To the women of the modern age — I wish you self esteem so high you can still be humble. I wish you boundaries so firm you can still be kind. I wish you confidence so strong that you feel no need to weaponize your independence. I wish you competence so great you can share your wealth with others, assured in your ability to generate more. I wish for you to know the strength and grace of men once again. Most of all I wish you the humility to know when such things are being offered to you, and the wisdom not to mistake them for oppression. There is something faintly tragic about the modern young woman who, standing in her own kitchen with love in her heart and joy in her labour, must wrestle with the suspicion that she is somehow her own jailor. She is not abused. She is not neglected. Her marriage, by every honest measure, is a happy one. She married for love, not arrangement. Her husband is the primary provider. He pays the bills, yes, but he also folds the laundry and remembers to ask about her headaches and rubs her feet without being asked. And he does so without complaint or posturing. He does it because it’s their life. Shared, intertwined. It is, by any measure that predates the invention of the hashtag, a happy marriage. And yet—there it is. That voice. The one that whispers not in her husband’s tone nor in her own, but in the insidious language of the zeitgeist. The voice that tells her that, if she is to be found sweating in the kitchen while her husband reclines with a book, some injustice must be afoot. The arrangement is temporary—the woman will join him soon enough—but in that instant, the voice hisses: See? You are the one working. He is the one resting. You are the cook. He is the thinker. You are oppressed. It is the genius of modern ideological movements that they have succeeded in making guilt the companion of joy. A woman may choose to build a warm, fragrant, beautiful home, and yet the prevailing discourse will assign her not agency but false consciousness. The very word “choice” has been corrupted: it is permitted only when it conforms to certain pre-approved scripts. A woman may choose to climb a corporate ladder, to reject family, to deconstruct everything handed down to her—and this will be called liberation. But should she choose to embrace her domestic life, to devote herself as a free woman to the nourishment of a man she chose and children she birthed, then she is told, with patronizing certainty, that she has been duped. One is reminded of the totalitarian practice of insisting that people deny the evidence of their own eyes or articulate their thoughts for themselves. What she sees—the small happiness of a well-cooked meal, the glow in her husband’s face, the peacefulness of a home where someone has taken the trouble to care—must be dismissed in favour of abstract notions about power structures and invisible shackles. The very concept of a woman happily engaged in her domestic world is treated like an elaborate lie she tells herself. What makes this voice so insidious is not its volume but its familiarity. It doesn’t come from an obvious enemy. It comes from peers. From women she went to college with, from Instagram reels and “relatable” content, from the chirpily self-assured tones of podcasts hosted by women who seem constantly dissatisfied but relentlessly certain of their righteousness. These are not Mad Men-style patriarchs; they are the girls she grew up with, telling her now that unless she is engaged in struggle—preferably against something within the walls of her own home—she has forfeited her autonomy. The ideology is rarely explicit. It is never, “Don’t cook.” It is, “Why are you the one cooking?” It is not, “Don’t love your husband.” It is, “Why does your identity revolve around your marriage?” It is not, “Don’t take pride in your home.” It is, “Are you sure your pride isn’t just a mask for submission?” If she were to post a photograph of a home-cooked meal—let’s say, her grandmother’s recipe, lovingly prepared on a Sunday afternoon—she will receive two types of responses. From older women, perhaps a nostalgic comment. From her peers, thinly disguised concern. “Hope he’s helping too!” “Don’t forget self-care!” “Just make sure it’s not becoming a habit you’re stuck with.” As if devotion is dangerous. As if love, when expressed through food or home, becomes an act of betrayal—not of one’s self, but of feminism, of ambition, of some larger narrative of womanhood we’re all apparently supposed to be upholding. What results from this is not liberation, but paranoia. A woman who has the full measure of modern education, who is perfectly capable of independent thought, must conduct an internal tribunal against herself every time she places rice on the stove. And if she finds herself momentarily irritated—if her husband, having finished his chapter, stretches luxuriously in the air-conditioned bedroom while she stirs lentils—then the voice has its “Aha!” moment. And God forbid she admits to being happy. There is no narrative for that anymore. To be content in married domestic life is to be dismissed. It is to be told, in effect, that you do not understand yourself. That you are, at best, simple. At worst, brainwashed. If the reader has not yet guessed, I am that woman. Where once women were told by men what their place was, now we are told by other women where it must not be. The kitchen? A prison. The bedroom? A battlefield. The living room? A stage for performative egalitarianism. The only legitimate sites of identity, we are now told, lie outside: in the office, in the