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.

In defense of Sansa Stark

The final season of the series, Game of Thrones, began last weekend. Naturally, this has sparked passionate discussion with friends and family over character romances, tinfoily fan theories, and most importantly, who will end up on the iron throne. One character’s cause that I’ve been particularly committed to lately is that of Sansa Stark.

At the beginning of the series, Sansa is a 13-year-old girl who enjoys embroidery and daydreams about marrying a prince. She aspires to be a proper royal lady, upholding tradition, which causes tension with her tomboyish younger sister, Arya. Initially, many viewers (including me) were put off by Sansa’s snobby demeanor, materialistic nature and naïve obsession with living a fairytale life. However, through the course of the show, Sansa endures a series of traumatic experiences which transform her from a callow child to an intelligent and resilient woman.

First, Sansa leaves her home and is betrothed to a destructive young prince, who soon orders her father killed (and makes her watch). Living with his family, she must conceal her grief and act agreeable, or risk her own life and the lives of the rest of her family. During her time living essentially as a prisoner, Sansa learns from others how to survive in such an environment. She meets other women who advise her to use her sexuality and charm to persuade men to do what she wants. In femininity, they find strength.

She later escapes this place with a quasi-family friend, Petyr Baelish, who is known throughout the kingdom for his manipulative and conniving ways. Nevertheless, she initially trusts that he has her best interests in mind. They take refuge with Sansa’s aunt, whom Baelish convinces to marry him so that he can gain control of her stronghold. Sansa then watches as he murders her aunt and frames another person, discovering that this is a trick he has pulled before.

Still, Sansa does not foresee Baelish’s next betrayal. He hands her off to be married to a sadistic man who has taken over Sansa’s home, and leaves. Her new husband brutally rapes her, beats her, and threatens her with violence. Eventually, she manages to stage another elaborate escape and sets off to find her brother.

Having endured years of physical, sexual and emotional abuse, Sansa displays extraordinary strength and grace. When she reunites with her brother, she immediately takes the lead on reclaiming their home, negotiating alliances and working toward unifying her family. She is no longer trapped in her prior passive role of being tossed from man to man.

The seventh season satisfyingly highlights the progress she has made. Aforementioned Baelish is back, and spends the season sowing seeds of discord between the Stark sisters. His interactions with Sansa echo those of prior seasons, particularly during the time when he “rescued” her from one dangerous situation only to throw her into another. Feigning concern for her safety, he tries to convince her that her sister is scheming against her.

In the final episode, it is revealed that Sansa had been pretending to believe him the entire time. She puts Baelish on trial for treason and sentences him to death. Before ordering his execution, she utters her iconic line, “I’m a slow learner, it’s true. But I learn.” Though he had dismissed her as gullible, Sansa was able to outwit a man not only famous for his insidious cleverness, but who had previously taken advantage of her. Her measured temperament, thoughtfulness and careful calculation brought her justice.

Despite this radical growth, many have not come around to the Sansa train. Perhaps it is true that “no character can ignite a fandom’s ugliest instincts more than a flawed teen girl doing her best.” I’ve had conversations about this with women who identify as feminists, and who continue to hate her character. They cite her prissy attitude at the beginning of the series and the fact that she is not aggressive enough in war (never mind her diplomacy).

Last week, a friend said that she would never like Sansa because she made a certain military maneuver once. In this case, Sansa’s brother, Jon, had refused to take her advice, so she negotiated an alliance on her own and saved their army from certain defeat. This strategy was a success, but my friend insisted that Sansa put her brothers at risk by not sending the allies in even sooner. This argument seems to imply that Sansa should have just worried about taking care of her family rather than thinking about the bigger picture, relegating her to the private sphere and a caretaking role.

Men in the series have made much riskier military endeavors resulting in tragedy. For example, in that very battle, Jon is provoked into charging too soon after the rival leader kills his brother (without Sansa’s secret plan they would have lost). His emotions overcome him and he falls into an obvious trap, yet I have never heard anyone suggest that he should have had more concern for his family or is too emotional to be a leader. Dismissed for her “feminine” qualities and criticized as heartless when she is strategic, Sansa is tied up in double standards.

Unlike other, more popular female characters (e.g., Arya and Daenerys), Sansa did not have the luxury of impulsively using violence to get her way. She could not rebel overtly against the people who held her captive, lest she be killed. So, like many women in the real world, she relied on her wit and negotiation skills to stay alive and attain her goals in a patriarchal society.

