Gendered housework keeps grown men dependent on the women in their life

There are a lot of things that toxic masculinity takes away from people who identify as male. One of the most common ways in which we see toxic masculinity performed is men’s refusal to associate with things they deem “too feminine.” Men refuse to enter women’s clothing stores, they repress their emotions, they don’t do “women’s work,” and they regularly make fun of other men who do. Sometimes, it goes so far as to diminish their quality of life, but they will still refuse to let go of this “masculine” perspective.

My mother has always firmly believed that each person should have some basic life skills. For her, this includes anything you would need to know in order to live by yourself such as cooking, cleaning, laundry, sewing, and being able to do odd jobs around the house. For a lot of people, most of this is considered “women’s work.” In my house, it was just work. I would go to school as a young child and hear that other people’s moms handled the cooking and cleaning at their houses. When I mentioned to a classmate that I was responsible for doing the dishes each evening after dinner, he looked at me in shock and said that he had never even picked up his dishes from the dinner table before. It was probably because I’m a girl, he said. Boys don’t do housework.

According to my mother, that was pure laziness. My younger brother did just as much as I did, growing up and learning all of those same life skills as me. Every family member was responsible for their own mess, everyone was expected to help prepare meals, and every Saturday was cleaning day. On cleaning day, the whole family would divide up tasks and clean the whole house, top to bottom. No one was allowed to make other plans on Saturday afternoons, and only after finishing could you leave to do something else. She believes that it is important for each individual, regardless of gender, to be self-sufficient. She didn’t want us to have to depend on others to help us handle basic everyday tasks. For her, this was about growing up and being responsible adults. I got so used to seeing my brother work right alongside me that I forgot that other families, especially Panjabi families, don’t operate like that.

It wasn’t until I began college that I realized just how unprepared some people are to handle life on their own. One of my male friends invited me over to come see his new dorm room, and in my naivete, I did not think to take a hazmat suit. When I entered the suite, I realized really quickly that this man had never learned how to clean up after himself, and neither had any of his four roommates. I asked him why he was living like this, and he was genuinely surprised to see that this was strange to me. He explained that his mother would send him food each weekend and the cleaning consisted mostly of just taking out the trash. They used disposable plates and cutlery because none of them knew how to wash dishes, and evidently no one had ever taught them how to clean a bathroom. Suffice to say I never went back.

Sadly, this was not an isolated incident. It seemed like a lot of my Panjabi male friends simply didn’t know how to live on their own, while the majority of the Panjabi women were much better at it. It seemed that the training women received at home while growing up was not also given to the men, and their moms just did everything for them until they got married. After that, all of this was their wife’s job. It still surprises me that people like my friend and his roommates choose to live in a dirty apartment, risking illness from bacteria instead of learning to do this kind of “women’s work.” Another friend of mine made sure his sister transferred to the same school as him so that they could live together and she could handle all the cooking and cleaning for him.

Along with the emotional labour that many women put into their relationships with men, we are also expected to maintain their standard of living. Interestingly enough, while some men see this as the woman being subservient to them, it also means that they are highly dependent upon the woman for very simple basic tasks. My argument (and my mother’s) has always been a little bit different from what I normally hear. I think men should equally share in the housework, but not just because it makes women’s lives easier. I believe it improves men’s lives—it forces them to grow up and handle being responsible for their own mess. Perhaps they will be able to apply this skill to other parts of their lives as well. 

Affinity groups and emotional labour

Coming into law school as a 1L, it was really important for me to see myself represented in the student body. It was important for me to see other students from my community who could relate to my experiences and understand how I was feeling at the time. The school administration could not provide that for me—it was something that only a community of my peers could do. This is where affinity groups play such a crucial role for students.

A few months ago, the Middle Eastern and South Asian Law Students Association (MESALSA) held an admissions panel for Middle Eastern and South Asian (MESA) undergraduate students interested in applying to law school. We had a variety of current MESA law students speak about their background, how they became interested in law as a career, what type of law they wished to practice, and what their application materials looked like. We offered specific advice catered to minority students, and attendees were able to ask questions to the panelists and ask how their ethnic background has affected their budding legal careers. MESALSA is thus helping guide these undergraduates to and through law school.

In essence, we offer mentorship for aspiring and current law students. In an environment as harsh as that of law school, affinity groups look out for their members because we understand their specific experiences, and we know that the school cannot provide the help that these students need. Affinity groups provide safe spaces for students to ask questions, admit that they need help, and get the community-based support that they need to get through law school. This is a feminist space: affinity groups provide support to marginalized communities represented at King Hall and attempt to uplift themselves and each other. I wish I had had this kind of event offered at my undergraduate institution. It would have been a game changer for me, and would be encouraged me much more to pursue a career in law. Knowing that others like me have successfully done this before me would have greatly aided me in getting over my imposter syndrome.

However, much of the labour that affinity groups perform is an attempt to get minority students the same type of representation, resources, and sense of belonging that white students have. Making students feel like they belong in law school and overcome imposter syndrome, for example, is a wonderful thing for affinity groups—but it shouldn’t be their job. Connecting students to people in the legal field from their ethnic group also should not be the responsibility of affinity groups. Supporting struggling students through tough exam periods and mental health crises is wonderful, but again it should not fall to affinity groups to take on that responsibility.

