It's not you

So I just finished an intensely sad song, which is actually kinda fun to sing in a really depressing way.

It's not you

You told me I was closed up like a box of secrets
and that you couldn't find the key,
or even a hammer to break me open,
but if you did, you would only find me broken

it's not you, my love.
My skin is made of sand
and every time you touch my skin
you tear my castle down.

I waited for the moment when I could be silent
and listen to the beating of our hearts.
But all I heard was whispers 'bout my shame...
couldn't hear you calling out my name

it's not you, my love.
My heart is made of wool
and every time you wash me over
I shrink away and fade.

I couldn't find a place to hide your love in my body
even if you broke through every bone.
It would slip away and fall 'fore I could say
"Sew me up and throw the needle away."

It's not you, my love.
My hands are made of flowers
and every time you hold them close,
you bruise their gentle viens.

The things I learned at Cooper's Hardware

There were never more than two people working at Cooper’s Hardware Store, my Uncle Lorn Cooper in the back, and Debbie Ann Freeman at the register. When Debbie Ann had her babies, she’d be replaced for three months by some recent high school graduate, but she vowed she’d quit after five, and when I walked into the store that afternoon, she appeared to have kept her promise. Everybody knows that a hardware store is the life blood of a town like Walhalla, so when you got in line at Cooper’s you’d better be prepared to wait a good long piece while Mr. So and So and Debbie Ann talked about Mrs. So and So’s prize-winning petunias, or got caught up on who all got saved at the last tent revival at Walhalla First Baptist. You’d know the conversation was just beginning if you saw Debbie Ann’s head bobbing up and down, nice and polite, like a marionette with her head-string cut loose. You’d know they were right in the middle of the good stuff if Debbie Ann put her water-retaining hands up to her Bashful Pink lips, and gently patted it while inhaling dramatically, like a Cherokee warrior about to hoot and holler. And you’d know it was your turn soon when Debbie Ann started fiddling with the cash register and rearranging the bleached-blonde haystack she called hair.
Debbie Ann’s was nodding away when I came up to the register, so I know not to be in a hurry. This old man and I came up to the line at the same time and we have a moment. You know the moment I’m talking about, before I could tell if he should be before of after me. He’s doing a little dance shuffle change shuffle change so that his pot-belly moves jerks around like an armadillo in heat. He looked more pregnant then than Debbie Ann had ever looked. It was the kind of belly that you’d have to fall in love with to keep it. I’d like to have seen him do the cha-cha.
He looked me up and down, like a slow motion version of Debbie Ann’s head bob. He smiled with only one side of his mouth curling up. Go ahead darlin', I ain't in no hurry. His beard looked like over-cooked grits, crusted around his chin, stark white with peppered spots. He continued his belly dance as I edged forward, ducking my head in appreciation. If I had been a man and been wearing a hat I would have touched the brim, but as a girl, meekness was the only appropriate response to chivalry.
I had a small load, sticky mouse traps and a set of spark plugs Uncle Lorn had set aside for my dad. I was fifteen and had just gotten my full license and was grateful for any small errands to run on the weekends. I set my things down on the counter as Debbie Ann made preparations for her Indian war whoop, knowing that it would still be a while.
I feigned interested in the automotive magazines by the register, until his dance halted and he stood still long enough to slide his thumbs underneath his suspenders and slap them against that enormous mound of flesh and muscle. He asked me about school, resuming his frantic sway. On a small child, the movements would have fit, but here was a grown man, grown old, that child still trapped inside. I answered in no and yes sirs.
He never finished school. I reckon you don't really need to 'round here. He motioned toward my purchase, his hand flicking in amusement. He smiled with teeth stained from sweet tea and chewing tobacco and patted his belly, grounding himself. All you need to know 'round here's that Mexican’s are afraid of your dogs, black kids can’t swim, and girls, sure as hell
don't buy spark plugs.

