Opening the mailbox, I was hoping for something good. I smiled as I pulled out the latest issue of National Review. But there between my magazine and my sons’ copy of Boys’ Life was a large glossy red postcard. On it were three scantily clad, buxom women in sexually provocative poses.
”IS THIS YOUR FANTASY?” read the card.
“This has got to be in the wrong mailbox,” I murmured to myself, but it was addressed to my husband or “Current Resident.” I pulled Steve aside in the kitchen.
“Do you know anything about this?” I whispered. His jaw dropped, as he unfolded the card. It was an entry form for a sweepstakes from a local hard-rock radio station.
“I don’t even listen to this station,” he said. “Why would they send people stuff like this?”
Disgusted I ripped the card in half and threw it in the trash.
The more I thought about the advertisement, the more it bothered me. I pulled the pieces of the picture out of the trash and put them into my to-do file. Something should be done about this–but what?
Phone calls to the post office and my congressman netted me the same information. I wasn’t the first person to complain, but the mailing was protected under the First Amendment. If I wanted to stop all third-class mail–grocery store circulars, pizza coupons, and freebie newspapers–from being delivered to my home, I could fill out a form.
My indignation was nearly exhausted by the bureaucracy. I called the radio station that sent the mailing.
“Hello, this is Bob, operations manager for WXYZ Radio. How can I help you?” said a deep, rich voice.
“Well, I, uh, received an offensive postcard in my mailbox from your station.”
“Are you referring to the Fantasy Sweepstakes mailing?”
“Yes.”
His tone changed.
“I’m sorry you didn’t like it.” I could almost feel him patting me on the head.
“No, I didn’t like it and I want your personal guarantee that I will never receive anything like that from you again.”
“I can’t do that.”
My throat tightened squeezing my voice up an octave.
“But you are the operations manager. If you can’t do it, who can?”
“We can’t abandon an entire advertising campaign because one person finds it objectionable.”
“I already called the post office, Bob. I know I am not the only one who thought it was pornographic.”
“Oh, so you can define pornography and don’t think anybody should be allowed to see it.”
“I know pornography when I see it in my mailbox, and I just don’t want it forced on me or anyone else who doesn’t want to see it.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t like it,” he repeated like an automaton. “Is there anything else I can do for you? If not, thanks for calling WXYZ.”
My outrage was restored. This guy had fouled my nest. He didn’t care and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. This was war!
I tuned into the station to get a list of its advertisers, but I couldn’t stand to listen to the heavy-metal rock for even five minutes. Disheartened, I turned to my feminine arsenal. I told all my friends about my problem. My big break came from a fellow preschool mom. She knew about the radio station, because her husband listened to the local university’s football games on it. The station had exclusive rights to broadcast all the university’s sports contests live.
Eureka! That was it. Finally, I could trade in my slingshot for a bazooka.
My next call was to the university’s dean of public relations. I didn’t know if I could enlist her in the fight against immorality or pornography. I summed up my story saying, ” I think it is embarrassing for the university’s sports program to be affiliated with advertising that degrades women.”
She was silent for a moment.
“Do you still have the mailing?”
“It’s ripped in half, but I have the pieces.”
“Can you get it to me, right away? I’d like to see it.”
”Certainly! Thank you,” I sighed.
“I’m not promising you anything. I need to see if seems offensive to others.”
After dropping off an envelope containing the pieces to her office, I waited for two days. I worried that the dean thought I was crazy and had taken this thing too far.
Finally she called me back.
“You’re right. The university doesn’t want to be linked to that kind of treatment of women. The president had the athletic director call the station manager. I don’t think we’ll be seeing anything like Fantasy Sweepstakes from them again. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”
“Yes!” I whooped as I hung up.
But I haven’t had much time to gloat. We just received another postcard. This one was addressed to my 12-year-old son. It pictured the rearview of a topless woman sitting on a man’s shoulders and urged my son subscribe to a new magazine that “knows what men really want.” My son’s name is misspelled on the mailing label just as it is on the sports magazine he receives. At least I know where to start this time. Wish me luck.
Well, don’t just sit there. You’d better go out and get the mail before your kids do.
–Kathleen Whitney Barr is a mother and freelance writer in Delaware.