startup pitch, in the activism seminar. Marriage, especially a happy one, is now treated as a cave from which the real woman must emerge, blinking in the light, to discover her true self. What a strange contortion! What has happened to us, that we have so thoroughly lost faith in the wisdom of ordinary love, in the unglamorous pleasures of tending to another, of building a home? We have turned skepticism into a virtue and warmth into weakness. To feel fulfilled in marriage is not progressive; to feel perpetually aggrieved, however, is fashionable. What no one tells us women is how isolating this can be. I often feel I am speaking a language that has gone extinct. The word “grihastha” meant something once—a stage of life, not a trap. It acknowledged the sanctity of the everyday: of making a home, raising a family, working not merely for money but for a life worth inhabiting. But now, to share the stories of one’s grihastha life—be it about a lovingly ironed shirt or a warm cup of tea set beside your husband’s book—is to risk being seen as unserious. And yet, I do not feel lost. In fact, it is precisely when I am engaged in these tasks that I feel most anchored. The work of the home, when done with love, becomes not drudgery but devotion. And yet, even I, with my articulate thoughts and reflective habits, must fight the voice in my head that isn’t my own. But when I finish the housework and return to the same cool room, when my husband smiles at me and sets the table without needing to be asked and asks me how my day was, I win over the voice once more. I remember who I am and what I believe. I remember that my husband has his own sweaty moments too—after long hours at work, after the slog of an hour-long commute, or when he stands under the harsh sun fixing the broken water tank so I won’t have to bathe with a bucket again. I remember that the kitchen, far from being a cage, is a room of my own. A room where the women of my family once stood, preparing meals full of warmth and sustenance, showing me how it is indeed possible to establish a happy association with the hearth. And if, in the end, I do succeed in vanquishing that voice entirely—and I like my chances—it will be because my husband’s unselfconscious masculinity helped me to embrace my own femininity without shame or suspicion. Because he led with steadiness when I faltered, spoke plainly when the noise in my head drowned out my better judgment, and endured, with admirable patience, my inevitable lapses into doubt and borrowed grievance. If I have known peace, it is thanks not to the disembodied chorus of well-meaning sisterhoods urging me to reclaim what was never stolen, but to a man who did not see love as a contest and who bore the cost of my internal war without ever charging me for it. In the final accounting, I owe my happiness not to the prevailing orthodoxy of my generation, but to the one person it would have me regard with suspicion. The irony, I suppose, is almost too perfect. Image Source: Julie and Julia (2009)

Microcosm: noun – a community, place, or situation regarded as encapsulating in miniature the characteristic qualities or features of something much larger. Microcosms, where they exist, serve a very real and useful purpose; that is, they help us understand some larger, less visible set of circumstances that are in and of themselves problematic. Sometimes these larger issues have many points of origin that are either not easily seen and understood or, in the alternative, have been seen and addressed as problems for so long that we have lost sight of the truth of the matter and now respond to the issue like Pavlov’s dogs whenever and wherever it arises. The use of microcosms to address much larger issues is nothing new. Indeed, science has used such means to learn about things that are too large, infrequent or unusual to be useful in such studies. For instance, studies of tsunamis and so-called “rogue waves” are done in huge, shallow tanks that can be viewed from the side and moved to produce various wave patterns easily visualizing the results upon model ships placed in the tank for that purpose. In the opposite direction, small petri dishes are used to grow microscopic life to help diagnose illnesses and identify microscopic life. Large machines called centrifuges are used to test the human body’s response to the gravitational forces encountered in acceleration. And so it goes. As well, limited life situations produce the same kinds of responses that mirror much larger cultural situations. Indeed, this is seen all the time! The lives of city dwellers are not the lives of those living in the suburbs or the country! Each life situation involves people, but even if those people are culturally and even genetically very similar, where they live makes a great deal of difference as to how they live! In an advanced culture, sports provide the same kind of physical and emotional release for the citizen in that culture as more violent pastimes provided to more primitive cultures. People haven’t really changed all that much as is easily seen when any culture breaks down and rather quickly barbarism raises it’s ugly and dangerous head! Yet, even so, sports can provide a very clear and excellent “microcosm” of certain prevailing problems within the society. Usually, such matters are rather vague and thus what they present is somewhat lost within the context of the game itself. Take, for instance, that fact that in “pro” sports, players frequently change teams meaning that the “fans” for and against that player can change virtually overnight