In early 2020, my sister, Lisa, and I embarked on a podcasting journey. We’ve often discussed what it means to belong to Generation X, the cohort born primarily between 1964 and 1980, and how it shapes our perspectives. We embody a blend of cynicism, skepticism, and rebellion, yet we find ourselves oddly accepting of the traditional values and gender roles we were raised with. As we approach our forties, we’ve delved deeper into the origins of our mindset, and it quickly became clear—Gen X spent countless hours in front of the television.
Thus, “Gen X, This is Why” was born. The format is straightforward: we revisit popular shows and movies from the ’70s and ’80s, offering recaps and reflections on how they may have influenced our subconscious. Choosing our inaugural show was easy—it had to be our all-time favorite, “Little House on the Prairie.”
Now, with over 100 episodes behind us, I’ve gained invaluable insights. I’ve been compelled to reassess my beliefs about marriage, gender roles, community, and more. For instance, I learned that our inclination to catastrophize may have been heightened by the relentless challenges faced by the Ingalls family whenever Charles, the father figure, was away. This narrative trope played out repeatedly: Charles rescuing Caroline, Laura, and everyone else. I was taken aback by how deeply I had internalized these messages.
I consider myself a feminist, or at least I think I do. Perhaps I arrived at this understanding late, but since becoming a mother to twin daughters fifteen years ago, I’ve become acutely aware of our position as women in a world largely shaped by men. Yet, each time Michael Landon, portraying Charles Ingalls, flashes that charming smile and shakes his curly hair, I find myself transported back to a stereotypical 1950s housewife mentality. I giggle, feel a rush, and root for Charles as he defends his seemingly vulnerable family of women.
Like many Gen Xers, I recall Caroline, or “Ma,” as the embodiment of motherhood. She nurtured Mary, Laura, Carrie, Grace, and eventually Albert. I vividly remember her running to embrace Charles upon his return from trips, always dressed modestly, often with an apron. Upon rewatching, I recognized how strong Ma truly was. In the early seasons, she was the family’s heart, often stepping in during crises with her daughters. In “The Award,” for example, Caroline single-handedly saves their livestock when Mary’s studying almost leads to disaster. She was a force. However, many Gen Xers tend to remember her mainly for the times she struggled without Charles around.
What did young Lisa perceive when she watched these dynamics unfold? What messages did I absorb as Charles was consistently portrayed as the heroic, alpha male? Fast forward thirty-five years—it’s Friday night in my small town, synonymous with high school football. After a game, I pick up my daughters, and one collapses in tears, having been pushed hard by a boy. She’s so shaken that words come out in sobs. In anger, I demand to know where her boyfriend was during the incident. “He was there,” she replies, tearfully. Why didn’t he intervene? When I calmed down, I realized my mistake—her boyfriend, smaller than the bully, did the right thing by alerting nearby parents instead of escalating the situation. Yet, my instinct was to seek male protection for my daughter instead of empowering her to defend herself.
I know I have a long journey ahead. Unpacking these ingrained beliefs is an ongoing process, and recognizing the issue is the first step. I have often found myself attracted to toxic masculinity throughout my life. While this is influenced by many factors beyond television, shows like “Little House” reinforced these outdated notions for an entire generation.
Now, when I watch an episode, I struggle against the allure of that handsome Michael Landon smile while actively seeking out the underlying messages. Attend church. Respect your parents. Avoid alcohol. Don’t buy what you can’t afford. Some of these ideas stem from the original novels by Laura Ingalls Wilder, but many were added by producers like Landon, reflecting a conservative backlash against the counterculture of the ’60s. This is where my conflict arises: Can I identify as a feminist while continually being drawn to the hypermasculine portrayal of Charles Ingalls? I guess I’ll keep watching to find out.
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In summary, navigating the complexities of feminism while being drawn to traditional male archetypes presents a fascinating contradiction. It reflects a broader struggle many face in reconciling personal beliefs with cultural narratives that have shaped our worldview.
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