she never prepared herself for anything else. She depended on my dad for everything and as soon as we grew up and were out of the house, she really didn't have anything left to do but continue to care for my dad and their house. I knew I wanted the independence, to show my children that I could do anything else, that I could go back to school, back to work, or not. I agree with Celeste that choosing to be a SAHM is so modern and a continuation for the fight of equal rights. I'm sorry my mom didn't have the choice I have but because of her and her sacrifices, I knew this was a natural path for me. In some ways, she was part of the early feminist movement. Her Mexican culture and family had expectations of her to stay home and raise a family. She didn't have many choices as a recent immigrant to this country. My mother always talked to me about my options, to make the right choices, que me prepare...what an inspiration.

I would love to know what single women think of the subject. My thoughts are everywhere right now as feminism is such a broad topic. I didn't talk about the hard (or boring) days I have and how things can get mundane pretty fast and I also didn't mention working-moms (hats off to you!) perspectives. More to come.
xoxo

Scoot scoot!

When I called my dad in Chicago to show off that his grandson was gliding up and down Reade Street like a pro, he laughed and said, “Oh, you got him the patineta del Diablo? The devil’s scooter?” I gasped and said, “Pa! Why would you say that?” Chuckling he replied, “because when people see you chasing after your kid they will think the Devil’s gotten into you”.
Growing up in the South Side of Chicago taught me at an early age to duck at the sound of shootings on “L” platforms inside crowded trains. Now, my heart beats fast and I develop a new type of anxiety as I chase my zig zagging 3 year-old son up and down TriBeCa streets and yelling “Slow down! Diego! STOP!!!” as he zips by focused New Yorkers, minding their business but aware to dodge and move out of the way at the hundreds of toddlers and children on scooters. I find myself apologizing, embarrassed to pedestrians who sometimes do (or don’t) feel the impact of a 35 pound boy on wheels crash on their heels. Some people avoid the kids on scooters on the streets by playing a little “chicken” but always lose the game to the flying child with smirks on their little faces with no fear. Once, a man carrying an oversized orange leather bag, was talking on his cell phone and didn’t notice my son. Diego, who thought he had cleared the height, was unaware of the couple of inches his helmet adds to his height, bounced off his bag and flew off his scooter. I screamed and the man never turned to see if Diego was okay. Hurriedly and scared that my son had broken a bone, I blamed myself for wanting my son to be a true little New Yorker on the smartest wheels invented for city kids. No more stroller up and down subway stairs and no more complaining by Diego, wanting to be carried after a few blocks of walking. It had to be worth it. I was determined to make him a tough, careful and smart little guy on wheels. He brushed himself off got back on and just as my heart rate went down, Diego was distracted by a girl’s pink and shiny wheels that he ended up crashing into a wall. He bounced right up and scooted away without a tear or second thought.
The gang members I used to identify based on the colors they wore and signs they threw up with their hands has now been long forgotten and replaced by watching little boys and girls compare helmet designs and sticker applications on the base of their boards. They race around the smooth path inside Washington Market Park confronting new obstacles and terrorizing young couples strolling by hand in hand. I now identify with screaming mothers and father chasing their kids down west Greenwich smooth sidewalk, catching up with their child before arriving at the corner of Chambers, a busy intersection with school children, gossiping teens and complaining college students, and then scolding their little one on wheels for not listening. How can they? My 3 year old has never moved faster and his young 2 year old neighbor and friend can keep right up with him. I’m world’s away from the childhood I left behind but the anxiety of a parent lives within no matter where you are.

No Labels

Tomatillo enchiladas con frijoles are my favorite food-hands down. I speak Spanish to Diego and dream of taking him to Cuernavaca, Morelos to visit his great-grandfather. One day we will visit Cerritos, San Luis Potosi to meet Jose’s cousins, tias y tios. We dance to Banda Machos and Sonora Santanera and rock to Mana and Paulina Rubio. I identify as a Mexican girl wherever I go. But sometimes, I get a little reminder that I am more than just that. This is a conversation I participated in last Thursday in photography class with 5 people during our coffee brake:

“The international schools in Singapore are so expensive.”

“They really haven’t suffered the economic crisis.”

“Schools in Tokyo are much more expensive. But really, they are all fantastic and so worth it.”

“People will pay for anything. Expats feel they deserve the best.”

“Why shouldn’t they? They work hard and are away from home. It’s difficult to send your kids to local schools when you don’t know the system.”

“It sends the wrong message, having the best when you are away from your country. Americans are the worst. They want the best of everything.”

Um, excuse me?! Did I just hear that? Stereotyping? Generalizing? My blood boiled. The claws were out! Americans are the worst?? People laughed nervously. Some people even said, “Oooh. Ouch. You can’t go there.” I took out my big round hoops from my ears and put on my 5 gold rings on my fingers. I was going to whoop some ass!!!

No. The girl from Little Village (24th and Drake to be exact and then throw in a little Cicero and well… I could have whooped some ass). But I didn’t. Instead, calmly and maturely I explained to this nice European woman that some people, like me, like my husband, grew up in a very unsafe area in the States, went through the worst public school system in America and now that we have choices for our son, we are going to give him what we think is best-when we can.

The woman replied that playgrounds are designed to prevent accidents and not allowing kids to make mistakes, that we don’t let kids run out on the street, that Americans have brought fear by suing everyone and everything. It was clear that we were having two different conversations and that we were going off on a tangent (this happens when you get a heated and passionate debate). I ended by saying that this American was dodging bullets and gangs growing up, was looking for teachers that could relate and inspire and role models to look up to. Not all Americans are the same. We have different hopes and dreams for our kids. We all have a different experience.

Whatever one is looking for doesn’t matter to me. What bugged me was that she singled me out in a class full of British, Singaporean, South African and Asian people. I clearly have an American accent. I never deny that I was born and raised in Chicago by Mexican parents so I was just floored and insulted that she would make a comment, today in age about a country, a people, a race in a class room full of educated adults. The teacher nervously but abruptlly stopped the conversation and we went on to learn about ISO and white balance.

I love that I can take a photography course in Asia. I love hot dogs and apple pie. I want to take Diego down Route 66 and show him the best of America. I want to go back to New York City one day and live side by side with the Koreans, Jews, Italian, Blacks and Puerto Ricans. We bounce to hip hop and house music, play baseball and identify as Americans wherever we go.

We must take opportunities and participate in discussions that can teach us different little things. The woman never said “goodbye” cuando me despedi. So I clearly know she doesn’t want to be my friend. And that’s okay. I like to think that we can learn from situations like this. As much as I am Mexican, I am American. And even if don’t identify as American as quickly as I do to my Mexicanismo, I am forever grateful and the first to defend my American ways.