WomenCo.

"Maid" to Order

I grew up in a traditional household. My father worked from sun to sun, and my mother’s work was never done. Every Saturday we (four) girls had to dust, vacuum, shop, bake, scour, scrub, launder, iron, and sew. Occasionally one of the (three) boys had to cut the grass or change the oil the car. The rest of the time my brothers were free to do as they pleased. A quick calculation tells me each girl spent about 2000 hours doing household chores while growing up and each boy spent about 200 hours.

At the age of 21 I moved into a house with 3 male roommates. We were all in a band together, and we also had full time jobs. Every Saturday morning I would dust, vacuum, shop, bake, scour, scrub, launder, iron, and sew. Occasionally one of the guys would change the oil in the band’s van (the grass never got cut). A quick calculation renders similar, predictable results.

Today I still can’t believe it was me who performed those duties obediently for nearly 2 years without questioning whether or not it was my job. Childhood conditioning can be a very powerful thing. We are usually indoctrinated into belief systems before we develop the awareness (or the verbal skills) to protest our own assimilation. When it came to doing housework, my conditioning was “maid” to order.

Gradually the lopsided housework delegation in my rock & roll commune began to bother me, and I soon realized I was in a psychological dilemma. Even though the intellectual part of me saw the imbalance (and knew I should just stop doing the chores), I also battled an overwhelming feeling that housework was my job. The irony hit me when I considered asking the guys for “help”, which of course affirmed the duties were still mine, and that they’d be doing me a favor if they did some of the work.

I couldn’t be mad at my roommates, though. I caused the situation by assuming a maid’s role in the first place. Sure I’d learned it from somewhere (and someone) else, but I was the one still perpetuating it. It wasn’t fair to blame them for cooperating with a system that benefited them. I probably would have done the same thing. But I needed to make a change. I couldn’t go on being the mandated housekeeper by virtue of my anatomy. No, this had to stop.

I called a meeting to announce I would be taking an immediate, indefinite vacation from all household chores, and I would resume once I felt ready. Furthermore, upon my return I would no longer do any housework that wasn’t my fair share. I explained that after 2 years of unreciprocated service, they owed me at least that.

The lukewarm reception (a few chuckles and a guffaw, if memory serves) led to ensuing weeks of lukewarm cooperation. Pizza boxes, junk mail, and guitar strings were soon everywhere, while wet towels and dust bunnies began to cover the floors. Kitchen counters disappeared under dirty dishes and coffee cups, while drumsticks, matchbooks, and rogue silverware littered the coffee tables and fireplace hearth. Scum began to grow on all the ceramic and tile surfaces, and the laundry room began to incubate a most ghastly odor. Nondescript items of all kinds assumed residence in the most puzzling places – toothpicks on the windowsills, an empty gym bag on the front steps, and a roll of scotch tape under the bathroom sink. (Huh?)

Meanwhile I was indifferent. I came home from work each day, ate mostly frozen dinners off of cardboard plates with plastic utensils, and retired to my room after rehearsals. I noticed the guys washing only the dishes they needed and then leaving them dirty in their wake. (That was funny – in my world dishes are clean until needed, not the other way around.) Soon there was a new tension in the air. I heard a few uneasy comments about the state of the place in general and a few belittling phrases about me in particular. It got a little ugly one night when someone couldn’t find a fork – not just a clean fork but any fork. He slammed drawers and swore like a sailor. (Apparently the others had begun hoarding clean silverware in their rooms.) It was comical. Meanwhile I hid my smirks and did nothing.

The house got so messy, dirty, and in some places downright gross that I stopped inviting my friends over. “I’m sticking it out”, I told them. “Something’s gonna crack – but it won’t be me.”

After about 3 months things began to shift. The guys gradually started picking up after themselves. I’d find small areas cleaned, trash thrown away, or microphone cords wrapped neatly and stacked in a corner. One morning I awoke to hear the most unusual sound – our bass player was vacuuming. This gesture, the first sign of common-area accountability and goodwill, broke the spell of the unspoken but fiercely held credo, “every man for himself”. Things were looking up.

Over time our messy, musical house became livable again. It was never as clean as I would have liked but I consider that a small price to pay for my liberation. Once I resumed my share of chores it was all very equitable, but the sense of dignity it gave me – correction…I gave myself…was beyond description.

I’d never realized what an unconscious burden the “housework is women’s work” mandate had been on my psychological well being. Today I would not trade my mental freedom for any enviable cleanliness my women friends discuss at barbeques. I value my personal time far more than the power of Lysol. And if you come to my house for dinner, you might have to kick a few flip-flops off the welcome mat in order to enter. Yeah, they belong to the man of the house. But don’t worry; he’ll pick them up when he gets around to it.

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