Reading Dan Savage's book has reminded me that I am something of a prude. I'm not really interested in swearing, or in reading about sex (gay or straight) or about the time his butt was bleeding. Then I read some of Savage Love online and was like, yes, I am a prude, and intend to stay that way. So I stopped reading Savage Love.
Anyway, for the first few chapters I wondered whether or not this book would have been published if Savage had not already gotten a contract to write it. The first few chapters were very haphazard. There's a chapter of societal commentary, a chapter written to his kid, a chapter about starting the adoption process, how he met his boyfriend and the sex or lack thereof going on at the time. I think I prefer books where the author is less apparent. In A Life's Work, Cusk showed up too much just by being too "writerly." I preferred Rachel in the World because Bernstein told a story with the focus being on the story. Savage talked a little too much about the writing of the story.
I liked the second half of the book a lot more (so pretend I'm posting this on Wednesday). Once Melissa was introduced, it seemed like there was a new and more engaging focus. She was interesting by virtue of being a gutter-punk - I guess Pittsburgh doesn't have any of these - so I didn't realize that this demographic existed - and because of the role she played - how reliable would she be, would she see the adoption through, what would she think of Dan and Terry? I think she also helped shift Savage's focus from himself onto someone else, and I liked that.
And just something I was wondering - Savage apparently watches porn a lot, and I mean a lot. So what would the reaction be to a straight father talking about all the porn he's watching? I guess there are couples where that might be the norm, but I don't think that's healthy. I tend to think of porn as extremely demeaning to the women in it and to the men watching it (and that the men in it are assholes). Not everybody feels this way. But I don't even know how I'm supposed to feel about gay porn. Is it demeaning to the performers/viewers? Is it damaging to a relationship in the same way? I feel like Savage is making a point to address issues about homosexuality in general, and I have absolutely no perspective on how well he represents others.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Adoption Anxiety
Adoption and anxiety seem to go hand in hand. The entire process in itself seems stressful and drawn out. What I found interesting is the way in which a heterosexual couple verses a homosexual couple appears to handle this anxiety completely different.
The anxiety that comes with the whole adoption process is seemingly different for every couple. For a heterosexual couple though, the failure of not being able to conceive their own child is a major emotional hurtle that must be dealt with. The gay couple cannot relate to this feeling because they have already accepted their inability to reproduce. However, I think their anxiety is perhaps worse. Savage comments that the “...odds seemed pretty good that someone at the table believed that my boyfriend and I were going to hell, and had no right to take a baby down with us” (Savage 15). A heterosexual couple may feel bad that they cannot reproduce, but no one else feels bad that they are choosing to adopt because of it. Their anxiety stems solely from the process of adoption and the prospect of becoming parents. In comparison, a homosexual couple is content with the fact that they cannot reproduce, but many people are not okay that they are adopting. This additional factor creates more anxiety for a couple like Dan and Ted.
However, while I feel sympathetic towards this additional anxiety, I was mildly concerned about the anxiety Dan experienced as both he and Terry sat in the conference room at Lloyd Center amongst other couples waiting to begin a seminar about the open adoption process. I could imagine what kinds of questions were nervously running through the other couples’ minds:
Will anyone pick to be the parent of their unborn child?
Is open adoption our best option?
Will I be a good parent?
How long will this take?
What kind of mother puts her child up for adoption?
Do I look nervous?
What I found most remarkable about this book so far was that as Dan and Terry sat in the conference room waiting for the seminar to begin Dan was not asking himself these kinds of questions. Instead, he was secretly wondering who among the other hopeful parents was biased towards gays, towards them. “Who hated us? Who could it be? Somebody there must have, but who? The guy sitting next to me who looked a lot like my father? The woman wearing huge glasses in the pink sweater? The couple who looked like they listened to NPR 24/7?” (Savage 15).
Although I personally cannot relate to the biases homosexuals feel, I found this section of the novel a little discomfiting. If Dan and Terry are serious about adoption, shouldn’t they be more concerned about the adoption seminar and what’s to come instead of the potential homophobias sitting next to them? They are grown gay adults after all; chances are they have already dealt with biased heterosexuals countless times. The questions that a heterosexual couple might be consciously battling with might be different than those of a homosexual couple, but I feel as though they should still relate to the actual baby that is about to be adopted.
