This article originally appeared on Buzzard’s Beat

Yesterday morning, I ran across what appeared to be a harmless list about the most favorable qualities in a farm wife from a popular agriculture newspaper. I was wrong – it wasn’t harmless. In fact, the article left me shocked and speechless. I can’t muster a sufficient description of how off-the-charts ticked off I was, so you’ll just have to believe me that I was boiling mad. And let’s make no bones about it, I was mad, not offended.

This is not about being offended.

Anyone who has ever met me in real life, or online, knows that I am very blunt, straight-forward and thick-skinned; I’m not easily offended, to say the least. Nor is this about the phrase “farm wife.” True, I prefer to be called a “rancher” over “ranch wife” but other bloggers have covered that topic sufficiently so I don’t think my commentary is necessary. My comments and frustration lie in the fact that readers will see the article in question and think “OK, well this guy wrote this ‘satirical’ piece and everyone is OK with it so I’ll write one too.” No. It’s not OK.

The problem with the article is not that it doesn’t appreciate women. It does. The problem is that it completely ignores massive contributions that women make to American agriculture while diminishing our value to simply “reheating late suppers” and keeping seed hats clean. This article could have been a huge success by lauding the daily struggle that farmHERs and rancHERs (because we aren’t just wives) manage while raising a family and pulling their own weight on the farm or ranch. The author very easily could have said “She can sort cows, put out mineral, help the kids with their homework and have supper on the table by 8 pm” and that would have been freaking awesome. I am a good cook and I keep a clean house but I also deal with mean cows, hay season and squirrely calves. But the author chose to act as if we are still in 1952. I cannot believe that the value of a woman (satirical or not) is still, in 2016, being placed on her ability to cook, clean and rear children. I mean for cripes sake, a woman will quite likely be in the White House next year.

For example, the author could have highlighted that there are 969,672 female farm operators in the U.S. which account for 30% of farm operators in the United States. Of that 969,672, nearly 290,000 are the principal operators.* Meaning those women call all the shots and answer to no one. Take note, female farmers and ranchers are not a small contingency.

 

 

Or, the author could have spoken about how female farmers and ranchers sold nearly $13 billion in agricultural products, including $6 billion in crop sales and $6.9 billion in livestock sales in 2012.* About 1/4 of women farmers specialized in combination crop farming, meaning they raised more than one ag product, and the next largest sector was beef cattle farming and ranching.* These are not small ventures, folks.

The blatant disregard for the role that women play in building and maintaining an operation while building and supporting a family flies in the face of a progressive America. I’m not Michelle Obama but I don’t have to be to know that if we build tenacious women, our families, workforce and nation become stronger as a whole. I know so many women who put in just as many or more hours than their spouses on the farm or ranch, and many of them are also the head honcho of raising the family.

I am pro-woman — that does not mean I am anti-man. You can be pro-something without tearing down the other side, in this case the male gender, and I am not tearing down men. Feminism is believing that women deserve what men have had for thousands of years. I will not stop standing up for women, especially women in ag, because as my aunt Cheryl told me recently “A lot of us old ladies fought very hard for equality and it’s important to keep up the fight.” It’s up to my generation to continue this journey and I plan to do so by raising my future daughter(s) to stand up and be heard. My time, money, blood, sweat and tears are invested in our ranch and I won’t be diminished to the antiquated view of a perfect wife.

In closing, I want to make it clear that I’m not asking for the article to be taken down or edited. I’m also not asking for the author’s or editor’s heads on a platter – I DO NOT WANT hordes of people bombarding the social media outlets of this publication lambasting the author or the editor so PLEASE DON’T DO THAT**. I’m asking for more thought to be given to what is viewed as “satirical” and what is viewed as funny because there is a big difference. I’m asking for us as a society to not settle for the status quo and to stop letting things like this roll off our backs. I’m asking for more women, and men, to stand up and say “This wouldn’t be acceptable if the shoe was on the other foot.”

Until next time,
~ Buzzard ~

* Figures taken from 2012 U.S. Agriculture Census

** I cannot stress enough that I do not want multitudes of people attacking this news outlet or its staff so please, just don’t. That’s not the point or the goal. Many thanks.

So God Made a Mother book by Leslie Means

If you liked this, you'll love our book, SO GOD MADE A MOTHER available now!

Order Now

Check out our new Keepsake Companion Journal that pairs with our So God Made a Mother book!

Order Now
So God Made a Mother's Story Keepsake Journal

Brandi Buzzard

Brandi Buzzard Frobose is a cowgirl, rancher, runner and traveler who believes in telling the whole truth and keeping the word "can't" out of her vocabulary. She loves sports, being outdoors and leaving her phone at home when she's with family and friends. On most days, you can find her guzzling iced tea and dreaming about the future from her farmhouse, while spoiling her beloved border collie, Cricket. Brandi blogs at http://www.buzzardsbeat.com/

I Thought Our Friendship Would Be Unbreakable

In: Friendship, Journal, Relationships
Two friends selfie

The message notification pinged on my phone. A woman, once one of my best friends, was reaching out to me via Facebook. Her message simply read, “Wanted to catch up and see how life was treating you!”  I had very conflicting feelings. It seemed with that one single message, a flood of memories surfaced. Some held some great moments and laughter. Other memories held disappointment and hurt of a friendship that simply had run its course. Out of morbid curiosity, I clicked on her profile page to see how the years had been treating her. She was divorced and still...

