Internet-based subcultures that bleed into the mainstream are inevitably misinterpreted or incorrectly defined. Take the whole “tradwife” trend, for instance. As my Salon colleague Amanda Marcotte describes in her recent article on this weird phenomenon, so-called tradwifes are a strain of white, Christian TikTok influencers extolling the virtues of submissive marriage while dressing like pin-up fantasies.
Central to their schtick is exhibiting happiness at the thought of pleasing their husband and bending to his will in all matters.
“Fargo” provides an example of that dynamic in Jon Hamm’s Roy Tillman, a supposed “constitutional” sheriff who rules his North Dakota town more than running it. Tillman keeps his constituents in line by supposedly living by Biblical law, his interpretation of which is squishy at best; the New Testament doesn’t say anything about, say, misappropriating weapons to arm a local militia.
But the verse Tillman gets off on the most refers to a husband’s supremacy over his wife. “Jesus was a man, not some bearded lady. And just as water flows downhill, her husband is head of his household. Under him, the woman abides,” Roy riffs in the second episode, later adding, “He only raises his hand when she forgets her place and acts the man. And then, only for instruction. Never taking any pleasure or satisfaction from the task.”
What type of marriage does that produce? Episode 3 provides some hints when it more fully introduces us to Karen Tillman (Rebecca Liddiard), Roy’s latest wife and mother to two daughters. Karen’s father is a white supremacist leader of an anti-government battalion Roy is secretly supporting which informs how Karen was probably molded – which is to say, into #TradWife material. White supremacy and patriarchy go hand in hand, after all.
“Alone at last!” she says, strolling to the large wooden chest at the foot of their bed and opening it to reveal a softly lit trove of sexual fantasy. “What do you want tonight, Daddy? You want 'helpless hitchhiker'? How about 'angry feminist'?” she says, saucily swinging handcuffs from her finger.
Then she removes her robe and slides into bed with him, stroking and kissing his chest. “How about that mean old governor? Hmm?” Karen purrs, stopping curtly when Roy gently lifts his hand. “Sorry,” she says abruptly, rolling over to her side of the bed with her back to him, her face arranging itself into a look suspended between fear and nothingness.
Roy is no hero. He’s hunting his ex-wife Dorothy Lyon (Juno Temple), who has been hiding out in a new life and a happy, stable marriage to gentle Wayne (David Rysdahl), a guy Roy would likely denigrate in emasculating terms.
Like Karen, Dot is a stay-at-home mother whose main jobs are keeping house, caring for her daughter Scotty (Sienna King), and assisting with PTA functions – a rare situation in 2019, when the fifth season takes place. She loves making Bisquick pancakes and knits while watching daytime TV.
Write off Dot as another kind of tradwife to your peril, however. She’s also an expert on improvising field dressings for bullet wounds and setting deadly booby traps to defend whatever place in which she's cornered, be it her home or a convenience store under siege.
In the season premiere, she dispatches her kidnappers by knocking them out – one by using bags of ice, another with a shovel. Both men were armed with guns, and they couldn’t overpower her. Minnesota state trooper Witt Farr (Lamorne Morris) took a bullet from one of them, and he would have bled out if not for Dorothy rigging a makeshift tourniquet out of bandages, an ice scraper and duct tape.
“Where’d you learn to do all this?” he asks her.
“It’s not my first getaway,” Dot quietly replies.
Women have been central to every “Fargo” tale since the 1996 movie, when Frances McDormand’s Marge Gunderson unravels a grisly series of crimes in Brainerd, Minn., while being seven months pregnant and barely calling attention to that state.
She’s the first of many "Fargo" mothers, daughters, wives and sisters who get things done because they must, despite obstacles placed in their way by men who underestimate their fortitude.
Resourcefulness is the hallmark of the housewife, according to any 1950s home economics film. Typically that refers to stretching a dollar or getting creative with leftovers. Dot interprets that doctrine to ensure she can keep the life she wants on her terms instead of letting Roy recapture her.
When Wayne balks at getting a security system, and the local gun shop is hamstrung by federal background check laws and week-long cool-down periods, Dot rigs a Rube Goldberg-style home protection grid using items she has around the house or that she can purchase at the hardware store.