The anxiety that comes with the whole adoption process is seemingly different for every couple. For a heterosexual couple though, the failure of not being able to conceive their own child is a major emotional hurtle that must be dealt with. The gay couple cannot relate to this feeling because they have already accepted their inability to reproduce. However, I think their anxiety is perhaps worse. Savage comments that the “...odds seemed pretty good that someone at the table believed that my boyfriend and I were going to hell, and had no right to take a baby down with us” (Savage 15). A heterosexual couple may feel bad that they cannot reproduce, but no one else feels bad that they are choosing to adopt because of it. Their anxiety stems solely from the process of adoption and the prospect of becoming parents. In comparison, a homosexual couple is content with the fact that they cannot reproduce, but many people are not okay that they are adopting. This additional factor creates more anxiety for a couple like Dan and Ted.
However, while I feel sympathetic towards this additional anxiety, I was mildly concerned about the anxiety Dan experienced as both he and Terry sat in the conference room at Lloyd Center amongst other couples waiting to begin a seminar about the open adoption process. I could imagine what kinds of questions were nervously running through the other couples’ minds:
Will anyone pick to be the parent of their unborn child?
Is open adoption our best option?
Will I be a good parent?
How long will this take?
What kind of mother puts her child up for adoption?
Do I look nervous?
What I found most remarkable about this book so far was that as Dan and Terry sat in the conference room waiting for the seminar to begin Dan was not asking himself these kinds of questions. Instead, he was secretly wondering who among the other hopeful parents was biased towards gays, towards them. “Who hated us? Who could it be? Somebody there must have, but who? The guy sitting next to me who looked a lot like my father? The woman wearing huge glasses in the pink sweater? The couple who looked like they listened to NPR 24/7?” (Savage 15).
Although I personally cannot relate to the biases homosexuals feel, I found this section of the novel a little discomfiting. If Dan and Terry are serious about adoption, shouldn’t they be more concerned about the adoption seminar and what’s to come instead of the potential homophobias sitting next to them? They are grown gay adults after all; chances are they have already dealt with biased heterosexuals countless times. The questions that a heterosexual couple might be consciously battling with might be different than those of a homosexual couple, but I feel as though they should still relate to the actual baby that is about to be adopted.
Extra Credit: Film screening on gay parenthood
Pittsburgh Consortium for Adoption Studies and the
Carnegie-Mellon Department of English Allies
present a film
Daddy and Papa
And a panel with
Kristina Straub, Associate Dean for Academic Affairs,
Humanities and Social Sciences, CMU
Mike Bridges, Eberly Teaching Center, CMU
Holly Hippensteel, Student Life, CMU
discussing
Gay and Lesbian Adoptive Parents
Wed. Oct. 1, 4:30
Baker Hall, Steinberg Auditorium, CMU campus
Daddy and Papa, which profiles four different families, including the filmmaker’s, explores issues such as interracial and open adoption as well as the quest for legal status as parents. A few of its awards are Official Selection at Sundance, Audience Award for Best Documentary at the Florida Film Festival, and Golden Gate Award as the best first person documentary at the San Francisco International Film Festival. For more information, contact ks3t@andrew.cmu.edu, jordan@cmu.edu, mnovy@pitt.edu or www.english.pitt/adoption_studies
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Immortality
Today in class we discussed the reasons why people have children. These went beyond happiness into practical and spiritual reasons, but I later thought of another reason for children which is immortality. Writers (the one I think of is Shakespeare) are always addressing the theme that their writing will make them immortal as their thoughts will live on beyond their physical death. The book becomes their child because children are also allowing their parent's immortality. Although I've never felt pressure from my own family to have children (because my sister has already satisfied that need) my boyfriend would be the first to produce great-grandchildren for his elderly grandparents. Whenever I am in town the subject of future plans and pregnancy are awkwardly brought up in my presence and the pressure is obviously present. I feel for this man who desperately wants to live on and wants proof of this and the ability to form a new life before its too late for him. I've heard of couples being called selfish for not providing this next generation in a timely manner for the rest of their family. It seems to be an essential part of life to want to preserve it forever. As long as there is a future generation who will remember the parents that raised them with the sensibility passed to them by their parents and there is someone to read the dead writer's book then the original creators and authors can live on.
This brings a question to my mind of mother writers. Are they taking to much immortality and does it conflict? When the writer is writing about their own child it adds another level of immortal complexity. As David was saying about Christopher Robin, the child who let his father live on was in conflict with the book that immortalized both of them. Cusk memorializes the motherhood of infants as well as herself and her daughter. The conflict for her comes from the idea that both of these projects (her child and her book) take time to create, but once they have been created they may still conflict. Her child will not only understand that a book about her infancy exists but she will also know that there was so much negative response to the story of her life. Her childhood will last forever in the words of her mother and her mother's critics.
