It is easy now to explain what was wrong with that existence-put simply: no matter how much she wanted, how hard she tried, or how qualified she was, Betty’s life could never be Carl’s-but it was not so easy to explain it when Friedan was writing her book. By any material measure, and relative to the aspirations of most people, she was one of the most privileged human beings on the planet. The only expectations were that she manage the care of her healthy and well-adjusted children and be responsible for the domestic needs of her husband. She was white and well educated she had a financially dependable husband and a big house in a crime-free neighborhood and she enjoyed the leisure to write, or do anything else she liked. The Friedans had household help three or four days a week, which allowed Betty to travel for her research and to commute into the city.įriedan was, in other words, the kind of woman she wrote her book about. Carl was an advertising executive Betty was a summa-cum-laude graduate of Smith who had been working for more than ten years as a successful freelance magazine writer. In 1963, the year she published “The Feminine Mystique,” Betty Friedan was living in Grand View-on-Hudson, New York, in an eleven-room house overlooking the river, with her husband, Carl, and their three children. Betty Friedan’s book gave American housewives a shock of recognition.
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