Jealousy

My job is becoming more and more Nanny Diaryish as the weeks go on. There is so much jealousy in this house between parents, and now it seems I am contributing my own. I don't know if I would call it jealousy exactly, but a fierce Mama Bear mentality that I'm not actually entitled do. J and D have stopped fighting with eachother and are now fighting over poor S. Its like they are both tugging on her arms and for a while she thinks it is fun, but then it starts to hurt. And I just want to stand up and yell "Don't you dare hurt my baby." Lately they've taken to coming down to "play" with S at random times during the day, and I find myself growing jealous and resentful, like I'm having her stolen from me. I've been at this job for 4 months now, and while that may not seem like very long, I am totally and completely attached to this kid. Lately I've ditched "naptime" and started just taking her into her room and holding her and singing to her until she falls asleep in my arms, perfectly peaceful, and perfectly safe. I have the primal urge to protect her from all this tension raging around her. I keep feeling that I really need to detach myself, but I don't know how, or even if I can.
And then I came to a realization tonight of what the psychology behind my actions is. In a way...in the back of my consiousness...S is actually me. I have this intense desire to be nothing but a place of love for her, like a shield against everything out of our control. That maybe if I can just love her the right way for even a little while, she'll develop an immunity against what I can only see as a troubled life of privilege, appearances, and expectations. It's terribly presumptuous of me, I know. Who am I to judge? I'm the one that is already premeditating a cold, calculated, and heartless abandonment of this same child that I "love."
Sigh.

Cheerio!

I’m sick of being here. I mean, part of me loves it here. London really is a fascinating city. But I am so in need of some space. I am about to start my period, so I am restless and irritable in the first place. But I just want to get back into a kind of routine where I am not “on” every second. D and J have not stopped partying and shopping since we got here, which means that Stevie and I have been pretty much on our own (or following them around…worse) every day from when she wakes up to when she goes to bed. I haven’t had a day off in 10 days and I really need my time off so that I can feel refreshed and okay with being a house elf. I guess part of my craziness comes from my PMS (I’m really not myself), but I am so sick of J and D. Their idea of spending quality time with Stevie is by having me and her tag along while they go into trendy boutiques with blaring techno music or into dull modern art shows. And poor Stevie is just bored out of her fucking mind. But mostly they are just bugging the shit out of me with their lofty attitudes and superficial lifestyle. I shouldn’t say this really, they showed me a little compassion today and let me off for 4 hours alone while they did more shopping with Stevie. I went to the Imperial War Museum (which was AMAZING) and the Sherlock Holmes Museum (which was quaint but nothing crazy). There are so many beautiful and interesting places in this city, and parks to die for…and they spend all their time spending money at expensive designer stores identical to the ones in New York. I don’t get it. I’m not looking forward to our 8.5 hour flight home on the crappy Air India, but at least home is at the end of it. I can turn on my music, check my email, call my family and friends, shut the door and curl up in bed with a good book. I’ve been so isolated here. I can’t sleep because I know that Stevie is in the next room, and usually D and J don’t get home until 3 or 4 am and so I sort of anticipate their coming even though it doesn’t matter really (I can just relax more).
Oh, and what am I getting for my troubles? An extra 100 dollars added to my paycheck on Friday. Whoop-de-fucking-do! Sod it all, as they say. Maybe they’ll let me have a long weekend. I think they know I am annoyed. I try very hard to be nice and polite and helpful, but I do have passive-aggressive tendencies, and my face is an open book (or so I am told).
Stevie broke a little candle holder in the apartment today. It was just a little glass thing but it shattered all over the bathroom floor. So of course I feel totally responsible and miserable. It probably cost this guy like 2 pounds at a junk shop, but I still feel shitty about it, even though it was just an accident. I spent an hour picking up teeny little glass shards.
I don’t know why we aren’t just staying at a hotel. I mean, these people are loaded. But the apartment is D’s good friend from Oxford. He actually dropped in on Stevie and me the other day and was super nice. Actually all D’s friends that I’ve met are really nice...his Oxford chums. And D has been very inclusive of me, which is actually nice. Most of them are history and anthropology types and so I’ve had some interesting conversations with his friends. It’s a nice break from being a wallflower.

Grrr...