Children and books have this similarity in prolonging the lifework of their author and parent and they conflict logistically with the time to be both a mother and a writer. With each child and book we hope for a progression in society and evolution as ideas are developed with each new thinker and each contribution to the discussion. I don't have an argument about this idea yet, but it did seem like an interesting similarity to me and I plan on being aware of this concept when reading future parent-writer's works.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Tough Book/Happy Ending
Despite all of its sadness and frustration, Rachel in the World, I thought, had a happy ending. It is clear that Bernstein is not a bad mother, and that Rachel was unable to fully give thanks to her mother for protecting her and loving her; intruding on her and overshadowing her with the motherly annoyance which was so oppressive. But by the end, Bernstein has finally found the “perfect place” for Rachel to live apart from her and yet close enough to hear her “flapping wings, look up and think of me” (263). She has triumphed in her quest which was so unlikely. She may attribute it to sheer luck or the kindness of strangers, but I believe, in the end, it was in fact Bernstein’s love which made the ending so triumphant.
Of course, Bernstein is not sugar-coating all that she had been through. Even in this perfect place she insists that “‘happy’ is a land with peaks and valleys, and ‘perfect’ a place with uncertain terrain, never free of hazards” (261). Rather, she is able to fully appreciate the burden she truly bore in the name of loving her daughter who was sometimes impossible to love. She remembered her battle with guilt and shame—recalls being rendered “useless as a mother,” but always from a distance (261). She is hesitant to place blame on herself for too much because she realizes that situations such as hers are special situations in which individuals like her daughter have slipped through the cracks of society. Sure, she reproaches herself, deems herself a bad mother now and then throughout the book, but by the end she is hopeful and even comfortable with how she has navigated this turbulent road. She is finally able to reflect on the true nature of her struggle: “That was hard, I thought, as if for the first time. That was really hard” (261). I found this passage so affecting because it was as if she was waiting until she had finally been victorious to allow herself any real understanding of the difficulty she’d been through.
Rachel’s father, Paul, sick and distant was not around during the times when Bernstein was forced to hide from Rachel’s needle-like cries. Charlotte had the protection of college when the time came. Her social workers and staff were paid by the hour to endure Rachel’s tyranny, and then they were allowed to go home to their families and their quiet, normal lives. In the end, Bernstein took the brunt of it; had to live in a world filled with overwhelming ambivalence. On the one side, she was trying to give all of the love she had to her mysterious daughter, and on the other, she was trapped and isolated by an inscrutable, unaffectionate sponge which was endless with need.
I may be a victim of optimism. At one time in my life I may have agreed with Amanda’s post—the idea that “love is not enough.” I understand that when it comes to a special needs child, neglected by society, skipped over or cut by those responsible for social funding, there is a limit which must necessarily outdistance that love. But in this case, Bernstein and Rachel’s case, all the help in the world and all the luck was really only part of it. What ensured that it all came together the very way it should have was the author, the mother, Jane Bernstein and her love. This was a success story in my eyes.
Of course, Bernstein is not sugar-coating all that she had been through. Even in this perfect place she insists that “‘happy’ is a land with peaks and valleys, and ‘perfect’ a place with uncertain terrain, never free of hazards” (261). Rather, she is able to fully appreciate the burden she truly bore in the name of loving her daughter who was sometimes impossible to love. She remembered her battle with guilt and shame—recalls being rendered “useless as a mother,” but always from a distance (261). She is hesitant to place blame on herself for too much because she realizes that situations such as hers are special situations in which individuals like her daughter have slipped through the cracks of society. Sure, she reproaches herself, deems herself a bad mother now and then throughout the book, but by the end she is hopeful and even comfortable with how she has navigated this turbulent road. She is finally able to reflect on the true nature of her struggle: “That was hard, I thought, as if for the first time. That was really hard” (261). I found this passage so affecting because it was as if she was waiting until she had finally been victorious to allow herself any real understanding of the difficulty she’d been through.
Rachel’s father, Paul, sick and distant was not around during the times when Bernstein was forced to hide from Rachel’s needle-like cries. Charlotte had the protection of college when the time came. Her social workers and staff were paid by the hour to endure Rachel’s tyranny, and then they were allowed to go home to their families and their quiet, normal lives. In the end, Bernstein took the brunt of it; had to live in a world filled with overwhelming ambivalence. On the one side, she was trying to give all of the love she had to her mysterious daughter, and on the other, she was trapped and isolated by an inscrutable, unaffectionate sponge which was endless with need.
I may be a victim of optimism. At one time in my life I may have agreed with Amanda’s post—the idea that “love is not enough.” I understand that when it comes to a special needs child, neglected by society, skipped over or cut by those responsible for social funding, there is a limit which must necessarily outdistance that love. But in this case, Bernstein and Rachel’s case, all the help in the world and all the luck was really only part of it. What ensured that it all came together the very way it should have was the author, the mother, Jane Bernstein and her love. This was a success story in my eyes.
