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White Bread Archie Bunker lives in my house. He occupies large space by a snow-colored screen, eats roast beef and white bread and, with little aim, chews up politicians and non-union workers in bite-sized refrains. Trust no one, he says, smearing more butter, but Mother and me and, of course, John Wayne. If he’d had sons, life would be as different as wheat or white. They’d deer hunt and fish and stay out late getting fresh with blonde-haired girls like us, His Majesty’s loyal female patriots. Instead, we grow up watching an Old Country Man who pays all the bills, buys American cars, and is at such a loss when it comes to blue-eyed daughters. When dishes are washed, we peel back to genderized corners of this small, suburban house– wondering if we’ll ever grasp the comedic aspects of being Archie’s girls. |
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