They shoot movies about monsters and beasts. They gave us The Fly, The Thing, The Deadly Mantis, The Blob, The Beast With A Thousand Eyes, The Creature From the Black Lagoon. But Hollywood only skirted the issue. Truth is not only stranger but infinitely more fraught with horror than fiction.
One night, as she sat all alone in her living room knitting a sweater for her husband, Ava happened to witness something so horrible, so heinous, so hideous that she nearly missed a stitch. This would have ruined the Statue of Liberty motif on the back of the sweater. What she saw - and saw on TV, the last place anyone would have expected to witness something so shocking - was a woman giving advice on sexual techniques. Worse yet, the woman employed graphics. Were it not for her fear of losing her rhythm, and thereby her place in her pattern, Ava would have risen to black out the horror. Sitting on the coffee table, within arm's length, was the remote control, but as Ava was a woman and therefore possessed of no technical skill, the device was useless. Her husband Asa had debated trying to show her how it worked in case she encountered something just like this, but he decided it would overtax her brain. "Besides," he told himself, "there's no danger of anything monstrous coming on the TV. It's a family medium; it's there to reinforce traditional values. Anything less would be unpatriotic." Yet there it was, in living color: sex techniques, replete with graphics showing everything in explicit detail. The show was entitled "A Woman's World."
"A Woman's World?" Ava thought. "Showing how to sin? What is this country coming to? A woman's world is right here, with her skeins and patterns and needles. And in the kitchen, cooking her husband's dinner. And in the basement, doing his laundry. It's not in some darkened room trying to make him sin! How truly perverse our sense of values has become! I'm ashamed for my country. Yes I am."
Ashamed for her country: when a woman as loyal and patriotic as Ava comes to feel shame for her country, something somewhere must be very, very wrong. But what? and how did it get that way? and what can be done to make it right again? Perhaps we can find some answers in a special news segment: Women's Forum, a five part series on the evening news at six.
The Six O'Clock News. With anchorpersons Sonja Beale and Bertram Mertz. Brought to you by your local volunteer fire department, which reminds you not to wear your polyester suit to bed unless you've made sure your cigarettes are out - dead out. And never - under any circumstances - attempt to pass gas around a lighted butane lamp. But if you must, slip a piece of very thin asbestos in the seat of your pants, holding your breath as you do. Thank you.
Now the news. Bert the Mert is wearing a cowboy hat and twirling a lasso: he will be hosting the Charity Rodeo at New Carrollton. Sone the Bone is reporting a landslide in the Pyrenees that buried 200 mountain climbers. Coming up: 1000 die in Bangladesh typhoon, 300 missionaries missing and presumed butchered by Amazonian headhunters, 40 million cockroaches escape from housing project in the Bronx, 80 missing children found in a pool of lime - and more! But first, a word from the makers of Jellico Jams: the jams with the new wave look.
A punk rocker with purple hair and a leather neck brace sings and dances his way across the screen. "Oh, it's jam today-day-a-a-de-day; and more jam tomorrow-orrow-oh-oh-moo-morrow." Now he stops singing and becomes serious. "Yes, it's jam today; and, yes, it's more jam tomorrow. But best of all, it's Jellico. Jellico Jam. The jam for all seasons. Full of good wholesome fruit and sugar and jam-packed into our new wave plasti-tainer. Polymers on the outside, plums and other delectables inside. Jellico Jam. The first choice of new wave rockers. Another fine product of United Fruits and Beverages."
Eventually it came time for the special segment. Woman's Forum. A five-part series exploring in depth in three and a half minutes the role of women in American society. Today, a report from the American Psychiatrical Society on what today's woman wants. "She's savvy. She's sexy. She's tough. And she's competitive. Today's woman would make a fine man. But is she happy? Can any woman feel truly fulfilled in the rough-and-tumble workaday world where it's every man for himself? The statistics seem to say 'No.' Though, admittedly, a lesser form of human existence, the evidence suggests that women prefer gentler, more cooperative modes of expression. Women were designed to care about other people. Where a man has an ego, a woman has a heart. Does that make her a second class citizen? Probably. But that too can be rewarding, fulfilling. Does it contribute anything to the life of the nation? Probably not. But it can be good for the soul. Consolation Prize: is that what it means to be a woman? Always having to settle for second best? We'll explore that in depth tomorrow."