Is Love Enough?
I feel like we have heard it all before, the typical clichés like: “Love is all you need” or “Love can conquer anything.” For me, it is undeniable that Bernstein loves Rachel. However, when it comes to a special needs child, more specifically the special needs child who is all grown-up, is love really all you need? Can the love Bernstein (or any parent with a special needs child for that matter) has conquer anything?
After completing Rachel in the World for the second time now, it seems to me that no matter how much love Bernstein has for Rachel, (which I believe is a tremendous amount) love is just not enough. If there was no funding, no programs like the JCC, no help from strangers or social workers, no behavior management, no life-sharing, no kibbutz in Kishorit, or no CLA, Bernstein would not have been able to hold on like she did. Would anyone in that position be able to really? I don’t think so.
Bernstein admits and gratifies the help she receives throughout the memoir to care for Rachel. The explanation of programs and people that helped Rachel are described in detail and praised because if it was not for their help Rachel and Bernstein would not
have reached that ‘perfect’ place by the end. For example, Bernstein remarks thankfully, “Katie had obtained Rachel’s funding for summer camp; Janet, another supports coordinator, had gotten Rachel into Title XIX before I fully understood how limited the slots were...” (195). Later in discussing the help Wendy provided, she exclaims, “That’s the kind of person you need on your side. My hard work wouldn’t have amounted to a thing if Wendy hadn’t come along, hadn’t thought over my dead body” (249). It is people and programs like the ones mentioned throughout the memoir combined with love that make a ‘perfect’ place obtainable (and keep both parent and child sane). My own handicapped brother has benefited from the kindness of other people and programs as well. It is a continual process to find funds and programs to accommodate him as he grows.
Bernstein herself seems to acknowledge both to herself and her readers that love is not enough in the case of Rachel. She understood that “…it was impossible to plan Rachel’s future by myself” (195). She also admits how she was “...dependent on luck and on the goodwill of strangers...” (261). Although I feel as though Bernstein is a remarkable person and a good mother, it becomes obvious in the case of a special needs child that love alone simply won’t cut it. I can sympathize with Bernstein when I look at my own mother in this situation. I think she would also admit that no matter how much she loves my brother, the outside help is necessary to get by.
I realize this seems exceptionally negative to argue that love is not enough. But through Rachel’s story and personal experience I have realized that there is a tremendous difference between living and taking care of someone who is mentally retarded in comparison to being in the outsider position that allows you to “croon about the ‘adorable little crippled girl.’”(63).
After completing Rachel in the World for the second time now, it seems to me that no matter how much love Bernstein has for Rachel, (which I believe is a tremendous amount) love is just not enough. If there was no funding, no programs like the JCC, no help from strangers or social workers, no behavior management, no life-sharing, no kibbutz in Kishorit, or no CLA, Bernstein would not have been able to hold on like she did. Would anyone in that position be able to really? I don’t think so.
Bernstein admits and gratifies the help she receives throughout the memoir to care for Rachel. The explanation of programs and people that helped Rachel are described in detail and praised because if it was not for their help Rachel and Bernstein would not
have reached that ‘perfect’ place by the end. For example, Bernstein remarks thankfully, “Katie had obtained Rachel’s funding for summer camp; Janet, another supports coordinator, had gotten Rachel into Title XIX before I fully understood how limited the slots were...” (195). Later in discussing the help Wendy provided, she exclaims, “That’s the kind of person you need on your side. My hard work wouldn’t have amounted to a thing if Wendy hadn’t come along, hadn’t thought over my dead body” (249). It is people and programs like the ones mentioned throughout the memoir combined with love that make a ‘perfect’ place obtainable (and keep both parent and child sane). My own handicapped brother has benefited from the kindness of other people and programs as well. It is a continual process to find funds and programs to accommodate him as he grows.
Bernstein herself seems to acknowledge both to herself and her readers that love is not enough in the case of Rachel. She understood that “…it was impossible to plan Rachel’s future by myself” (195). She also admits how she was “...dependent on luck and on the goodwill of strangers...” (261). Although I feel as though Bernstein is a remarkable person and a good mother, it becomes obvious in the case of a special needs child that love alone simply won’t cut it. I can sympathize with Bernstein when I look at my own mother in this situation. I think she would also admit that no matter how much she loves my brother, the outside help is necessary to get by.
I realize this seems exceptionally negative to argue that love is not enough. But through Rachel’s story and personal experience I have realized that there is a tremendous difference between living and taking care of someone who is mentally retarded in comparison to being in the outsider position that allows you to “croon about the ‘adorable little crippled girl.’”(63).
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
bad or good mother?
