Tag Archives: Susan Koppelman

Book review: The Other Woman: Stories of Two Women and a Man

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The Other Woman: Stories of Two Women and a Man. Edited by Susan Koppelman. The Feminist Press, 1984. 384 pages.

Susan Koppelman begins her introduction to The Other Woman with, “All the stories in this collection are about women — both wives and other women — who love adulterous men,” setting the tone by squarely placing the blame on the male of the species. The women, whether wives or lovers, are only victims of male power, detachment, and appetite. Almost pointedly, Koppelman presents the reader with no adulterous women — that is, married women who are the “other woman” to married women. In earlier times, this may not have been as common because of the financial dependence of women, but of course it is a theme in literature; it plays a role in novels such as Wuthering Heights and Tenant of Wildfell Hall, for example. It is not to Koppelman’s feminist point, however.

This leads to another limitation of this anthology; infidelity is restricted to men — and only American men. Forgoing the riches of world literature, which is replete with a diverse array of attitudes toward marriage and infidelity within various historical, social, cultural, and religious traditions, Koppelman limits her collection to the 19th and 20th centuries in the United States. The most exotic stories are: “The Quadroons” (Lydia Maria Child), in which marriage is a form of emotional slavery for the biracial wife; “Challah” (Martha Wolfenstein), set among urban Jewish immigrants; “A Captain Out of Etruria” (A. R. Leach), which tells of American expatriates in post-war Europe; “Gal Young Un” (Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings), which take place in cracker Florida; “Papago Wedding” (Mary Austin), which seems to try to capture an oral tradition; and “The Girl Who Was Plugged In” (James Tiptree, Jr. — real name: Alice Sheldon), a science fiction story more interesting for the veracity of its pop culture insights than for its sexual implications, although of course the two are linked. “The Last Rite” (Lee Yu-Hwa) is the only story set in a completely alien tradition — pre-communist China — and also the only one told, sympathetically, from the man’s viewpoint. The protagonist is torn between the old China and the new, between his family and his duty and his wife and his duty.

Despite the feminist cant, which selectively minimizes the culpability of the other woman (for example, in “The Difference” (Ellen Glasgow), the other woman is no more an innocent than the thoughtless, uncaring husband) and the narrow focus, The Other Woman is a solid collection that, if nothing else, and perhaps intentionally, often seems to solidify the concept of woman’s emotional and financial dependence on man. In “A Poet Though Married” (Helen Reimensnyder Martin), it is a man’s money that allows Miss De Ford to carry out her mission. In “The Difference,” as a friend observes when visiting Margaret in her lavish home, “For when George ceases to be desirable for sentimental reasons, he will still have his value as a good provider.” The best story, “Turned” (Charlotte Perkins Gilman, author of the brilliant “The Yellow Wall-Paper”), is the most truly feminist as well, as betrayed love is eschewed for independence and self-respect. Even the victim has “a new intelligence upon her face.”

Covering only 139 years of American literature written primarily by women (with the noted exception of Lee Yu-Hwa), The Other Woman misses greatness with its narrow focus. The true full story of the “other woman,” whether she is victim or vixen (which, despite Koppelman’s protestations, is possible) must be far more fascinating and far less predictable than what appears here. The Other Woman falls short of telling the complete, nuanced story of the other woman — or of anyone else.

Note: This edition is poorly printed, with many pages falling out and requiring multiple applications of glue. There are also numerous typographical errors.

28 August 2008
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Strange History of Suzanne LaFleshe {and Other Stories of Women and Fatness}

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The Strange History of Suzanne LaFleshe {and Other Stories of Women and Fatness} edited by Susan Koppelman. Foreword by Alix Kates Shulman. Recommended.

In this anthology about “women and fatness,” fat women eat, exercise, laugh, cry, love, give birth, and are abused and exploited. In fact, they experience the joys and tribulations of women everywhere, but what defines them, or sets them apart, is their body size.

The American interest in fitness seems to have begun in the late 1800s, when urban sophisticate May Welland of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence was compared to the hunt goddess Diana and noted for her slimness and athleticism. By the 1920s, thinness was firmly established as the fashion, with characters such as F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jordan Baker (The Great Gatsby) representing the slender, athletic, almost boyish ideal. In Koppelman’s collection, Octavia Thanet’s “The Stout Miss Hopkins’s Bicycle” (1897) is an early example of how women suffered socially for their weight and how they began trying to manage it through exercise — an unthinkable notion for ladies of previous generations. One hundred years later, 1997’s “The Strange History of Suzanne LaFleshe” (Hollis Seamon) also pairs two woman who to the world appear to have eating disorders — Suzanne Brown, who prefers the fullness of flesh, and Theresa, a teenager with apparent anorexia.