Ava was aghast. Second best? Consolation prize? What, she wondered, did such concepts have to do with women? A woman's place was by her husband's side, not in some textbook. She didn't need a first class citizenship to knit his sweater, cook his supper, sweep his stairs, or to make sure his TV was turned to his favorite program. What in God's name had the world come to that people were debating such things as ego versus heart when yarns and yams were what really mattered?
"Something has got to be done," Ava resolved. "And soon, before they start allowing women to make important decisions or conduct public business. How can they imagine a woman has the ability to reason clearly enough for such things? Has the entire earth gone mad?"
Has it gone mad? Ava is asking. The mere fact that she feels compelled to ask points to a most unwholesome situation. She is beginning to feel that this is a task far beyond her capacity; so, even though it involves women almost exclusively, she is seriously considering asking her husband Asa for advice. In the back of her mind is the thought that, just maybe, beneath all these fluffy female concerns, lies a matter of national security - because what affects women affects the family, and since the preservation of the traditional nuclear family is one of the highest priorities of any decent society, this whole thing begins to look more important by the minute.
Ava is agitated. She can barely concentrate on her knitting. She sets it aside, for now there is a real danger she might miss a stitch. She longs for Asa's return - not that she's worried about him: she knows he is a decent, patriotic man and, as such, is under God's protection; but she realizes that this terrible problem must be handled as quickly as possible, before the very foundation of this nation she loves so dearly is shaken apart. Yet she knows he is at a state dinner and will not return for perhaps another hour. "If only I were a man," she says to herself, "I would know instinctively what to do. But I am only a woman. God have mercy on me."
She gets up and turns the TV to another station. There is a young woman talking about menarche. "Oh God," she despairs, "things are getting so far out of hand I wonder if even Asa can set them right again! How can they possibly allow such things to be discussed in public - especially on TV?" She hastily turns to another station. There is a movie about pre-marital sex. The word coitus is mentioned. Ava begins to grieve for her beloved country. "It may be too late already," she whispers. "Don't they know what a woman is all about? What her wifely duties are? Where her place is? How can they dispense all this misinformation, all these half-truths and untruths? What can I do? What can I do?"
Then, like a flash, a thought comes to her: the First Lady. Call the First Lady, explain the problem, ask her advice. Asa has such a fine rapport with the President, surely their respective wives should be able to discuss things once in a while. Ava goes to the telephone, picks up the receiver, but stops short of dialing. She is baffled by all these buttons and dials and letters and numbers. "How does it work?" she wonders. She has never used the phone before; she has never had to place a call - there has always been Asa whenever it was necessary to contact someone. "I must get this machine to work," she resolves. "True, I am only a woman - but I am also an American! I have the courage and the know-how to do it, no matter how impossible the task. I will place my call - I swear in the name of God and country, I will place my call!"
Ava starts dialing, at random, first one set of numbers then another, getting one after another unwanted party, until, at last, she hits the right combination. A lovely voice answers.
"This is the First Lady speaking. May I help you?"
Ava breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh yes, please," she replies. "This is Ava calling."
"Why, hello Ava," the First Lady says. "This is such a treat. I've been hoping we could have ourselves a nice little chat. How in the world are you, my dear?"
"I'm a little upset just now," Ava admits. "I've just uncovered a subversive plot to destroy the American family."
"Oh, my Lord, Ava, how perfectly horrible! Can you please hold on a moment: I want to run downstairs and make sure I remembered to lock the front door - you know how scatterbrained we women are! I'll be right back."
Ava is on hold. She takes this opportunity to say a prayer that the First Lady did not forget to lock the front door. Presently, the First Lady returns.
"It's alright," she reassures her caller, "it was locked. The White House is safe."
"Thank God," a relieved Ava says.
"Now, Ava, tell me more about this plot."
"Someone - I'm not sure who - is trying to distract women from their rightful duties. They're trying to corrupt us, make us wanton seducers and God only knows what else. And I'm sure I don't need to remind you how impressionable we women are. We just don't have the kind of strong minds our men have."
"So true, Ava, so true," the First Lady agrees. "I'll certainly inform the President of your concerns, Ava, when he returns. He should be back in an hour or so."
