Before the word "sex" was corrupted to "gender" (which was before homosexual was turned into "gay"), feminists described women with a myriad of negative images.
Simone de Beauvoir said we made up the "second sex," as in "second-class citizens," and were little more than "human incubators" if we chose to give birth. Germaine Greer described the female as a "eunuch" no matter what she chose to do. Whether wife, mother, lover or even employee, she was in bondage to men through a metaphorical castration.
Whether we stepped along on high heels or in sneakers, danced on our toes or on taps, skated or jumped in the Olympics, we suffered from the moral equivalence of ancient foot-binding rituals. We stunted our growth.
But at the dawn of the sexual revolution, all that was supposed to have changed. We were told that the brave new world of woman was at hand, if only we would shed the feminine mystique and learn to "take it like a man." We could take our daughters to work, put our children in day care and exchange the bedroom for the boardroom.
"Unsex me!" cried some of the women using the words of Lady Macbeth, goading her husband to greater power, prescribing tough tactics that only men could understand. Others argued for a softer, more feminine approach, creating a better world through a "different voice" that was more "caring" than any man could create.
These two phases of feminism have alternated for the last three or four decades, spreading rhetorical confusion like a seesaw responding to shifting body weights. They're rarely seen in their purest form, but in following Hillary Clinton's journey on the national stage, it strikes me that no woman quite embodies both phases of feminism like she does.
I haven't read her book but, like a lot of other women (and men), I've read the excerpts and watched the interviews. Hillary changes colors like a chameleon traveling across an artist's palate. Watching her is to feel like Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade, the private eye in "The Maltese Falcon." When Spade listens to Brigid (Mary Astor), the woman who hired him and is caught lying for the umpteenth time, he marvels at her talent and tenacity. "You know," he says. "You're good. You're really good."