I had a bad week. I guess it just started off rotten. Leah told me about Jarod which really knocked me flat even though I almost knew before she ever came. But worse was that I couldn't feel the pain of his death the way I thought I needed to. I had a few moments of release, but mostly I just felt cold and numb, like I was in an over air-conditioned room trying to sleep with nothing but a sheet to cover me up...restless and grouchy. It was much easier to feel with Leah beside me, partly because I feel the loss most strongly because of her place within it. And then my other life just came pouring back in. J and D called me at the train station and wanted me to come babysit because her parents had surprised them. And I've been irritated with them since. But I've always gotten like this with the people around me when I'm dealing with a loss...like I just want to throttle them and yell "would you stop complaining about the way your wine glass cabinets are designed and open your fucking eyes!" And S has been teething and cranky all week, and somewhere in the back of my mind I just wish that she'd show some sensitivity to my state of mind...which is ridiculous. Whenever I get frustrated with S and feel incompetent, it is never really about her, but about something her parents have done. I can totally deal with a cranky baby in a great way. Put when her parents are being obnoxious or unsupportive or distracted, I get irritated with their stuff and have a harder time handling S's more understandable troubles. (Don't worry...they can't read this...I did a google search and my blog doesn't come up in any obvious searches.) Something that has really gotten to me this week is the way that they hate to be at all inconvenienced or annoyed by S. Several times when S has been in the least bit cranky (she's usually angelic) during the two hours that they are up with her in the morning, they refuse to just deal. They'll just say "she's really tired," give her a bottle and plop her down in the crib to scream herself into exhaustion. I think parenting for normal people is not "perfectly enchanting" at least 50% of the time. Let's say for our average person, parenting is 10% perfectly enchanting, 30% banal, 30% tiring (in positive and negative ways), and 30% frustrating. Well, since these people have a full-time nanny (me), and confessed (only partially in just) that "we don't change our lifestyle for S," they expect parenting to be at least 70% perfectly enchanting, and once they've put up with the 30% other, they just can't handle it. I mean, S isn't exhausted and cranky 2 hours after her 12 hour sleep! She's just a normal baby who isn't totally wonderful and angelic 24/7. You can't just plop her down in a crib and let her wail pitifully just because you are bored. Whenever this happens, she's totally shaken up for the rest of the day, even if I sneak in after her parents leave and calm her down and put her to sleep properly. It DRIVES ME CRAZY!! Rant over. Well not quite. They've also asked me to babysit tonight in addition to last night, the excuse being that her parents are still in town (don't they have lives). J committed the most obnoxious sin yesterday when she read the slight annoyance on my face (open book), and said "Thanks for being so flexible with us, Maura." There is nothing I hate more than being thanked for something I didn't willingly give. Remember those teachers who would say (in sweet voices) "Thank you for being quiet" when everybody was loud. Oooo, I hated that.
Oh and the other thing (now that I'm on a roll) is her her parents. They have been here for the better part of a week and have spent less than 5 hours with S total. I mean, what is the point? They live 1000 miles away, but they don't bother to spend quality time with their only daughter's child when they are in the same city. They've been doing the whole socialite thing, visiting museums and going to parties. I mean, if I was living a thousand miles away and had a baby and my parents came to visit me for a week and didn't find it necessary to actually get to see my baby, I'd be heartbroken. Not that that would ever happen. In my case, I'd probably have to whine and fuss just to get to hold my own baby. They were the same way in aspen...only affectionate if it was convenient or there was nothing better to do. I guess it makes sense that J would be similar.
Okay, now I'm really done.
I'm off to go enjoy my weekend (what's left of it after I've slept most of the day away.

Crickey ;c(

Steve Irwin died yesterday. That sweet, loud, passionate Aussie who we all knew was off his rocker. We all knew that a croc was going to gobble up his head one of these days, but instead he died when a large sting ray pierced his heart, something so rare and unlikely that we can't even say he had it coming. As someone who has become slightly addicted to Animal Planet, I'm really going to miss him. Maybe his spirit will find a crocodile to inhabit.