So far I have really enjoyed Rachel in the World. Somehow, by the help of Bernstein's writing style, I feel as if I'm emerged into her thoughts. As a result, I find myself worrying along with her. There seem to be so many things that what we take as daily, mundane activities, are challenges for Rachel. I don't know if she really is as overprotective as many people have told her she is, but when she says that she is a bad mother, I really have to disagree with her. When I work with children I am constantly amazed by the women around me that seem to always know the right thing to say to a child when they need guidance or correction. And although I feel nervous, lost and insecure, when I look for advice and openly confess my insecurities, these women support me. Maybe they're just being nice, but I don't think I am as bad as I think I am. I think that maybe I'm just too self-conscious, always thinking about doing and saying the right thing and worrying that I am NOT doing the right thing at all. I don't know if that's how Jane Bernstein feels, but as the reader I know that Jane Bernstein is NOT a bad mother. I believe it was in Rachel Cusk's A Life's Work that we read that to be a good mother is simply just to be there for the baby. I still believe that's true, even if a woman is faced with the challenges of caring for her retarded child. I don't think there is such as a thing as being the perfect mother just as there's no such thing for being the perfect person. But I think that Bernstein's feelings and actions alone show how good of a mother she is. I wonder if most women in her position think that they are not good mothers because they aren't able to fully understand or help their daughters? And if that's not the case, then why would they feel that hey are bad mothers?
It is definitely tougher to take care of a retarded child, but Bernstein is more than just there for Rachel. The part that I admire most about her, in fact, is that she has very strong hopes and dreams for Rachel. Along with her constant battles for the rights of people with disabilities, Bernstein is able to have hopes for Rachel, which could almost be mistaken for luxury by others. I think what's important, (and something I didn't necessarily think about before this), is that having these hopes and dreams is a right everyone is entitled to. Bernstein talks more about this, and I think I would never have really understood what she meant if it had not been for her constant hopes for Rachel. Most parents, like mine, leave the hoping up to me and then support my efforts in reaching it. But Bernstein, with the realization that Rachel may not be able to hope or at least voice those hopes, feels that it's her responsibility to achieve them. When she finally finds the Kishorit community, I find myself being extremely relieved that Rachel can finally live away from her mother and that Bernstein can also finally live away from her daughter. All of Bernstein's nagging thoughts about Rachel have shown me a little bit of the burden that she had to carry. She leads a life that seems to have almost no rest and little freedom, yet she claims to be a bad mother. I can't wait to finish the book and for now I am glad that both women have gained their independence. I hope though, that my opinion remains the same that Bernstein is a great mother and that she's already fulfilled the basic requirement of simply being there for Rachel.
It is definitely tougher to take care of a retarded child, but Bernstein is more than just there for Rachel. The part that I admire most about her, in fact, is that she has very strong hopes and dreams for Rachel. Along with her constant battles for the rights of people with disabilities, Bernstein is able to have hopes for Rachel, which could almost be mistaken for luxury by others. I think what's important, (and something I didn't necessarily think about before this), is that having these hopes and dreams is a right everyone is entitled to. Bernstein talks more about this, and I think I would never have really understood what she meant if it had not been for her constant hopes for Rachel. Most parents, like mine, leave the hoping up to me and then support my efforts in reaching it. But Bernstein, with the realization that Rachel may not be able to hope or at least voice those hopes, feels that it's her responsibility to achieve them. When she finally finds the Kishorit community, I find myself being extremely relieved that Rachel can finally live away from her mother and that Bernstein can also finally live away from her daughter. All of Bernstein's nagging thoughts about Rachel have shown me a little bit of the burden that she had to carry. She leads a life that seems to have almost no rest and little freedom, yet she claims to be a bad mother. I can't wait to finish the book and for now I am glad that both women have gained their independence. I hope though, that my opinion remains the same that Bernstein is a great mother and that she's already fulfilled the basic requirement of simply being there for Rachel.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Charlotte with the retarded sister
Perhaps because I have a sibling who is retarded or maybe because this is my second read through of Rachel in the World, I’m not sure, but I paid close attention to Charlotte’s position within the story. As early on as the introduction, Bernstein makes mention that she will try “to make her feel that the joys and sorrows in her life mattered as much as anything that had happened to Rachel” (Bernstein 4). Throughout the first few chapters the two things that struck me most about Charlotte was how Bernstein tried to handle the responsibilities of a retarded child and a ‘normal’ child equally (living up to this initial statement she made) and even more importantly the identity that makes Charlotte with the retarded sister.
I felt that Bernstein did a good job of acknowledging the difficulty of maintaining certain equality between Charlotte and Rachel. Is it hard for parents to maintain an equality of treatment to all their kids? I know within my own family we joke that my brother is clearly my mom’s favorite. Do parents have a favorite child? Is that fair? But more specifically what about the special needs child? Their needs are greater than most children; therefore the equality amongst other siblings seems to differ more. I never got the impression that Charlotte was loved less than Rachel, but more so, that Rachel needed more. Bernstein acknowledges how Charlotte felt Rachel was loved more because she wrote about her more often. I do not feel this was the case, but maybe if Charlotte had had another sibling to share this feeling with things would have been easier on her in terms of feeling equally loved. I wonder if it would have been easier for both Bernstein and Charlotte if there had been multiple siblings. In certain situations, could more children be easier in terms of dealing with equality or only more burdensome because there are more? I know that in my own family there are times when my retarded brother has to come first or seems to need more attention, but I never felt the way Charlotte seems to be portrayed. Could it be because I have two other ‘normal’ siblings to share this with?
The passage that I found most interesting relating to Charlotte thus far was that of Charlotte’s first day at her new school. Bernstein acknowledges its importance, but then addresses Charlotte’s identity: “Soon enough she will dress the way she likes, grow her hair, get contact lenses, make good friends, and still she will remain Charlotte with the retarded sister—just as she was from the start” (Bernstein 36). This last part of the sentence really stuck out for me. There seems to be a particular identity put upon children in our culture if they are an only child, a middle child, the baby of the family, or the oldest child. Different stereotypes and personality traits are marked for children depending upon their classification within a family. But what about the sibling who has a brother or sister who is retarded. How are they classified? I’ve never thought of myself as Amanda with the retarded brother. Yet, his existence and relationship to me is a part of my identity. I feel that in my own case and Charlotte’s, a retarded sibling does affect identity of oneself. How much is a child’s identity affected by their position in the family, whether they are the baby of the family or the child with a retarded sibling?
I felt that Bernstein did a good job of acknowledging the difficulty of maintaining certain equality between Charlotte and Rachel. Is it hard for parents to maintain an equality of treatment to all their kids? I know within my own family we joke that my brother is clearly my mom’s favorite. Do parents have a favorite child? Is that fair? But more specifically what about the special needs child? Their needs are greater than most children; therefore the equality amongst other siblings seems to differ more. I never got the impression that Charlotte was loved less than Rachel, but more so, that Rachel needed more. Bernstein acknowledges how Charlotte felt Rachel was loved more because she wrote about her more often. I do not feel this was the case, but maybe if Charlotte had had another sibling to share this feeling with things would have been easier on her in terms of feeling equally loved. I wonder if it would have been easier for both Bernstein and Charlotte if there had been multiple siblings. In certain situations, could more children be easier in terms of dealing with equality or only more burdensome because there are more? I know that in my own family there are times when my retarded brother has to come first or seems to need more attention, but I never felt the way Charlotte seems to be portrayed. Could it be because I have two other ‘normal’ siblings to share this with?
The passage that I found most interesting relating to Charlotte thus far was that of Charlotte’s first day at her new school. Bernstein acknowledges its importance, but then addresses Charlotte’s identity: “Soon enough she will dress the way she likes, grow her hair, get contact lenses, make good friends, and still she will remain Charlotte with the retarded sister—just as she was from the start” (Bernstein 36). This last part of the sentence really stuck out for me. There seems to be a particular identity put upon children in our culture if they are an only child, a middle child, the baby of the family, or the oldest child. Different stereotypes and personality traits are marked for children depending upon their classification within a family. But what about the sibling who has a brother or sister who is retarded. How are they classified? I’ve never thought of myself as Amanda with the retarded brother. Yet, his existence and relationship to me is a part of my identity. I feel that in my own case and Charlotte’s, a retarded sibling does affect identity of oneself. How much is a child’s identity affected by their position in the family, whether they are the baby of the family or the child with a retarded sibling?
Taboo
Taboo: a social or cultural prohibition. Rachel in the World is about a mother’s perspective for her special needs child. In class we were asked to think about the taboo nature of the ‘special needs’ topic. I’m not sure the taboo is in writing about a special needs child, so much as reading about it. In writing about the subject, you have most likely experienced it. As readers what are we supposed to take away – pity, empathy, fear that this could happen to us? It is not that this topic is not important, I just think there is a part of every person that idealizes and hopes for normalcy and the confrontation of anything other than normal is taboo. Thus, unless one has had a special needs child; it is highly unlikely the subject matter will ever be read about. This lack of reading therefore translates into the lack of material written.
