Irons and Ugliness

I have a hatred of irons, which is only tangentially related to the fact that I don’t like to iron. I am frightened of irons. Currently, I don’t even own one. I mean, life is short.

Remember button jars? Darning eggs? Well, I do, but just barely. Ironing was one of many tasks central to wardrobe upkeep accomplished by women in my early childhood; weekly mending, darning, ironing. These tasks were still a thing. My mother used to take the collars and cuffs off my father’s shirts and turn them to hide wear and that old nemesis, “ring around the collar.”

The reason women did all this? Polyester clothing fiber was unknown when I was a child. Everything was cotton, and it needed starching and ironing. And then polyester came along, easy care, forever-wear polyester. Women embraced this new fiber with great relief.

Less Ironing is a Good Thing

I have distinct memories of my mother ironing clothing when I was a child. (“DON’T GET TOO NEAR THE IRON!”) And she liked to sew, and she liked to do it correctly, so that involved ironing, too. It felt sacramental, the way she pressed those tissue pattern pieces.

I have many impressions of Mom standing at the ironing board with the hot iron that scared me to death. My fear was balanced by the comforting smell of cotton fabric being pressed into submission. When I was that young, her electric iron didn’t have a steam feature. So Mom used a shaker bottle to wet cothes before ironing them into hot, crisp order.

Just like Mrs. Butterworth, this ceramic bottle was in the shape of a man. You filled him with water, which you sprinkled out the top of his head. I thought he was the cutest thing ever. Mom retired the shaker bottle when she purchased her first steam iron with S&H Green Stamps, which I help paste in the book, thank you very much. The steam feature added another level to my terror (“DON’T LET THE WATER RUN OUT ON THE STEAM IRON!”).

This was the iron I learned on, because if you were a girl, you had to learn. I did, but barely. (“DON’T TURN IT TOO HIGH, YOU’LL SCORCH THE FABRIC!”) Standing there by the ironing board, that creaking contraption that always felt like it was on the verge of collapse. (“DON’T LEAN ON THE IRONING BOARD! IT MIGHT FALL!”) And if the ironing board collapsed, what would happen to the iron? Would I be holding it? Ould it swing wildly, landing on my person to burn me? Maybe my fear of hot irons is the “why” behind my lack of skill with them. (“OH MY GOD DID I LEAVE THE IRON PLUGGED IN AT HOME?!?!”)

I Visit the Past

So yes, I hated irons, but I had a fond, nostalgic memory of that shaker bottle, remembering it with the admiration of a child for the clever. Imagine my delight when I found him in an antique store a few years ago. “Oh,” I cooed, “My mom had that shaker bottle when I was a kid!” I picked him up, held him fondly.

And then I looked at it.

The sensation was something like I felt when I took my then six-year old then-niece to Disneyland, and was so excited to show off my favorite ride, it was the best ride, just wait, the line is totally worth it, let’s climb in the little ship and take off and sail through the air to the dulcet strains of…”What makes the Red Man red…UGH!” Yes. Just like that. Just like that big sinking hole you feel in your gut when you confront the casual racism in your upbringing. It’s all over Disneyland, but that’s another post.

I have some figurines in boxes from the midcentury decor fad they call “Orientalism.” Decor was littered with representations of the Far East that range from elegant to cutesy, and it’s probably–no, definitely–racist stuff, but not like this. Why is this bottle worse? Because he helped with ironing + part of your laundry = Chinese laundry…give me a break.

I grew up in South Dakota. We had no Chinese laundries, but I understand them now. Ironing is part of laundering. Laundry is a hot and dangerous task, relegated to women and minorities. This shaker bottle illustrates it.

What do you do with this stuff??

I don’t know what to do with offensive crap from the past. I know there’s a market for racist memorabilia, and many of the buyers are of the stereotyped ethnicity. There are museums of racist objects, curated and displayed so that we never forget just how pervasive and ugly it was (and is). I don’t know what my point is, other than I hate ironing and I’m also embarrassed by a relic from my childhood.

This put me to thinking about a few pieces of jewelry I own. Just three, three old pins given to me in the 1980s by a relative who thought I’d like them because I’ve collected cool old vintage pins since I was a child. I’ve been troubled by these pins for decades, but I didn’t donate them or sell them because I consider them as valuable (I think one is an Elzac) as they are offensive.

I finally wrote to two museums that accession racially stereotyped memorabilia, offering them for donation. I’ll let you know how that turns out. I’m not hopeful. The Jim Crow museum is full, which should surprise no one.

And if you’re wondering, these are NOT my beautiful Elzac Victims of Fashion pins (they both look something like this, but more sophisticated). I consider these brooches beautiful. Though I don’t wear them anymore, I’m keeping them.

What a cheerful post. Happy Holidays, and now back to our regular programming.