Women are often put in positions where lashing out is not a permissible response, and we cope with our emotions in other ways. This approach should not be devalued just because aggression and anger are the more accepted (masculine) way of accomplishing something. Stoicism should not be mistaken for weakness, nor rage for strength.

Perils of the modern arranged marriage process

Please note that the following reflects my personal experience and may not reflect the experiences of others engaged in the process.

As a practicing Muslim woman, there are two tenets of my faith that have colored my life: (1) a Muslim woman must not have sex before marriage, and (2) a Muslim woman must marry a Muslim man.

Based on these tenets, entrepreneur Shahzad Younas, aptly stated that "[M]uslims don't date, we marry." The question then becomes how we should get married without dating. There are three common avenues to meet one's spouse: (1) an affinity group in college, (2) Muslim-geared dating apps, and (3) arranged marriage.

Affinity groups (e.g., Muslim Student Association and Pakistani Student Association) not only served as inclusive, safe spaces for like-minded people, but served as hubs to meet a large number of other “eligible” Muslim Americans. Most of my friends have found their spouses in affinity groups and have gotten married by the time they graduate college. When I was a college student, law school was my dream—not marriage. To avoid the prospect of marriage ruining my academic ambitions, I dodged joining or affiliating myself with any kind of affinity group on campus. Because affinity groups were out of the question—and I was embarrassed to get on a dating app—my only other viable option was to opt for an arranged marriage.

Modern-day arranged marriages are very different from stereotypical arranged marriages where one (or both) parties were forced to partake in the marriage. I liken modern day arranged marriage, at least in the Pakistani-American community, to a very public Tinder arrangement. Basically, my “profile” comprises of my biodata which includes my name, age, height, education, parent’s education, and "profile pictures".

My biodata is given to a matchmaker in my community who later distributes it to matchmakers throughout the United States. This matchmaker, our “network”, serves as an intermediary between eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. The matchmakers assess my biodata and distribute it to men whom they think I would make a good fit for. They also assess and send me the biodatas of men whom they think would make a good fit for me.

If I liked someone, I would tell my parents I am interested in pursuing this relationship (“rishta”). That would be my version of “swiping right”. If I did not like someone, I would tell my parents I am not interested in pursuing this rishta ("swiping left"). The men went through the same process. If we both swiped right, we would meet each other and determine if we had a spark.

This process has been described as being “like dating fully endorsed by our families . . . there are no secrets or hiding.” During this entire process, I would have a say in whom I chose to marry. While the freedom of choice was exciting, the process has had a dark side in my experience. Almost every single man who received my biodata has “swiped left”.

My mom reached out to the matchmaker to ask why people were continuously swiping left. The matchmaker bluntly told her the following reasons for the continuous rejection: I was too fat, too old, too short, too dark, and too educated.

The ideal Pakistani mate would only have a college education, be fair-skinned, have long lustrous hair, and have the body measurements of a Victoria's Secret model. On top of these qualities, the woman needs to be seen as someone who would make a good housewife in terms of cooking, cleaning, and childrearing (e.g., June Cleaver). For women who fit the ideal Pakistani mate, the process has been empowering. It is the exact opposite for women who don’t tick one of these boxes—and I don’t tick any of these boxes.

I started this process when I was twenty years old, and I will twenty-five in June. To say this process has been debilitating is an understatement. Every ounce of professional confidence and growth during law school was crushed in my personal life because I did not fit the Pakistani ideal. I became increasingly anxious, depressed, and developed a sense of self-hatred.

Social cues from my cultural community told me to deprioritize my career ambition and focus on molding myself into the ideal Pakistani mate. This process feeds into the separate spheres ideology where women are expected to be caretakers and homemakers with the bodies of Victoria’s Secret models. I feel like the unrealistic expectations of the men (and their mothers) reflects how they view women: objects who serve a purpose.

I never wanted marriage to be an “accomplishment” I tick off. I grew up loving “love” and believed that form of intimacy and companionship can enrich someone’s life. I wanted marriage to be the culmination of a journey full of love and commitment. While every rejection may make me question my self-worth, in the long run, I know that men who choose women off of their ability to serve—rather than their ability to live their lives to their fullest extent—are not the right men for me.