Some stories, like “Fat” (Grace Sartwell Mason) play purposely to the popular stereotype. Mrs. Payton Tierney substitutes a constant supply of rich foods for the love that no longer exists between her and her husband. Food is the problem and the solution as “The prison of her flesh received her” and the story ends in a surprisingly predictable way.

Stories like “Good-Bye, Old Laura” (Lucile Vaughan Payne) and “Skanks” (Rennie Sparks) capture the respective times and experiences of their teenage protagonists. Laura and Janine are complex characters whose peers influence their feelings about themselves and their bodies, with disturbing results for both. “The Hershey Bar Queen” (Elena Diaz Bjorkquist) is a teenage revenge fantasy, although the protagonist’s food obsession and child-like simplicity and gullibility make the supernatural ending disappointingly ineffective.

If Mrs. Tierney, with her bonbons and distaste for exertion, is the stereotypical fat woman, the husbands in “The Feeder” (Maria Bruno) are alpha males whose wives fight back by taking control of their food, their bodies, and their weights — the thin wife consciously, the fat one less so. This story stands out for the disturbing image of a trapped, dying bird, wings broken, that is not worth saving to the insensitive husband.

“Perfectly Normal” (Lesléa Newman) is about the fat hatred and other prejudices of an anorexic wife. After making her promise not to get fat like her active, happy, lesbian sister, her husband sends her to a sanitarium before she wastes away even more. The combination of the wife’s first-person perspective and the extremities of her opinions (“The least she [sister] could do was rip out the labels [of her clothing] so she would not have to be embarrassed” [about her size]) puts this story at the border of two-dimensional for the sake of making a point.

That is part of the problem with any focused collection like this; the focus on food, fat, and fat attitudes casts a blinding glare on the issues rather than truly illuminating them. It’s interesting to see attitudes over the past 100 or so years, but questions arise, such as: How do those attitudes compare to those toward fat men, or to those who are different physically in other ways? If, as is claimed, only 10 percent prefer a fat partner to a normal-sized one, can the bias against fat be so definitively said to be social and cultural? Are those influences that widespread and strong? If the claim is true, are fat women really powerful erotic symbols to any but a few? It’s mentioned that Lillian Russell, at more than 200 pounds, was a sex symbol of her time — but is that because she was fat or despite the fact she became fat with age?

In her defensiveness about fat, Koppelman writes, “There is nothing in women’s fiction to affirm the calamitous claims of health risks made by the bariatricians, the exercise gurus, and the weight reduction mavens.” Koppelman cannot be so single-minded as to confuse what appears in fiction with what happens in reality. Obesity, like other extremes, not only comes with serious health risks (for example, diabetes and all its complications), but also can limit the fat person’s activities in ways that have nothing to do with societal bias (for example, I am too heavy for horseback riding, which I would love to be able to do). Koppelman’s logic seems to be that, until a woman writes fiction about obesity-induced illnesses, they are not an issue for women.

The big question here is, “What does fat mean?” To the 5’7″ patient in “Perfectly Normal,” it means weighing more than 100–115 pounds. “The Hershey Bar Queen” weighs more than 400 pounds, as must the sideshow attractions in “Noblesse” (Mary E. Wilkins Freeman) and “Even as You and I” (Fannie Hurst). Suzanne LaFleshe weighs a little over 200. It’s an important question because an active, confident, 200-pound woman, while fat by medical and social standards, may fall within the realm of normal deviation, while a girl like “The Hershey Bar Queen,” enormous and obsessed with food, is a clear case of pathology. People fear pathology, whether it’s morbid obesity, autism, or obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The Strange History of Suzanne LaFleshe {and Other Stories of Women and Fatness} is hampered by the restrictions and biases of its focus. A few stories stand out, but many are slices of life that lack depth, context, and subtlety. Another issue is that the book copy was not proofread; there are numerous typographical errors throughout, sometimes several on a page, so that the trustworthiness of the texts is in doubt — an unfortunate problem in a work produced by an academic professional like Koppelman. Still, it’s worth reading for the handful of gems.

11 November 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf