Who Wears the Pants at Your House?

The story of a woman in Sudan named Lubna Hussein who was tried on charges of indecency for wearing pants has sparked international outrage and indignation. Lubna, a journalist, was imprisoned until activists stepped forward to pay a $200 fine on her behalf. Much was made of the fact that despite what sounded like a kangaroo trial, she avoided the 40 lashes permissible under Islamic law for such an offense.

This deeply disturbing headline news took me back to my pre-Title IX girlhood. It was not unusual to hear Dad complaining: “The trouble with my father is that he lets my mother wear the pants.” A physician, Grandpa was happy to be relieved of any responsibilities beyond seeing his patients. Besides, Grandma, a smart, outgoing lady with a head for business, enjoyed running his office and otherwise taking charge of the practical details of their lives.

“In my house, I wear the pants,” Dad would say. Deep down a softy, he could also come across as a bully. Mom’s “I’ll need to talk this over with your father” response to requests ranging from could I have a friend sleep over to can I get new shoes” was so standard that it made more sense to go right to Dad – even if it meant facing his wrath or irritation.

Ironically, the black and white vacation snapshots with deckled edges show Mom wearing pants, riding jodhpurs to be specific, or Betty Grable type short shorts. When pants became fashionable for women’s casual wear in the ‘60’s, Grandma lamented the fact that she was too fat to wear pants.

As illustrated by the story emanating from the Sudan, the concept of wearing pants is really about empowerment of women, something far more threatening than indecency. Until I saw a Wikipedia entry on the subject, I had no idea that the passage of title IX in 1972 put an end to the requirement that girls wear skirts or dresses for school.

The entry made me think of that day in fourth grade, when Mom was sure the single digit temperatures would make it o.k. for me to wear corduroy pants to school. The only thing worse than being scolded by my teacher, Mrs. Hamburger, was witnessing the snickers of the other girls in my class.

In the New York City high schools of the 60’s, a few of us attempted to push the envelope by wearing culottes. When confronted by a teacher, we would claim to be wearing skirts. Ironically, the shortest of short skirts, just verging on “indecency,” and perhaps as demeaning to women as booty shorts, were considered acceptable.

I resisted wearing pants for work or evenings out until Dennis came into my life. A man with impeccable taste, my husband loves looking at clips of Greta Garbo and Katharine Hepburn in their flowing pants from the ‘30’s, and maintains that pants can be the height of elegance.

So it is that I, a woman with bad feet, have discovered that pants permit me to wear comfy loafers or satin flats with rhinestones, depending on the occasion, and also liberate me from the confines of pantyhose. And when I gave the first toast at Daphne and Etan’s wedding last November, I wore black chiffon palazzo pants.

Thank goodness Dennis has enough male self-confidence to feel good about both of us “wearing the pants.” After all, isn’t male insecurity what underpins the tyranny we’re observing in Sudan?