Boudoir

All of my pictures look like boudoir shots, and well, they are. I think I am developing a narcissistic (sp?) thing. I just can't stop taking pictures of myself. I'm currently trying to copy The Half-Blood Prince on to my computer (my old one, not this one) so that I put it onto my ipod. So far I have 5 disks (out of 17) because it is so incredibly slow. I haven't taken my computer into the shop because, as luck would have it, it hasn't frozen up since I talked to the Apple guy. I've had a dull labor day weekend. All my friends that were in the city are now back at Bard, and my one friend in the city has family in town. So I've done pretty much nothing. There aren't even any movies I want to see. I went shopping today. I went all the way out to the Target in Brooklyn and then didn't actually get anything. AND I accidently exited the subway when making my transfer, so I had to pay twice to get there. I then made the rounds of cheap places in NY, only having luck at Old Navy where I got three nice looking fall shirts (50%off) and tanks to go under them, only to find out when I got home that one of the shirts was not the size I thought it was. Grrr. So I'll have to take it back maybe tomorrow before they are all gone.
I had a funny little interlude in the checkout line at Guitar Center. I bought some picks and a string winder thingy, and then I dropped a ten dollar bill into a poster box that was subdivided into little not-hand-sized slots. So the guy at the register stuck the gum that was in his mouth onto a rolled up poster and retrieved my money. I was so impressed. I mean, what good quick thinking. So we laughed a bunch and talked a little about music (he plays mandolin) and he gave me his number (in a totally non-creepy way). So who knows, maybe I'll add to my very short list of friends. I went to Burlington Coat Factory and tried to find a rain/fall jacket with no luck. All I could find were these big puffy winter coats that I DON'T need...yet, at least. I will need one, perhaps. I'm afraid I wouldn't be very NYC sheik walking down Park Ave in my big red coat with my name embroidered on it, and my big furry bear coat won't fair much better. I did buy batteries today for all the things in my life that need batteries (one unmentionable thing in particular). So all in all, a decently productive day. Mostly I just needed to get out and couldn't think of anything better to do. Tomorrow I may head to central park and go get a sunburn before winter comes. I am dreading it, even though I know it won't be as bad in the city as it was at Bard. Fall is so short.
Sept. 11th is coming up this week, and it feels strange to be in a city so affected by it, and not really be a part of it. There is such a huge difference between those of us who watched it all happen on TV (and now movies...thanks Hollywood) and those who really lived the horror and lost loved ones and breathed in ash for weeks on end. There has been a lot of 5 year anniversary stuff going on here, and it reminds me of how particularly vulnerable NYC still is. I certainly don't feel safer now that we have pissed off everybody and their brothers. I mean, lets face it, nobody is going to crash a plane into Liberty, SC or Bard College (unless it is an accident of course).
On a much lighter note, I think I have a crush on Cesar Milan. Lets not get into the psychology of that.

More fun with PhotoBooth: me, my room, guitar

Funds

I'm drowning in material satisfaction right now. I have my new mac laptop and a new super pretty guitar. So starting next paycheck, I'm going to start really saving. It's really hard to live cheap in the city, but I'm working on it. My library fines are paid so I can stop frequenting Borders, and I also have to limit my movie intake (at 12 bucks a pop). I would be absolutely ashamed if I did not save tons and tons of money when I am making what many people are raising large family's on. But it is so easy. It would be easy as pie to lay down 100 dollars a day in this city. Coffee, a movie, dinner, a book, a CD and you are set. I gave some money to MaterCare today. I'd rather support smaller, more specific charities than the big ones like Red Cross. I'm going to try to give every two months. I just think it is a habit i should get into especially now that I am actually making some money.

Here's some pics I took with the camera in my computer.

Mostly for Leah's Benefit

Okay, so I'm going to start blogging again, as I start this fairly scary part of my life...or at least I hope I start it. My newest prospective family failed to call me yesterday, which makes me nervous, and the stupid agency hasn't called me either! Slackers, all of ya!

I am getting really antsy here...tired of being in the dark about the next year and a half of my life. It feels like such a purgatory, a place of being where all I have the power to do is worry and stress. I am definitely not enjoying my downtime. It would be totally different if I had a job lined up. I could relax, take a trip to the beach for a few days. Write. Watch movies. Play with the dogs. Instead, all of my actions are transitory and my place here on shaky footing, libel to change at any moment. I never know what the next day has in store for me. No clue. This does not suit my personality, as we all know.

I just finished this really great book called The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Neffenegger (or something to that affect. The premise is...When Henry meets Clare, he is meeting her for the first time, but Clare has been meeting him since she was six years old. Henry is a time traveler who can move backwards and sometimes forward in his own history or the history of those he loves (ie...Clare). Clare is his wife in Henry's adult present, but in his adulthood, he visits the child version of his wife. Anyway, it's really mind boggling, well-written, and very emotional. I've got a list of about 12 books that I would like to read. I think I'll start with the Nanny Diaries, since everyone has been telling me I HAVE to read it before becoming a nanny in NYC.

I just want to be out of here. There is too much not being said.

