WOMENS LIBERATION Betty Matson I am a woman who is returning to college after raising a family. Well, my family isn't really quite raised - but its well on the way - and I am trying to get the education that I missed earlier. It is what I have always wanted to do, and I am enjoying it tremendously. I particularly like my Advanced Composition class. For our assignment this week we were to get three interviews on some subject of current interest. I decided on the Womens Liberation Movement. Being female, I naturally thought the subject was interesting and, besides, almost everyone has an opinion about it. Our teacher told us that we would be more successful if the people we interviewed did not realize they were being questioned. We should be sneaky. I liked the assignment already. My first two interviews were "thrown in my lap" you might say; they occurred at family gatherings while we were visiting in California. "Ah, perfect," I thought, as I adroitly steered the conversation around to my predetermined subject. "I don't think God intended women to be leaders," the young matron said, as she smoothed her pink skirt neatly over her knees. "A woman's place is in the home. Why should we want to compete with men?" From the moment I met her, I knew that here was an "organized" person. Her serene brow and her clear, steadfast eyes told me that she knew what her purpose in life was - and that she had nearly achieved it. She was about thirty years old and would have been very pretty if she were not about thirty pounds overweight. She was also very tall which, combined with her girth, quite overwhelmed the dark red over-stuffed chair in which she sat. "But what about women who never marry? You know there are not enough men to go around?" I asked, determined to pursue the subject. "Oh, well, as for them," and she raised a carefully arched eyebrow, "they can become teachers or librarians, but they should not try to become executives. It goes against nature, don't you think so, dear?" she asked her husband. "Well, I -," he started to say. "As a Relief Society President, we are taught that we should work under the men. They lead and we follow. That's the way I think it should be," she continued. Just then, her daughter, a large, plump child of about seven, burst in the door. "Margaret, what have you done to your hair! You look just like a raggamuffin! "I don't think she looks so bad," the husband said. "A child has to have fun, you know." "Well, of course, if it doesn't matter to you what kind of an impression our girls make, I certainly don't know why I spend so much time and energy trying to make them look presentable," the woman said in a hurt tone. While the husband apologized, I had a chance to look him over. His clothes were in conservative good taste. They looked like they had just been pressed. His shoes were polished to a high gloss. I could not imagine him with a missing button; a hole in his sock would be unthinkable. His ample middle attested to many well-planned meals and rich desserts. He looked rather well-pleased with himself, and yet there was a certain nervous restlessness about him. Maybe I just imagined it because he had remarked earlier that his main interest was watching television. "To continue with what I was saying," the Relief Society President said, as she folded her hands precisely in her lap, "no woman who is truly feminine - and by that I mean one who wants her husband to be the head of the house - should have anything to do with an organization as over-bearing and dominating as Womens Liberation. It is uncomplimentary to the weaker sex, don't you agree, dear? she said. "Well, I -," he started to say. He seemed to me a man who had everything - everything except freedom. A little later, I was seated with my sister and her husband, two older cousins, and my husband in the same living - room. The door opened and my young niece - a California college student - exploded into the room. "How nice to see you again, Aunt Betty and Uncle Ray," she burbled enthusiastically, as she bounced over and gave us both a squeeze. My husband was somewhat taken aback. He isn't used to being squeezed by young, attractive girls in very brief bikinis. I could see he was confused as to where he should put his hand. We hadn't seen Susan for several years. In those years, she had changed into an obviously mature young lady. Her scanty swimsuit left no room for doubt. Her long, tawny hair swung freely and her slim body was bronze from the California beaches. I felt a fleeting twinge of jealousy, and yet I liked Susan immediately. She seemed completely unaware of the incongruity of her outfit as she perched herself on the arm of a chair. I directed the conversation to Womens Liberation "I think Womens Lib is absolutely the most important thing that has happened in our country," Susan said with feeling, "next to Civil Rights, of course. Why should a woman be paid less money for doing the same job as a man? Why should we be forced to shave our legs (I noticed hers were smooth and shiny) simply to live up to man's stereotyped idea of how a woman should look. There are some boys on campus who make crude remarks to me because I don't wear a bra! Who do they think they are, anyway? If I want to go out with a boy, why should I have to sit around home hoping he'll call? When I go on a date, I like to pay my own way - that way I'm not obligated." She stopped for breath. "Boys are so immature. I doubt I'll get married - definitely not until I'm thirty, anyway. There's too many important things I want to do," she said, looking at us meaningfully. "What are some of these important things you want to do, Susan?" I asked, quite struck by her conviction. "First of all," she paused for em- phasis, "I want to find myself as a human being." Just then the phone rang. She jumped to answer it. "Oh, Bill. Helloooo. Tonight? That sounds perfectly groovy! At eight? I'll be ready ... and," she sighed, "waiting." She hung up the receiver slowly, with a faraway look in her eye. "Who was that?" I asked in wonder. "That was 'Mr. Wonderful.' He's taking me to the movies tonight at eight!" she called over her shoulder as she floated out of the room. My first two interviews had certainly given me some different points of view. Now I wanted a man's opinion. My husband seemed the most likely candidate. But how to get his honest opinion, without him knowing he was being interviewed? All at once, I had the perfect plan. That night, after we had gone to bed and he had kissed me goodnight, I lay there with my head on his arm. "Honey," I mumurred, "I've decided to join the Womens Liberation group on campus." His eyes snapped open. "What did you say?" he said, immediately awake. "I said, I have decided to join the Womens Liberation Movement. Women have been held down by men too long and it is time I joined the struggle," I said with as much conviction as I could muster. "You've got to be kidding!" he said, incredulously. "You've really flipped your lid! You've gone completely ape! This is the dumbest thing you've done yet!" "Oh, is that so?" I shouted back. "Well, for your information, its a perfectly respectable organization, supported by some very refined, intelligent women." "Ha!" he hollared, "I bet its nothing but a bunch of old biddies who haven't anything better to do than stir up a lot of trouble for their poor, long-suffering husbands. This is what happens, I guess, when you let your wife go back to college. I asked for it and now I'm going to get it -right in the back! Do you want to make me the laughing stock of the whole office?" I could see he was really getting upset, so I told him that I wasn't really planning on joining anything. I was just doing an assignment for my composition class. I made the mistake of laughing hilariously. He didn't see anything funny about it. He turned his back on me coldly and went to sleep muttering something about how education was wasted on women. That made me angry! Now my problem was to summarize these three interviews. How could I do it? There wasn't one point of similarity in the three. To pretend that they were representative of particular groups seemed ridiculous. These people were not really concerned about Womens Liberation. They were only concerned about maintaining their own status quo. It was almost laughable - their opinions were so completely subjective and expedient! Then I remembered a quotation