Light bulbs balanced between doorknobs and frames double as a warning system. A sledgehammer suspended by a cord awaits any who would breach her front door. Lacking a gun, she hammers nails into a baseball bat. Lacking an automated connection to a monitoring service, she connects exposed wires running along jambs to a light switch. We see how effective a deterrent all of these are during an inevitable home invasion. Sadly for Dot, Wayne ends up taking the voltage when, in a panic, he dashes for a window.
But the sheer fact that Dot is battle-ready distinguishes her from women like Karen, who would claim to be helpless without Roy. The tradwife or the "female," as Roy refers to women and livestock – is under her husband’s protection. Defending territory is a man’s duty. By that logic, a woman who can take care of herself, women like Dot, would be “acting the man,” not being self-sufficient or capable.
The relative mainstreaming of tradwife lunacy is concerning for a lot reasons, one being an escalating tendency to conflate the term with that of everyday stay-at-home parents and housewives. This implies all homemakers-by-choice are somehow anti-feminist figures, a lie that's resurfaced many times in some form since the 1970s. Such needless debates pitting housewives against working women tend to center white, college-educated women, leaving aside the reality for many Black and brown women who have no option other than to keep their household in order while maintaining a full-time job.
Besides, framing general homemaking and caretaking in such terms is denigrating to people pushed out the workforce during the pandemic, many of them leaving to take care of their kids due to our government’s sub-par to non-existent childcare subsidies.
I would trust her with my life pic.twitter.com/bQBtLNd7dx
— Miracle on 34th Meat 🎄 (@meatsical) November 29, 2023
If you spent any time around the culinary-themed Internet within the past couple of weeks, you’ve probably encountered Jessica Secrest’s “aggressive” taco tater tot casserole tutorial. The Grand Rapids, Mich. TikToker’s video went viral after it was cross-posted on Twitter, earning praise for Secrest’s loud, plainspoken, “I’ve had it with you people” presentation and frankness.
Secrest isn’t gussied up like a 1950s Betty Crocker drawing. Her hair isn’t done up specially, it’s pulled back and off her face. She’s dressed for utilitarian comfort in a long-sleeved black top and jeans. That she feels no need to smile for the camera or seduce her audience makes her all the more endearing.
“This is just a lady making a meal for her family, albeit in an aggressive way,” says culinary TikTok’s top judge Chef Reactions, with whom Secrest passes muster aside from her shocking over usage of “jarlic.”
A few posts social media posts, such as this one from an X user called @SaintQ92, assigned the tradwife label to her.
“OK A, she’s my new favorite person, and B, this is what irl tradwives are but nobody is ready for that convo. Sorry bro, she’s probably not some ethereal size 0 walking through a field of sunflowers.”
They meant that to be funny, I'm sure. To women doing the hard work of keeping house and raising the kids without hewing to some ridiculous notion of subservience, being called a #TradWife, even as a joke, might not be.
A Detroit News profile of Secrest reveals that she earned a master’s degree in employment and labor relations in 2017 and worked as a human resources manager until 2021 when, like so many parents with young children, she quit her job to be a stay-at-home mom to her now-three- and five-year-olds. The same article reveals that her husband is her partner who moderates her live videos.
Secrest’s popular post shows her making a meal colloquially known as “hot dish,” a term that is regionally specific to the Midwest, including Michigan and Minnesota. That marks her as a sister in spirit to Dot, who also dresses sensibly and prefers homey activities, but also makes it clear she will not back down from any threat or challenge.
Like Dorothy Lyon, Secrest’s take-no-guff demeanor leads us to believe she could as MacGyver her way out of a bind if the need arose. She’s a mom and a wife making it work because if not her, then who? So she only has time for jarred garlic. So what? The corn she uses is frozen, and she opens its package with her teeth — “It’s fine,” she yells.
Generations of adults whose mothers raised them as a full-time job, often in addition to other work, relate to her.
“I would trust her with my life,” says X user @meatsical.
If she were in “Fargo,” she might be the only one who could save it.
New episodes of "Fargo" air 10 p.m. Tuesdays on FX and stream the next day on Hulu.