In an attempt to add personality to my biodata, I wrote out a rishta "cover letter". Below is a short snippet from that letter:

As a woman, I have heard that I can have a family or a career. While I would love to have my own family one day, but I do not believe I have to give up my life’s work to have one. I want to enter into a strong partnership where we both support each other’s goals and dream . . . . If you are curious about my complexion, weight, or height, I do not think we would have a future together.

While my mother hasn't been convinced to attach this letter to my biodata, it was empowering to write because it reminded me that I am more than who I am on paper—and that has made all the difference.

Confessions of a feminist promo girl

While reading through the myriad of Spring 2019 feminist legal theory blog posts, I noticed a trend among many: A confession to being a bad feminist. Whether it was an admission to watching The Bachelor or participating in cultural, sexist traditions or religiously watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians, each author questioned their feminist identity.

After watching Roxane Gay’s Ted Talk on her “bad feminist” ways, I couldn’t help but to think of my own. So yes, I too confess: I am a bad feminist.

How? I absolutely capitalize on my femininity every weekend to help pay my way through law school.

As we all know, law school costs are an arm and a leg, and then some. To help pay for my living expenses, I work as a “promo girl” on the weekends. I essentially do promotional marketing, as an independent contractor, on behalf of marketing companies. Their clients are big alcohol brands like Bud Light, Stella Artois, Jim Beam, Maker’s Mark, Hornitos, Effen Vodka, and Courvoisier cognac just to name a few. I go wherever they send me - clubs, bars, restaurants, golf courses, or professional sports games - to provide complimentary alcohol samples, educate consumers on the brand, and most importantly, push sales. Even though I do not receive a commission, high sales equals job security.

The work itself is minimal. We simply get paid to talk to consumers and the shifts are just 4-5 hours long. I make my own schedule, so if I choose not to work during reading period, my employer is okay with that. Best part is the pay. If I work through the weekend, I can pocket anywhere between $500-800, which contributes to my monthly bills and permits me to financially assist family when needed. Sounds pretty nice, right?

Well let me explain the reality of it. Consumers see us in a different light. They treat us in ways they normally wouldn’t treat us if we were out of uniform. For instance, I’ve had consumers rub my back, touch my waist, and walk up and hug me out of nowhere. I’ve had consumers inappropriately comment on my body and tell me creepy things like, “I’ll buy anything from you looking like that.” I’ve even had a club owner tell me, “Didn’t your dad tell you to never give anything away for free?” He thought it was funny.

If you work in the industry, you know the unwanted touching, objectification, and inappropriate, sexual comments come with the territory. So generally, women learn to smile, laugh, and then turn to roll their eyes out of “professionalism.” However, I’ve never been one to play it off. I look at them with the “Seriously?” stare or I move so they stop touching me.

Even though that's my way of fighting the patriarchy in this field, I feel like I should do more, especially as a feminist. I’m already letting my fellow feminists down my conforming to the “promo girl” stereotypes and capitalizing on it. Further, I’m moving the movement backwards by being a part of an industry that normalizes the objectification of women, minimizing us as a whole. So the least I can do is say something or move their hand, and not feel bad about it.

I think there are two things in play here: 1) the power dynamic; and 2) who's responsible for educating the obnoxious consumers?

Even though our marketing companies say they do not tolerate sexual harassment and claim they want all promo girls to work in a safe and comfortable environment, none of us dare to report the things we endure for job security purposes. Many of us keep our mouths shut because the business reports back to our big company client, and if the business speaks highly of us, we will get booked more often. However, if we make waves at a business and that information flows up the ladder, we risk losing work.

To maintain steady employment, and thus pay our bills, we put up with the behavior. So like many women in other professions, there’s an embedded power dynamic that must be overcome to address the issue. We also need our employers to have our backs, and mean it.

Maybe then we will speak up without the fear of retaliation. But even if that were the case, should the onus really be on us? We already have to deal with the behavior, and now we have to treat it? But if not us, who is going to educate these people? You would think with all the public discourse on sexual harassment, consumers would treat us with respect, regardless of what we're wearing or doing, but I see from personal experience, we still have a long way to go.

So yes, I am a bad feminist on the weekends to make ends meet, but thanks to feminism, I have the freedom to choose to study law during the week and do promos on the weekends to pay for it. Additionally, thanks to this course, I’ve been empowered to speak up and educate the obnoxious hereon out…and that’s a promise to my feminist comrades, good and bad alike.