if the player is sent to a rival team! Those who hated him before, now love him – and vice versa. As a result, especially professional sports tend not to present the sort of situation that illustrates – or is a “microcosm” of – any serious problems within the culture! However, that is not always the case and, indeed, it is absolutely clear that one particular sport has become just that sort of example of a deep and dangerous cultural problem while efforts to overcome the matter have yet to solve that problem. Indeed, such efforts tend to aggravate what is an already unpleasant situation, causing wider and deeper rifts in the culture quite apart from the “game” itself. Indeed, this matter is so unusual and important that it even eclipses problems such as money (salaries, income, costs involved in presenting the “game” and so forth). When money becomes less important than the social issue involved, that issue is important indeed! And so, what is the sport and what the issue? The professional sport is something very few (and I do mean very few!) people have, until now, given any attention to at all – women’s basketball! Probably the vast majority of ordinary people didn’t even know that there was such a thing unless they were involved in the matter as a result of college teams! However, a relatively few die-hards knew there was a women’s basketball league, the WNBA, an offshoot of the NBA that financially supports what has never been a financially successful entity. The WNBA began play in 1997. It started with eight teams and now has thirteen and scheduled to expand to fifteen in 2026. As noted, the League has never broken even, never mind made money; it lives off the much more popular men’s NBA. The lack of money caused by small attendance and the costs of running such an enterprise meant that the players were certainly not well paid. Their income from fan attendance was small. Indeed, players had to book commercial flights to attend out of town games and the only real hope of gain came from endorsements! But last year, all of that changed and changed spectacularly! How and why had to do with a young lady who was what sports enthusiasts call a “phee-nom!” Caitlin Elizabeth Clark, born January 22nd, 2002 is regarded as one of the greatest female collegiate basketball players ever! Clark was twice named national female college basketball player of the year while playing for the Iowa Hawkeyes; she remains the NCAA Division I all-time leading scorer and has brought intense interest in and paid customers to professional women’s basketball, a phenomenon dubbed the “Caitlin Clark effect.” Clark’s spectacular career has been above and beyond, so to speak! In her freshman season with Iowa, she led the NCAA Division I in scoring and earned All American honors. As a sophomore, she was a unanimous first-team All-American and became the first women's player to lead Division I in both points and assists in a single season. In her junior year she was the national player of the year and led Iowa to its first national championship game, again leading Division I in assists and setting Big Ten single-season marks in points and assists. As a senior, she repeated as national player of the year and helped Iowa return to the national title game, also setting the Division I women’s career and single-season record in points and three-pointers as well as breaking the conference record in assists and leading the nation in points and assists. And Clark’s career goes on (and on and on), winning three gold medals with the US team including two at the FIBA Under-19 Women’s World Cup where she was named Most Valuable Player in 2021. Of course, going into professional women’s basketball, Clark was selected first overall by the Indiana Fever in the 2024 WNBA draft and in her first season, she won WNBA Rookie of the year and made the All-WNBA First team and WNBA All-Star Game, setting league single season and single game records in assists as well as breaking the rookie scoring record becoming the first rookie to achieve a “triple double.”* [*A triple-double in basketball occurs when a player achieves double-digit numbers in three different statistical categories during a single game such as points, rebounds, and assists. This accomplishment showcases a player's versatility and all-around performance.] Watching this young lady launch a basketball so far from the basket that one wonders how she sees it at all – and seeing the ball obediently fall into the net sets the huge crowds who follow her – sometimes paying several hundred dollars for a ticket to a game in which she will appear – is magical even for those who have no interest in the sport! Caitlin Clark has brought two things into the WNBA that it has never had – fans and money (a natural combination). When she is going to appear, teams have to rent much larger stadiums than they ordinarily need and excitement is at a fever pitch! Great, right? Well, actually, no. Indeed, the WNBA is having problems it has never had before and, as a result, it is moving toward a very ugly end because of those problems! Yes, the “blessing” of Caitlin Clark may very well be the end of a lot more than the WNBA and women’s basketball. Why? (This is where the microcosm comes in!) For you see, the WNBA is as Black as the NBA. Statistically, in 2023 approximately 70.4% of players in the NBA were Black, making it one of the games with the highest percentage of Blacks among major professional sports in North America. At the same time, in 2023, over 60% of WNBA players identified as Black or African-American as