Why Roseanne Rivets Us
by Elaine Rapping

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Time was when we feminists could easily agree on what a "negative" and "positive" media image was. Airheads, sex kittens, hausfraus, spinsters, femme fatales—those were the dominant female images, unanimously deplored by us all, back in the 1970's. And while there were no published guidelines, we—in our largely white, middle class political innocence (and arrogance)— mostly shared a common idea of what we wanted to replace them. Mary Tyler Moore's Mary Richards was a flawed but encouraging first step, we thought. And Candice Bergen s Murphy Brown was— is—for many of us, about right. Professionally successful, emotionally and economically independent, stylishly turned out in this year's Donna Karan or Adrienne Vittadini "bridge" wear; and cozily ensconced in a chic townhouse or condo; Murphy—and other descendents from Moore's matrilinear line—makes us proud.

But, while I'm grateful for Murphy, my heart belongs to a sitcom heroine who is very far from the classic guidelines for "positive role models." Fat, sloppy, and badly dressed, housed and employed, Roseanne (who has recently chosen to use only a first name)—more than Murphy, more than Madonna, more than Hillary, in my view—has most profoundly and positively changed TV gender norms for the better.

But while I feel safe, in feminist circles, calling up the name of Murphy Brown, I am uncertain, even defensive, in my praise of Roseanne. Lots of feminists, after all, deplore her. Where Murphy oozes political correctness, Roseanne is likely to set our progressive, enlightened teeth on edge with her flaws, failures, and faux pas. Yelling at her kids and bossing everyone else on her show; posing ''indecen tly'' and admitting to sexual and moral deeds and scars, she just doesn't make it as a "positive image" of feminist triumph.

Well, so what, I would argue. The "positive role model" thing is way overrated. Forget about the obvious, if unstated, class and race bias of most such criteria. There's also something unrealistic and unfair about putting forth standards of emotional and political perfection for women, which few, if any, can reasonably aspire to.

Roseanne offers an image of someone who doesn't have it all together, who hasn't achieved professional success or emotional and personal perfection. Someone who, rather, is stuck—like most of us these days—in the squalor of economic and emotional difficulty and struggling to manage in the most moral, loving, dignified way she can.

Roseanne isn't "movin' on up" to anywhere. She is standing pat. With her bad hair, baggy pants, and oversize shirts from the lower level of the mall; with her burned meat loaf, tuna casseroles, and Malomars; with her rough language and politically incorrect child-rearing methods; with her dead end, minimum wage jobs—Roseanne is a living symbol of resistance against class, gender, and consumerist norms.

To appreciate Roseanne, perhaps we need to take a fresh look at another sitcom star, from another day—also no darling of "classical" feminists—the Lucille Ball of "1 Love Lucy." The parallels between these two women are interesting, and reveal a lot about what has and hasn't changed for the women—white, working class and poor—who make up the female majority in this country (although you'd never know it from watching TV). Both were, and are, popular and powerful beyond the dreams of almost any woman performer of their times. And yet they presented themselves as out of bounds, loud, funny, noisy, wild women— all attributes which sexist culture beats out of most of us very early on. In a world in which females are enjoined not to take up too much space, not to make "spectacles" of ourselves, not to "disturb" but contain "the peace," women like Roseanne and Lucy have always been frightening, repulsive, indecent.

That's why they so appall so many. I used to cringe when I watched "I Love Lucy," as a child. She filled me with embarrassment because she was so stereotypically "hysterical," so much a failure in her endless efforts to move out of the confines of traditional femininity and its many indignities (indignities otherwise kept hidden on TV).

I was far more comfortable, as a middle-class girl, with the persona created by Mary Tyler Moore. Unlike Lucy, Mary was perfectly groomed and mannered. She was sweetly deferential in her apologetic efforts at assertiveness; embarrassingly grateful for every nod of respect or responsibility from her boss "Mr. Grant." Ambitious, yes, but never forgetful of the "ladylike" way of moving up the corporate ladder, one dainty, unthreatening step at a time. Where Lucy embarrassed, Mary soothed.

But through Roseanne, I've come to take a different view of the very improper Lucy. For her time, after all, she was a real fighter against feminine constraints. She tried to do things, often with other women and always against the resistance of every man on the show. She was full of energy and rebelliousness and, yes, independence—to a point.