Keep Reading

The First 10 Years: How Two Broken People Kept Their Marriage from Breaking

In: Journal, Marriage, Relationships
The First Ten Years: How Two Broken People Kept Their Marriage from Breaking www.herviewfromhome.com

We met online in October of 2005, by way of a spam email ad I was THIS CLOSE to marking as trash. Meet Single Christians! My cheese alert siren sounded loudly, but for some reason, I unchecked the delete box and clicked through to the site. We met face-to-face that Thanksgiving. As I awaited your arrival in my mother’s kitchen, my dad whispered to my little brother, “Hide your valuables. Stacy has some guy she met online coming for Thanksgiving dinner.” We embraced for the first time in my parents’ driveway. I was wearing my black cashmere sweater with the...

Keep Reading

To The Mother Who Is Overwhelmed

In: Inspiration, Motherhood
Tired woman with coffee sitting at table

I have this one head. It is a normal sized head. It didn’t get bigger because I had children. Just like I didn’t grow an extra arm with the birth of each child. I mean, while that would be nice, it’s just not the case. We keep our one self. And the children we add on each add on to our weight in this life. And the head didn’t grow more heads because we become a wife to someone. Or a boss to someone. We carry the weight of motherhood. The decisions we must make each day—fight the shorts battle...

Keep Reading

You’re a Little Less Baby Today Than Yesterday

In: Journal, Motherhood
Toddler sleeping in mother's arms

Tiny sparkles are nestled in the wispy hair falling across her brow, shaken free of the princess costume she pulled over her head this morning. She’s swathed in pink: a satiny pink dress-up bodice, a fluffy, pink, slightly-less-glittery-than-it-was-two-hours-ago tulle skirt, a worn, soft pink baby blanket. She’s slowed long enough to crawl into my lap, blinking heavy eyelids. She’s a little less baby today than she was only yesterday.  Soon, she’ll be too big, too busy for my arms.  But today, I’m rocking a princess. The early years will be filled with exploration and adventure. She’ll climb atop counters and...

Keep Reading

Dear Husband, I Loved You First

In: Marriage, Motherhood, Relationships
Man and woman kissing in love

Dear husband, I loved you first. But often, you get the last of me. I remember you picking me up for our first date. I spent a whole hour getting ready for you. Making sure every hair was in place and my make-up was perfect. When you see me now at the end of the day, the make-up that is left on my face is smeared. My hair is more than likely in a ponytail or some rat’s nest on the top of my head. And my outfit, 100% has someone’s bodily fluids smeared somewhere. But there were days when...

Keep Reading

Stop Being a Butthole Wife

In: Grief, Journal, Marriage, Relationships
Man and woman sit on the end of a dock with arms around each other

Stop being a butthole wife. No, I’m serious. End it.  Let’s start with the laundry angst. I get it, the guy can’t find the hamper. It’s maddening. It’s insanity. Why, why, must he leave piles of clothes scattered, the same way that the toddler does, right? I mean, grow up and help out around here, man. There is no laundry fairy. What if that pile of laundry is a gift in disguise from a God you can’t (yet) see? Don’t roll your eyes, hear me out on this one. I was a butthole wife. Until my husband died. The day...

Keep Reading

I Can’t Be Everyone’s Chick-fil-A Sauce

In: Friendship, Journal, Living, Relationships
woman smiling in the sun

A couple of friends and I went and grabbed lunch at Chick-fil-A a couple of weeks ago. It was delightful. We spent roughly $20 apiece, and our kids ran in and out of the play area barefoot and stinky and begged us for ice cream, to which we responded, “Not until you finish your nuggets,” to which they responded with a whine, and then ran off again like a bolt of crazy energy. One friend had to climb into the play tubes a few times to save her 22-month-old, but it was still worth every penny. Every. Single. One. Even...

Keep Reading

Love Notes From My Mother in Heaven

In: Faith, Grief, Journal, Living
Woman smelling bunch of flowers

Twelve years have passed since my mother exclaimed, “I’ve died and gone to Heaven!” as she leaned back in her big donut-shaped tube and splashed her toes, enjoying the serenity of the river.  Twelve years since I stood on the shore of that same river, 45 minutes later, watching to see if the hopeful EMT would be able to revive my mother as she floated toward his outstretched hands. Twelve years ago, I stood alone in my bedroom, weak and trembling, as I opened my mother’s Bible and all the little keepsakes she’d stowed inside tumbled to the floor.  It...

Keep Reading

Sometimes Friendships End, No Matter How Hard You Try

In: Friendship, Journal, Relationships
Sad woman alone without a friend

I tried. We say these words for two reasons. One: for our own justification that we made an effort to complete a task; and two: to admit that we fell short of that task. I wrote those words in an e-mail tonight to a friend I had for nearly 25 years after not speaking to her for eight months. It was the third e-mail I’ve sent over the past few weeks to try to reconcile with a woman who was more of a sister to me at some points than my own biological sister was. It’s sad when we drift...

Keep Reading

Goodbye to the House That Built Me

In: Grown Children, Journal, Living, Relationships
Ranch style home as seen from the curb

In the winter of 1985, while I was halfway done growing in my mom’s belly, my parents moved into a little brown 3 bedroom/1.5 bath that was halfway between the school and the prison in which my dad worked as a corrections officer. I would be the first baby they brought home to their new house, joining my older sister. I’d take my first steps across the brown shag carpet that the previous owner had installed. The back bedroom was mine, and mom plastered Smurf-themed wallpaper on the accent wall to try to get me to sleep in there every...

Keep Reading