The taboo brings about the question of how I, as not only a reader, but a person, should connect. I personally know a family with a special needs child: Charlie. Their older children used to babysit us. The interaction between my family and Charlie was somewhat limited. The family encouraged as much interaction with Charlie as possible, but there was still a distance that only the immediate family could tap into. This is perhaps because they felt that they understood him best and had the experience to deal with him as a person. In this sense, I see the similarities and can perhaps relate more to Jane Bernstein and Rachel as individuals and as a family.
In understanding the needs of a special needs child, I like the way Jane Bernstein illuminates her daughter with that of the family’s elderly Uncle Ben. AS much as the memoir previously alienates the reader from the writer, this is perhaps the most accessible passage. As wide as the gap is in age, the structure of thought that corresponds between Rachel and Ben melds them into one person. Ben can only seems to care and ask about Rose; Rachel, her watch. Although I understand the purpose of this compositional simile, why is it so much easier to understand from the terms of an elderly man than a special needs child? Is it due to the fact that most people in their lifetime will deal with an elderly character than a special needs child? In this case, I must once again refer to the taboo nature of the topic. Why is it alright to feel pity, sympathy, empathy towards an older person rather than a special needs child? Why is the fear so much less? Does this have a backdrop of normalcy; a resignation that every person will one day be that older person? In seeking the answer to these questions, it is important to note that the family involving Ben has had a hard time dealing with his continuous focus on Rose. As Ben grows even older he becomes more dependent. This is a divergence and necessary counter to Rachel. As she grows older, she seems to become more independent.
Aside from the taboo topic, Rachel in the World also brings back a minor theme that we have discussed in prior works; the need for independence. Unlike previous works where the need for independence was limited to the just the mother, Rachel is included. This need for independence is mirrored by mother and daughter in two subjects: activity and space. The activity that Rachel finds independence in is swimming, her mother: writing. The independence of space is found by Rachel when she attends camp while her mother goes to their cabin. Independence, however, does not always have a positive connotation. Bernstein and her husband experienced the same set of emotions when acknowledging their daughter’s needs, yet dealt independently. Bernstein found herself searching for answers wherever she could, her husband choosing to deal in his silent way. In all of these circumstances the mother and teacher become separate. Bernstein even comments when Rachel was swimming independently, “it was the pleasure of simply being with her - not cuing her or coaching her or working with flash cards” (20). This in itself is interesting as Jane Bernstein is a professor, but that’s beside the point. I at times wonder when reading, how Bernstein establishes herself as a mother and not a teacher, other than the obvious vocalization of the subject.
Both of my parents are teachers. Sometimes when they come home they find it hard to drop their teacher persona. There are many times when they have said don’t fight, you are just like the kids at school, or we get enough of that at school. Even when we need help with homework, they sometimes take on that ‘teacher’ voice. If my parents can’t always separate themselves, how does Bernstein manage to draw that fine line between motherhood and teacher? Are these roles in fact one in the same? Does the mother not always become the teacher of life, of mistakes, etc? I guess it’s just more prominent and clearly understood when a parent has a child who will always be a continuous student.
The taboo brings about the question of how I, as not only a reader, but a person, should connect. I personally know a family with a special needs child: Charlie. Their older children used to babysit us. The interaction between my family and Charlie was somewhat limited. The family encouraged as much interaction with Charlie as possible, but there was still a distance that only the immediate family could tap into. This is perhaps because they felt that they understood him best and had the experience to deal with him as a person. In this sense, I see the similarities and can perhaps relate more to Jane Bernstein and Rachel as individuals and as a family.
In understanding the needs of a special needs child, I like the way Jane Bernstein illuminates her daughter with that of the family’s elderly Uncle Ben. AS much as the memoir previously alienates the reader from the writer, this is perhaps the most accessible passage. As wide as the gap is in age, the structure of thought that corresponds between Rachel and Ben melds them into one person. Ben can only seems to care and ask about Rose; Rachel, her watch. Although I understand the purpose of this compositional simile, why is it so much easier to understand from the terms of an elderly man than a special needs child? Is it due to the fact that most people in their lifetime will deal with an elderly character than a special needs child? In this case, I must once again refer to the taboo nature of the topic. Why is it alright to feel pity, sympathy, empathy towards an older person rather than a special needs child? Why is the fear so much less? Does this have a backdrop of normalcy; a resignation that every person will one day be that older person? In seeking the answer to these questions, it is important to note that the family involving Ben has had a hard time dealing with his continuous focus on Rose. As Ben grows even older he becomes more dependent. This is a divergence and necessary counter to Rachel. As she grows older, she seems to become more independent.