But, of course, she always failed, and lost, and made a fool ofherself. Her show was pure slapstick fantasy, because, back then, the things she was trying to achieve were so far from imaginable that someone like her could only exist in a farcical mode.

Roseanne, too, is loud, aggressive, messy, and ambitiously bossy. Roseanne, too, has close relationships with other women. And Roseanne, too, is larger than life, excessive, and, to many, frightening and repulsive. But her show is no fantasy. Many would argue that it is the most realistic picture of gender, class, and family relations on television today. No more the harried husband rolling his eyes at his wife's antics. Where other sitcoms either ignore feminism and reproduce traditional relations or, perhaps worse, present perfectly harmonious couples— like the Cosbys—for whom gender equity comes as naturally as their good looks, Roseanne and Dan duke it out over gender and power issues as equals who seem really to love, respect and—not least— get really angry at each other.

Nor does Roseanne need to think up crazy schemes for achieving the impossible—a project outside the home. Like most of us, Roseanne needs to work. The jobs she is forced to take—sweeping up hair in a hair salon; waiting tables in malls and diners; working on an assembly line—are very like the ones Lucy nabbed and then messed up, to the wild laughter of the audience. But for Roseanne the humor is different. Roseanne fights with sexist, overbearing bosses; moonlights to get the family through the rough days when Dan is out ofwork; then lashes out at her kids because she's stressed out at work. And if these things are funny to watch, they are also deeply revealing of social and emotional truths in the lives of women and working class families today.

The most touching and impressive thing about this series is that it presents its progressive "messages" subtly, without preaching or condescending to audiences. Much was made of the famous episode, aired March 1, 1994, in which Roseanne was kissed by a lesbian character. (And it is surely a tribute to Roseanne s integrity and clout that what is perhaps the first televised lesbian kiss got past Standards and Practices review.)

But airing the kiss itself was really no big deal. Lots of shows will now venture a "Wow, did you see that?" one minute/one scene. Lesbianism, as an idea, an abstraction, a new entry on the now very long list of liberal tolerances to which the professional middle classes must pay lip service, was bound to hit prime time even without Roseanne. What made the Roseanne "lesbian episode" remarkable was what followed the kiss—the startlingly honest discussions about homosexuality between Dan and his young son DJ. and, later, in bed, between Dan and Roseanne.

This segment was politically audacious because it did not lecture the vast majority of Americans who are, yes, queasy about homosexuality. Instead, it presented them with a mirror image of their own confusions and anxiety and led them to a position of relative comfort about it all, by sympathizing with their very real concern about radical social and sexual change.

This is how the show attacks all of its difficult issues, both sensational and mundane. Much has been made ofRoseanne's way of yelling at her kids, even hitting them on at least one occasion. Clearly, this is not how parents have been told to behave, and for obvious and good reason. Nonetheless, to pretend that parents don't err—as most sitcoms do—is to condescend to viewers who know the truth all too well.

On "Roseanne," parental failings are neither denied nor condemned. They are talked about. After hitting her son, for example, Roseanne apologizes and confesses, heartbreakingly, that she was herself beaten as a child and that it was wrong then and wrong now. It is this kind of honesty about negative feelings that makes the positive feelings of love and mutual respect within this battered, battling family so very believable.

The fictional Roseanne Connor, of course, is a lot more together and a lot more likable than her real counterpart. Roseanne herself has said that her alter ego is "much nicer" than she. On sitcoms, the epitome of media sappiness, we see the Connors struggle against the odds and win, thrive, live happily ever after. That's the only kind of ending the sponsors will support, after all.

But in real life, as Roseanne bellows out to all who will listen, things are messier, even for those who have risen to the top by playing some version of the media game. Perversely, I like that about Roseanne, too. Sheislivingproof— no matter what the "power" feminists, who so deplore "victimization," would have us believe—that women, even the most successful among us, struggle every day with the emotional and institutional demons of sexist culture and labor every day to eke out small and large victories from a world that has made it difficult for women to survive, much less succeed. And because Roseanne—in life and art—refuses to tone down or deny these ugly, embarrassing truths about women's lives, her every step up from victimization, appears as something of a small miracle—which indeed, I sometimes think, our collective survival and progress are, given the odds against us. So here's to Roseanne. Long may she strut her stuff.

Elayne Rapping's latest book is Mediations: Forays into the Culture and Gender Wars.