Maura Hugs

So I'm writing a court statement for Kayla's aunt Ellen. I've known second hand about this aunt for a long time and heard some real horror stories about his awful abuse.. (ex. once her soon-to-be ex-husband took her outside and tied her down while he dug her grave in their front yard). Evidently she's left him about a dozen times throughout their turbulent 27 year marriage, but this time it is for real. Anyway, Kayla and Mattie asked if I would help her write her court statement, and at first I couldn't understand why Ellen would want a perfect stranger to do that, but I soon found out. I soon found myself to be the caretaker of twenty handwritten pages that represents the saddest marriage I've ever come across. In these pages she has listed every horrible detail...when her husband beat up their pregnant daughter, or how he'd humiliated her by calling her a stupid whore in front of her family when she expressed interest in going back to school, or how he'd refuse to give his wife money for food and then bring home take-out and eat it in front of her hungry kids, or how he pulled a gun on her when she served him divorce papers. The list goes on and on, peppered with heartwrenching comments like "he made me feel like I was nothing" or "I prayed to God to get me away but no help come" or "I did love him. love he killed. destroyed my love to him."
Ellen wrote out all these things the best way she knew how. Every other word is misspelled. She can hardly constuct a coherent sentence. And here on these pieces of paper is more pain and anguish and heartache than I will probably ever have to feel. 27 years of fear and anger and self-loathing and hunger and hurting. I feel like I've got a big dirty secret in my hands. Something I don't have a right to touch because of my place as the advantaged in this land of poverty. I'm glad I can help her. Use my education to help other people take her suffering seriously. But it has been a big wakeup call.
When I met Ellen, I felt really out of touch...or like she needed me to be super professional so that she could trust me with this secret. Mattie introduced me to her and said: "Here, you come over here and get yourself a Maura hug. Ain't nothing feel better than a Maura hug." Mattie is always gushing about me. I spend most of my time with her blushing. Usually she introduces me as the one who made it all the way up to NEW YORK (and she says it like that...capital letters). But she didn't this time. And I realized that I wasn't needed there as a hero or someone to sweep down and show them how it's done. Ellen needed a friend who could help her out. I just needed to be myself. I've always been able to get in touch with my strictly trashy side when I'm with Kayla's family. We sat there in her kitchen and giggled over great stories. Mattie told everyone about her experiences watching two live autopsies. Mattie, Ellen, and Brendie talked about the penises they had encountered in their lifetimes. Kayla's ugly mut pooped on the table and we all squealed in disgust. Mattie insisted that we all depart with a load of cherry chocolate ice cream. And Ellen took me aside and threw her arms around me and said "thank you for doing this for me" real soft in my ear.

In the same vein...Jeff talked to me about being a bridge person. In a town like this, when you make it out, you are supposed to be able to come back and be impressive. They want you to come back with money, a fancy education, a successful Yankee boyfriend, impeccable style. If you don't, then what's the point. If you don't fit the mold of hometown girl making it in the big world, then they still pretend that you do. And you feel obligated to fill that expectation or follow along in the farce. And there's always a fine line between making everyone proud or getting too big for your britches. I feel like I'm always toeing that line and have small chance of feeling whole here.
And yet, there are so many expectations up north too. I'm supposed to be the charming southerner. "I LOVE your accent." (just once I'd like to reply "yeah, I can't stand yours") People are surprised at my successes when they find out where I am from. As if brains are more impressive when you come from a land of mass ignorance
But that's not where I'm from. People aren't stupid here. And I'd take ignorance any day over arrogance.
I don't really know what I'm saying. I just feel a little lost now, like I'm not sure where I'll ever belong. I'm sick of the attention in both worlds. Why can't I just be the girl that gives great hugs?

My last paper of my undergraduate career....

and I plastered it together in about 6 hours and handed it in with an apology. Hopefully Andrew will understand. I think J may have talked to him, because he was really nice to me today. I needed it.