"That may be too late," Ava warns. "We may have to act on our own."
"On our own?" the First Lady seeks to make sure she heard correctly. There is a note of panic in her voice. "What can we do on our own? We're only women."
"That's true, we're only women. But we're something else too: we're Americans, first and foremost. And with that blessed gift, we should be able to rise to the occasion."
"What do you suggest we do, Ava?"
"I suggest we go on TV and explain to the American people what being a woman is all about before the subversives manage to completely destroy the American family! We may be only two, but I feel sure the force of our conviction will persuade decent women everywhere to see this new wave of propaganda for the wanton obscenity it is. In the meantime, perhaps you could telephone the local TV station - if you happen to have their number - and let them know you don't appreciate their showing sin and sedition under the guise of giving advice to American women. The very idea calling such horror stories 'Women's Forum' and 'Woman's World!' Why, it's blasphemy!"
Blasphemy, Ava is now calling it. And needless to say, Ava is a woman who chooses her words very carefully: her mentor, after all, was her husband Asa, who of all people knows the value of precise, accurate communication. So if Ava decides that something is blasphemous, rest assured things have taken a decided turn for the worse. But there is no time for despair; Ava is a woman with a mission. She must select the appropriate outfit. She goes to her closet and, after a moment's reflection, chooses a navy blue ankle-length dress with long sleeves, a white ruffle at the cuff, and a white collar. She completes her outfit with black oxfords, a little white hat and clutchbag, and a red brooch.
"If I'm to be on television," she is saying, "I must present to the American people the appropriate role model of womanhood."
As an afterthought, just before going out, she takes up her small red and green leatherette diary; in it are the maxims she has so carefully and lovingly gleaned over her many years of married life: observations, reflections, abstractions (in so far as her wifely mind can abstract), rules of etiquette, some old, some new, some borrowed, some original - all dedicated to her God, her country and her dear husband Asa. It is a book that any decent American woman would give her eye teeth to read, and Ava realizes this. In the back of her mind an imperative is growing - the imperative to share her insight with her fellow women. Perhaps the TV will provide the proper setting to unveil her little book.
The First Lady, meanwhile, has called the TV station to express her displeasure over the recent programming trends. "Ava and I feel very strongly that women should not be portrayed as sex-crazed maniacs," the First Lady is explaining to the station manager. "We demand equal time, so that decent women may feel they're being adequately represented on TV. Now, Ava and I can be at your station within the hour. We'd like to keep it as simple as possible. Nothing elaborate. Perhaps a picture of the Statue of Liberty in the background. A traditional song, or a hymn, played very low. Then we're announced. The First Lady and Ava - or Ava and the First Lady, whichever you prefer: it doesn't matter who gets top billing, our message to the American people is what matters. So we'll be there shortly. And thank you for your understanding cooperation. I'm sure my husband will be most pleased. Goodbye."
The last news of the day comes on: the 11 P.M. Report. Gorjo the Cajun Queen is substituting tonight for the regular anchor. She is beset with so many poignant stories she barely knows where to begin - perhaps none more poignant than that of Baby Minnie and Grandpa Moe. Both are in the terminal ward of Howard University Hospital. Baby Minnie was born with a hole in her heart, an abscess in her lungs and water on her poor little brain. "She's a survivor," her father is telling you. She will get an artificial heart; an electrode will be implanted in her brain; and she will be put on a respirator. "She's a survivor," her treating physician is telling you. Her great grandfather, Moe, lies in a coma. He is 92 and brain dead. His treating physician is the world renowned internist, Dr. P.T. Flambeaux. His kidneys have been removed, his liver is scheduled for removal tomorrow. "He's a survivor," Dr. Flambeaux is saying. Grandpa Moe has tubes up his nose, tubes down his throat, tubes leading to and from his veins, catheters front and back, and a little appliqué on the breast pocket of his hospital gown reading "We Shall Overcome." His legs have developed gangrene, his arms are turning blue. "He's a survivor," the head nurse is saying. "A real fighter." He has neither spleen nor pancreas. He has only one eye. His tongue has not moved in five years.
"Shades of General A.B.C. Smith?" the reporter is asking.
"He was a survivor too," comes the awesome reply.
"Calvin Twitler reporting from Howard University Hospital. Gorjo."
