It all comes out in the wash

As you know, I’ve been thinking recently about feminism, and whether it’s aliver and weller in Britain or America. Of course trying to answer that question is rather a hopeless cause. How could I possibly assess what life is like for 300 million people this side of the Pond, or for 60 million the other? This is something you get used to, as an expat. People ask you questions beginning “Do Americans…?” or “Do the English…?” and you find yourself trying to make an assessment of an entire culture, its history, philosophy and traditions, from your own very small amount of personal experience and knowledge.

I read blogs written by Brits in America, and by Americans in Britain. One thing I love is that whatever opinion you read in one, you will find it contradicted in the other. I know that whenever I write a reflection on life in America, someone in Britain will read it and think “No, no, no! That’s exactly what it’s like HERE.” It’s all part of the fun.

Take a big issue like feminism. There are American bloggers who feel strongly that Britain is so backward. There are British bloggers who think that America is way behind.

What about social habits? I read recently that British people don’t wash their hands after using the loo/restroom. Which is odd, because I have never ever once in 40 years in Britain seen anyone leave a public convenience without washing their hands, but in the 2 years I’ve been here, I’ve seen it 3 times (including one of my own friends). I have been congratulated by a stranger in a restroom for teaching my daughter to wash her hands. Yikes. I’d assumed every mom did.

Right down in the smallest detail of life, I’ve found exactly opposite opinions. An American friend was telling me the other day how her daughter’s name had an R added on by locals when they lived in Scotland. Gemma became Gemmrr. Funny that, because I’d already noticed that my daughter’s name, which also ends in an A, underwent the same process when we came here.

Then there is the great washing machine debate. Goodness me. I tell you, if the “special relationship” between our two nations, that special relationship which Gordon Brown yesterday described as "unbreakable", if it depended on blogging expat women’s opinions on the subject of washing machines, it would have no chance at all. "Special" would not be the word.

Who knew there was so much to love or hate about a washing machine? You can love or hate its size, how many programmes it has, the length of the programmes, whether you can open the lid once the machine has started in order to throw in a stray sock, whether you have to bend down to load it up, the method of putting the detergent in. This will be familiar territory to many of you. If you want my personal take on it, I will go all not wrong, just different on you, and say that I do have a preference, but that it’s just a personal inclination. It's based on a slight divergence between how the two types of machine operate, but really, it's a minor difference. British front-loaders get laundry clean; American top-loaders don’t. See? Minor stuff, as I said. Nothing to get too excited about. I just have to confess that I find it useful when a washing machine removes dirt and stains from the clothes you put in there, and keeps white things white.

Here we are, come full circle, right back where we started. Feminism. Surely feminism is nothing if not the right to define your individuality and womanhood by your preference in washing machines. It’s true that front-loading machines have recently come onto the market over here, but they’re fearsomely expensive, beyond the reach of your average oppressed housewife. Yes, it’s all about choice, but until that choice is available to all women, feminism remains a word, a theory. Sisters, our work is not done.

Women of Britain, rejoice in your washing machines! Join hands in a line of solidarity, a washing line of solidarity, and do not cease to fight for the day when all women, no matter their race, religion, age or nationality, have access to a decent front-loading washing machine. And until that day, don’t burn your bras. Just keep them nice and white, even on a delicate cycle.