At the end of the day, affinity groups are also made of students. These students end up having to complete their own workload from school, but also mentor and be available for their peers. Students of colour end up having to do a lot of emotional labour to support each other and take on these extra responsibilities. In addition, many times the student who is expected to provide guidance and mentorship is also going through these same problems themselves. They may not be able to or have the energy to provide help, but they know that they are the only ones who will, so they strain themselves and try anyway. This is extra labour that white cis male students do not have to do for each other, as these institutions are built specifically for them. Not only do they already have a leg up on everyone else, they now have less emotional labour to do, putting them in a better position than everyone else once again.

Instead of relying on affinity groups to do these jobs, the school needs to take responsibility for the wellbeing of its own students. Perhaps the school could collaborate with affinity groups and have staff dedicated to student engagement. These staff members could collaborate with affinity groups to put together culture week events and other events throughout the year, taking responsibility for most of the labour involved. That way, affinity groups could make sure they provide their students with what the students need, and they do not have to take on as much emotional labour as before. These staff members could also be responsible for maintaining a list of organizations and individual members of the legal field that they actively connect students with, perhaps by organizing more networking opportunities or creating programs where those professionals interact with students on a more consistent basis.

Supporting marginalized groups has always been integral to intersectional feminism. Perhaps by implementing even small changes like this, law schools can become a little bit more inclusive and feminist, making it easier for all students to succeed.

Law schools don't know how to deal with depressed students

There is a very dangerous assumption that law professors tend to make unless and until told otherwise: that their students are all neurotypical. Professors’ lack of understanding about this issue is especially confusing considering the high number of law students who are affected by mental illness. Depression and anxiety are extremely common amongst law students, yet professors and school administrators structure their classes and programs without considering what the students will be able to handle.

I have both depression and anxiety, and I have been dealing with both for a few years now. My mental health (or lack thereof) affects my legal education, and sometimes I cannot keep up with my coursework. Some days, I am fine— I can prepare for class and be fully engaged. Other days, even making it out of bed and into the classroom is a battle. I choose to be a law student and I value this opportunity, but sometimes I just cannot do all that is expected of me. I am far from the only law student who deals with these issues, and yet professors repeatedly create policies and entertain assumptions that are detrimental to students like me.

In the first semester of my second year, I took a class with a professor who had very high expectations of their students. They were very kind and accommodating, and regularly checked in with the students in the class to see if we were okay. They adjusted assignment guidelines to make them more convenient for us and offered extra credit at the end of the term because they knew some of us were only one point away from an A grade. However, they had a very rigid attendance policy: any absences had to be approved by the registrar. It seemed strange for such an accommodating professor to have such a policy, and although this added procedure did make sure I did not miss class, it also meant that I sacrificed my health to be there. It was too overwhelming to have to go to the registrar’s office and explain that my mental health was bad. It was possible that they wouldn’t believe me, and that I would have to defend myself. Sometimes they ask for documentation, so I would have to go see a counsellor and get a note to confirm that I was in fact feeling ill. It was a lot of effort for a person who already cannot get out of bed. So, if I was unwell, I still came to class, and the mental exhaustion made my depression and anxiety even worse.

In the same semester, I was registered in a class that I quite enjoyed. I participated regularly, attended all class sessions, and stayed in touch with the professor regarding assignments as the semester progressed. In the middle of the term, when I was dealing with a particularly bad bout of depression and anxiety and was unable to do any work, I missed an assignment deadline. Instead of checking in to see why I had not submitted the assignment, the professor chose to email me and reprimand me for missing the deadline. I was informed of how many marks I would be losing and how that would affect my final grade. I was told to take my education more seriously. They did not ask me if I was okay or why I had suddenly stopped responding. At this point, they had no knowledge of what had happened, and no reason to believe that I was not taking my schooling seriously. Yet, this is the first thing that they thought of, and assumed that it must be true.

Receiving this email only made my anxiety worse, and I found myself unable to put any effort into my coursework. Later that day, I had an anxiety attack. Luckily, I spoke with Chris from the Academic Success office and he told me that I could drop the class if I wished, but I had to get that professor to sign my drop card. When I emailed this professor the next day, I explained my situation and asked them to sign the card. This was my first communication with them since missing the deadline. Suddenly, their entire demeanor changed and they sent me a list of on-campus resources for mental health support, which I would have appreciated much more if they had bothered to check in in the first place. Sending this email now seemed like an empty gesture, and it was not at all appreciated.

Although I was struggling, my mental health was thankfully not in terribly bad shape at the time. However, this professor did not know that. What if my mental state had been much more fragile? Why did they not consider the impact of their words upon their students? Why did they assume that failing to complete an assignment was me being lazy and unappreciative of my education? The only thing they needed to do was reach out and ask what was happening, but they chose not to do so. It baffles me because so many law students deal with mental illness like depression and anxiety, and it cannot be a new experience for professors to see their students show signs of it. So why did I have to come out and explain my problem before they realized that I might not be healthy enough to do it?

Law professors and administrators need to be much more cognizant of the ways in which their policies affect their students. All too often, myself and my peers end up losing entire nights of sleep to prepare for class because of the outrageous amount of homework, and this happens consistently each week. Many times, we miss meals because we are too busy to eat, and often we don’t go outside at all. Consistently assigning this much work means that they make the assumption that the student can keep up with it and remain in good health while doing it. I see professors regularly get upset when students are not prepared for class, but the workload is just so intense that sometimes we students have to prioritize our health. Professors and schools need to take a hard look at their own policies and assumptions and how they affect their students. It is the school’s job to take care of their students—or at least to not actively cause harm to them.