Weakly Wayward Women:
The Harlots and Cross-Dressers of Revisionist Westerns

Time magazine calls Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven, the first “revisionist” western, a movie that sought to subjugate and then revise the types and themes of the traditional western that dominated the first half of American film history. It was critically acclaimed as having truly revised the western genre in a way that none before it had. Unforgiven reveals the face of the Western imagination that other westerns had not dared to show. The gruesome realities of life on the frontier and the consequences of lawlessness are presented without filter. In Unforgiven, whores get beaten and cut up, horses get shot, pistol-whippings cause long-lasting and live-threatening injury, people die slowly without dignity, killers have consciences, and heroes cry.
Especially noteworthy in this film is its women. Unforgiven’s whores in Skinny’s saloon are at once brutally victimized and yet hold a very important, albeit shaky power over the events of the film. These “wayward” women do not reap the benefits of their waywardness, nor do they hold any hopes of being able to be accepted as “proper” women. This is very different from the roles of wayward women in previous films, where waywardness is generally a quirky accessory to an ultimately feminine and moral persona. Unforgiven breaks ground for a new Western, one that follows the familiar, beloved plot-lines while simultaneously depicting more complex themes and essentially upsetting the hegemony of white males in the frontier myth.
Unfortunately, the ensuing revisionist Westerns following in Unforgiven’s wake have generally been disappointing in comparison. These films tend to concentrate on people who aren’t typically included in Westerns, or dramatically revise the traditional narrative climate of the Western. Some of the revisionist westerns to follow Unforgiven were Posse and Tombstone ( both in 1993), the former including an almost entirely black cast, and the latter highlighting the modern gang-like qualities of two sets of villains. In finding marginalized subject matter for the “new” Western, the most obvious was to create a film about women in the West. The early nineties saw the production of several mainstream Westerns representing the lives of women on the frontier. This paper focuses on three of these movies: Maggie Greenwald’s The Ballad of Little Jo (1993), Jonathan Kaplan’s Bad Girls (1994), and CBS’s Emmy award-winning Buffalo Girls (1995). Primetime television picked up and profited greatly from this new Women’s Western trend, as evident in the enormous (and lengthy) success of CBS’s Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman in 1993 and (though less “Western”) Christy in 1994, as well as popular mini-serieses like Buffalo Girls (1995) and True Women (1994).
This paper examines these “new Westerns,” all written in the shadow of feminism and women’s rights, and featuring women in leading roles. In analyzing these films, I attempted to uncover what these films are doing differently from their Hollywood Western counterparts of the first two-thirds of the century. My answer, in looking at these three large-budget theatrical endeavors is…precious little. Many of these earlier Westerns which feature interesting female characters at a time when audiences and filmmakers were not particularly interested in addressing modern feminism are equally if not more complex given their audiences than the new feminist Westerns of the nineties. Although these recent films do succeed in expanding the station of women in the form, the characters themselves are less interesting and at times repulsive to a post-women’s liberation audience. The following section, “No Town for a Girl Like Her,” briefly examines three classic Westerns with compelling female characters: John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939) and She Wore A Yellow Ribbon (1949) and David Bulter’s Calamity Jane: the musical (1953). While still unabashedly maintaining feminine stereotypes, these three films comment on the “wayward” possibilities of the Western women in credible (at least to their audiences) ways. Their contemporary counterparts, The Ballad of Little Jo, Bad Girls, and Buffalo Gals, seek to highlight the realities of Western waywardness, and yet seemingly return to the same feminine stereotypes of the 1930s, 40s, and 50s.
The essentialist view concerning women of the American frontier (i.e. all women are naturally good and moral, all women have a primal inclination to be mothers, all women want to be loved and cared for by men) manifests itself in all of these earlier films’ female characters, and is taken for granted by their original audiences. The feminist movement, which coincided with the demise of the traditional Western in the 1970s, began to dispute these assumptions. It has gradually become possible (though the process is incomplete) for women to be judged on the same moral scale as men. Woman’s place as the keeper of the moral flame has been demystified to some extent. It has become somewhat acceptable for a woman to say, “No, actually I have no interest in being a mother.” Equal relationships between women and men have begun to replace prevailing “Breadwinner/Homemaker” relationships. It has now become possible for a women to assert that not only does she not want to be taken care of by a man, but that she wants to transfer her sexual desire to another female, or to reject her own biological sex altogether. So with many of these assumptions laid bare by feminism, and an audience that is already well aware that women can be just as important or strong as men, why do these films persist in exploiting these earlier essentialist assumptions? With exceptions and complications, all the Wayward Women of these three contemporary films reinforce the statement that in every “bad girl” waits a housewife, waiting to be let out.
I have no answers, only hypotheses. The first is that American feminism has not, in reality, transformed traditional gender roles as much as it seems. Audiences of the past and the present alike have put stipulations on waywardness. Women are allowed to be wayward as long as they are feminine on a deeper level, just as audiences have a hard time identifying with a adulteress/adulterer unless the offended spouse “had it coming.” My second or additional theory is that the American West as a myth (created in part by these earlier films) is much harder to revise or undermine, than other aspects of American culture. So much of American identity is based within this frontier myth. These contemporary filmmakers have encountered the problem of, as Richard Slotkin writes, creating “the West as both an actual place with a real history and as a mythic space populated by projective fantasies.” The frontier, populated by headstrong men and the women devoted to them, is a hard myth to debunk.

and it goes on from there, except the spelling and grammar gets worse...

You can’t make an interesting feminist revisionary Western by simply featuring women instead of men. The concept that women can be both wayward and acceptably feminine was fairly novel in 1939 or 1949 or 1953. It isn’t as compelling or interesting to today’s audiences. Two choices present themselves. We can accept the demise of the Western as a genre, a difficult task considering the lingering prevalence of the Western myth in nationalist discourse. Or, we can create a new way of talking about the West that revises more that just the names, places, and genders, but the form of the Western itself.

Lost