well as approximately 28-38% identifying as lesbian, gay or queer with recent studies suggesting that around 30% of players are part of the LGBTQ community. Now why, you might ask, is this a problem or even of interest? Quite simple! The issues of both race and sexual identity have become massive problems in our culture! And given all the disputes brought about by George Floyd and trans-boy athletes in girls’ sports (and locker rooms and bathrooms!), these issues have become a cultural “third rail.” Thus, when along comes incredibly talented White, straight, Catholic Caitlin Clark who can outplay most (and maybe all) of both the rookies and long-time WNBA players – well, you get the idea! Indeed, a great many involved with the sport, players, commentators and League reps insist that Clark’s popularity is the result of “White privilege” (and “pretty” privilege) rather than her skill with a basketball! There isn’t time or room to go into all that has happened but one thing that is truly amazing is that the League itself is aligned against Clark to the point at which she is being seriously fouled without the referees calling the fouls against her while calling fouls on her when obviously no foul obtains! (She had a foul called on her when a defender slipped and fell though Clark never made contact with that player!) One player put a wickedly long nail into Clark’s eye coming quite close to blinding her! I do not believe a foul was called but her game was off until her vision was completely restored! Indeed, she has suffered so many egregious fouls that the young lady herself said that she felt as if she “was being hammered out there.” Everybody knows this because in these days of the ever-present camera, such actions are caught on tape for all to see! However, this situation becomes far worse because of the new fans Clark has brought into the game! These people see the fouls and erupt in boos and physical demonstrations in their demand that justice prevail. After all, those are the rules of the game, right? Clark should not be targeted because of her race, right? The League will listen if for no other reason than that these new fans represent increased income, right? Well, no. The racial issue is so deep, so dark, so important that it eclipses the League’s desperate need for money. And as Clark cannot be presented as “racist” personally, having friends on her team who are themselves Black, the complaint must be launched on the new fans she is bringing to the game. Black player Angel Reese (who is desperately jealous of and despises Clark) has complained that Clark fans have hurled racial epithets at her during games. But recordings of the games involved reveal no such insults and Reese may have to answer for her lies though doubtless any punishment she receives will be very little and very slow to make an appearance. But this situation may not last too much longer. First, after her rookie year, Clark went to Europe where she made a ton of money playing and giving endorsements. She could have stayed in Europe where she is respected and liked, but chose to return to the Indiana Fever, a basement club she single-handedly brought to the playoffs in her rookie year. It was hoped that her second year would see an end to the obvious problems of her first, but not so. Indeed, apparently the “anti-Clarks” have doubled down on the on-court assaults – and that’s what they are! No, it’s getting worse, not better. Indeed, recently Clark suffered a leg injury that will keep her out of the game for two weeks. Now this wouldn’t matter with any other player, but Clark is not just any other player. Tickets to games in which she is due to appear are not only sold out immediately but often go for breath-taking sums! Teams hosting Clark’s team go out and rent larger arenas to handle the crowd! People coming from out-of-town book transportation as well as rooms in hotels and motels. A simple game becomes an “event” but. . . that means that when the fans are informed that Caitlin will not play, they cancel their tickets. Teams that have rented larger facilities now must cancel those as well (if they can) and that undoubtedly costs big bucks! Reservations for airline tickets and hotels are also cancelled. The “Caitlin Clark effect” is a domino effect and there is no guarantee that one angry Black girl’s foul on the young phee-nom might not put her out of action permanently or at the very least damage her to the point at which she becomes just another player! And so, the story of Caitlin Clark, a (very) nice, decent young woman involved in a relatively unimportant activity (sports in general, basketball in particular) has come to represent a “microcosm” of the racial issue today. Her talents mean nothing. Her efforts to enhance those talents mean nothing. Her well documented decency in her treatment of fans and people who don’t even know her personally also means nothing. The value she brings to her sport that advances not only herself, but every other person involved in that sport means nothing. The only thing that has any meaning, the only matter that has any importance in this whole matter is Caitlin Clark’s race! Apparently, a fairly large number of American Blacks –obviously not all! – cannot, will not, drop their cherished “preferred victim status” however undeserved, stupid and detrimental to themselves and their race that “status” is! The sad tale of Caitlin Clark reveals that the dog in the manger has now become the entitled Black in the culture ~ and that does not bode well for anybody’s future ~ including women’s basketball!