The Mechanic's Daughter

The Mechanic's Daughter Part 21: Do feminists shop?

April, the days warming. Time to buckle down for exams and think about the summer. There are jobs with the Ministry of Environment and the Joint Research Commission posted in the geography department. I didn't think I had much chance as a first year student, but Andrew said, "Apply and send them your paper on poisonous water or whatever, the one you got an A on."

The day I got my paper back I stood with Heather and Terry outside the classroom, as they read the comments over my shoulder. I was breathing deeply with the sense of having finally figured things out.

"Let me see." Sitting on the single chair in his apartment, an old oak banker's chair that he uses at his desk, Andrew held out his hand for the job application. "You see, you sell yourself short. Weren't you top of the class in grade thirteen?"

"I won the geography and the English awards."

"Put that in. Now all the work you've done with the women's group this year, where is that?"

"Why would they want to know that?"

"It speaks to your organizational abilities. Put in 'student organizer, women's self-defence course and women's consciousness-raising group.' Something like that."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Didn't your parents teach you anything?"

"Not these things."

"Under References here, get someone – your high school geography teacher or someone. And if you get an interview, wear the shortest skirt you have and your hair down."

"Are you telling me what to wear?"

"Just how to get a job." He smiled and put his arms around my waist. "If you get in the door, the skirt will do the rest."

"I'm not getting hired based on how I look."

"You can and will get a lot of things based on how you look, including my undivided attention. You might as well get something worthwhile. Besides, you're so smart, you'll be qualified for anything they throw at you."

I was prickly about a man telling me what to wear or what to do. I was particularly prickly about his blithe assertion that an attractive woman has an advantage in the hiring process. Barbara and Nora argued women were last hired, first fired – because men were in management positions and they liked to hire people just like themselves. But I followed his advice and got my paper copied. I let him show me how things might work in my favour. It wasn't the kind of thing I could learn at my father's knee.

The next hurdle was what to wear. Not my jean skirt or the dress with flowers my mother bought me last summer. The thought of having to choose clothing without Cheryl was overwhelming but my friends took me in hand.

"Brenda, we can make you look like a million bucks. Don't worry," Marion said.

"Do feminists shop?" Nikki asked.

"Yes, but they do it in a socially conscious and mutually supportive way. Let me get my bag."

She and Nikki came with me to the mall. Once we got out of the car, that was as far as I could go with confidence. I have never developed a talent for shopping. I stood hesitant inside the outer doors, staring at the rows of shop windows.

"Look at her. Geography major can't find her way," Nikki said.

Nikki picked a shop and Marion walked right in and started flipping through racks of clothing. She held things up to my face to see if the colour was right. She and Nikki began a discussion on skirt length which I didn't feel qualified to join. Skirts of mid-calf length were fashionable, but Nikki declared that will not do for me. They marched me through countless shops, ordering me to try on things that were way beyond my budget. If it looked right, they said, we'd find a cheaper version.

I tried on a professional suit with a long jacket and Nikki eyed me critically. "You look lost in that."

When I came out of the changeroom in a chiffon dress, she said I looked like my mother had dressed me for Sunday School.

Many of the more fashionable dresses and skirts were made of a stretchy polyester fabric, which felt cold against the skin. One dress I tried clung to me so tightly I could see the outline of my nipples. "Not professional looking," Marion declared.

It was hard to find things that small enough – skirt hems were too long and jackets hung awkwardly around my body. Then Marion convinced me to try on a black wool suit, the short jacket trimmed with bands of crushed velvet at the lapels. The skirt was just above the knee. Nikki brought me a fitted cotton blouse with lace at the cuffs.

"That's it," Marion said. "Buy that."

"It's much better than anything else we've seen – it has some style," Nikki said. "Who'd think you'd be so hard to dress."

"I keep thinking we shouldn't be so focused on appearance," I said. "Aren't women supposed to be getting beyond this?"

"Yes, but we live in the real world," Marion said. "It would take more than the full and complete liberation of women for people to stop noticing how we look."

Seeing myself in the suit, it seemed I might become an adult one day, maybe even do something with my life. I bought it, though it cost more than I wanted to spend. 

The interviewer from the Ministry of Environment wanted to know if I could type and I said yes, and had to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. But I turned on my full nerdy persona for the interview with the Research Commission. They asked me about my paper and we spoke for half an hour about contamination in ground water.