"Thank you, Cal. It warms your heart to hear about such fighters. Realistically, though, what are their chances?"
"Gor, word is they haven't a prayer. But they're survivors, so who knows?"
"Thank you, Cal. We'll be right back after this."
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Now something dreadful is happening - dreadful and ironic. Something which proves the very point Ava has been trying to make all along: wrong thinking in one area will lead to wrong thinking in other areas - ultimately, in all areas. A TV station that permits unwholesome programming soon forgets what is and what isn't proper. Gorjo the Cajun Queen, thoroughly jaded through association with so many monstrous - and monstrously false - notions of womanhood, has totally misunderstood the significance of the First Lady and Ava's appearance. To her everlasting shame, she introduces these wonderful ladies as if they were a vaudeville act.
"And now, for your entertainment, edification and enlightenment, we present - live, on our stage - direct from their successful White House engagement - ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome - The First Lady and Ava!"
The entire production crew has, in fact, become jaded from exposure to wrong thinking, for even the set is horribly inappropriate. The First Lady's request for the Statue of Liberty had been respected, but in a way too embarrassing for words. Instead of a lovely picture for a backdrop, there is somebody inside a costume in the background performing the Charleston.
When the First Lady and Ava make their appearance, there are catcalls, whistles and, worst of all, cries from the audience to "Take it off! Take it all off!" Some hideously jaded pervert shouts out "Foxy ladies! Hot mommas! What a couple of babes!" Ava is horrified, but keeps her composure, for she knows how desperately her wisdom is needed. The women of America are without proper guidance or standards, having been subjected to so many years of liberal doctrine that they have come to view themselves as equal to men: this is undoubtedly why the men in the audience are taking such liberties. Once they are made aware of woman's innate inferiority, they will quit and become respectful. Ava is anxious to begin, but waits for the First Lady to address the nation first.
"I just want to be your friend," the First Lady begins.
"For the night!" someone shouts.
"For always," the First Lady replies.
"Alright! Do it mamma!"
"I'd like to introduce to you a woman who will let you know just what it means to be an American woman. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ava."
Just as Ava starts to thank the First Lady for her gracious introduction, the dancer in the Statue of Liberty costume decides to do a few somersaults across the stage, followed by a brief series of goose-steps and a mock pas de deux. The audience goes wild. Ava patiently waits for the noise to die down.
"It's time we stopped doing the devil's work," she begins her speech, "and started doing God's work. It's time we stopped treating women as if they were the equal of men and started putting them back in the kitchen, the laundry room, the sewing room, where they belong. The women of America have got to stand up and be counted before it's too late. It's time we turned away from such abominations as 'Women's Forum,' 'Women's World' and the like, and turned to something true and worthwhile and decent."
Here Ava reaches deep into her purse and brings forth her little red and green book. "This is a summary of everything a woman should be doing, and shouldn't be doing. I've compiled it over the many wonderful years of my marriage to Asa. It's all a woman ever needs to guide her life. She need never walk alone; she can carry this with her wherever she goes. And whenever she's in doubt as to what's proper, what's acceptable, what's in the best interest of this great nation and therefore her own best interest, she need only take it out and read it and she will know. I offer it to you, the woman of America. Here, take it, read it, be inspired by its simple wisdom. Write me, let me know how you feel, what you think. I'm waiting to hear from you. And God bless you, America, from the bottom of my heart. Amen."
The response was overwhelming. Ava's Little Red and Green Book of Wifely Do-ties and Don-ties went into its 30th printing in just two weeks. Every decent woman in America had one by month's end. So great was its popularity, in fact, that it became the ultimate standard of womanhood: to have it was proof of a woman's worth, to be without it branded her a slut, a harlot and a possible subversive. Publishing House, Inc., whose creative genius had seen the book's potential and whose aggressive marketing kept it on the best seller list indefinitely, made enough money on it to retire from the publishing business.
As for Ava herself, she knew instinctively what was important in life. While the rest of the country debated the literary merits of her book - one critic likened her style to that of the Bible, another to the Declaration of Independence, a third to McGuffey's Reader - she calmly went about her business, knitting her husband Asa a commemorative sweater, secure in the knowledge that no ugly TV programming would disturb her tranquility this time. She need never again fear missing a stitch in time.