Aside from the taboo topic, Rachel in the World also brings back a minor theme that we have discussed in prior works; the need for independence. Unlike previous works where the need for independence was limited to the just the mother, Rachel is included. This need for independence is mirrored by mother and daughter in two subjects: activity and space. The activity that Rachel finds independence in is swimming, her mother: writing. The independence of space is found by Rachel when she attends camp while her mother goes to their cabin. Independence, however, does not always have a positive connotation. Bernstein and her husband experienced the same set of emotions when acknowledging their daughter’s needs, yet dealt independently. Bernstein found herself searching for answers wherever she could, her husband choosing to deal in his silent way. In all of these circumstances the mother and teacher become separate. Bernstein even comments when Rachel was swimming independently, “it was the pleasure of simply being with her - not cuing her or coaching her or working with flash cards” (20). This in itself is interesting as Jane Bernstein is a professor, but that’s beside the point. I at times wonder when reading, how Bernstein establishes herself as a mother and not a teacher, other than the obvious vocalization of the subject.
Both of my parents are teachers. Sometimes when they come home they find it hard to drop their teacher persona. There are many times when they have said don’t fight, you are just like the kids at school, or we get enough of that at school. Even when we need help with homework, they sometimes take on that ‘teacher’ voice. If my parents can’t always separate themselves, how does Bernstein manage to draw that fine line between motherhood and teacher? Are these roles in fact one in the same? Does the mother not always become the teacher of life, of mistakes, etc? I guess it’s just more prominent and clearly understood when a parent has a child who will always be a continuous student.
Independence
While reading Rachel in the World, I come to find that I really appreciate Bernstein’s approach and honesty in her writing because it is crucial to the validity and clarity of Rachel’s story and life. Although this is Rachel’s story for which Bernstein is the mouthpiece, I often find myself considering both of them with respect to independence, and how it puzzles me greatly when I try to decide who needs it more and what would happen if either of them would get it?
I think that the question of Rachel’s independence is all about context. In what context would she actually be liberated, if any? It can be argued, that Rachel is not independent if she is living at home, with her mother who regulates her teenage daughter’s day. It is evident however, throughout the book that her age is merely a number. Simply a marker of how long her mother has been helping her, how long she’s been going to different medical specialists, etc. If Rachel attains independence, would she really even know it? She can’t be independent in the same sense that you and I are independent, because she can’t understand the context of her life, or life as we know it. Going out with friends, dating, shopping, managing her own time the way she would see fit--all of these independent and social undertakings would mean nothing to Rachel. Further more they are not on her radar because she lacks the capability to understand and process these norms, let alone embrace or long for them. The things that we associate with independence don’t apply to a person like Rachel, because they can’t.
In chapter four, Bernstein mentions that she squirms when people tell her that Rachel is lucky to have her as parent. She feels that Rachel would be lucky to have a parent completely devoted to her. This makes me consider that Bernstein’s desire for independence could be because she wants to get away from the guilt of not feeling that she is doing an adequate job of raising Rachel. Also, because she realizes that Rachel can never truly experience independence and realizes that not everyone has the patience or he even the sense of obligation (as harsh as that may sound) to deal with Rachel.
It is inevitable for just one of them to attain independence, and I think that even with “independence,” neither of them would really be happy in the long run. Bernstein could not be happy in the long run because I am sure that she would be worried and missing Rachel, just like when Rachel flies to Florida. Rachel might not be unhappy; however her life would take turn in a completely new direction, which would probably end up unpleasantly.
What would other people think of Bernstein if she gave up after all this time? Anyway we look at it, it’s a lose-lose situation. Despite Bernstein’s (completely legitimate) desire for an independent or even a “normal” life, I don’t think she views it as a lose-lose situation, and I don’t think Rachel is even aware that there is a choice, or a norm. So although reality for the both of them consists of unavoidable and even at times unfortunate controversies, it seems that they could never shed their dependant and systematic shells.
I think that the question of Rachel’s independence is all about context. In what context would she actually be liberated, if any? It can be argued, that Rachel is not independent if she is living at home, with her mother who regulates her teenage daughter’s day. It is evident however, throughout the book that her age is merely a number. Simply a marker of how long her mother has been helping her, how long she’s been going to different medical specialists, etc. If Rachel attains independence, would she really even know it? She can’t be independent in the same sense that you and I are independent, because she can’t understand the context of her life, or life as we know it. Going out with friends, dating, shopping, managing her own time the way she would see fit--all of these independent and social undertakings would mean nothing to Rachel. Further more they are not on her radar because she lacks the capability to understand and process these norms, let alone embrace or long for them. The things that we associate with independence don’t apply to a person like Rachel, because they can’t.
In chapter four, Bernstein mentions that she squirms when people tell her that Rachel is lucky to have her as parent. She feels that Rachel would be lucky to have a parent completely devoted to her. This makes me consider that Bernstein’s desire for independence could be because she wants to get away from the guilt of not feeling that she is doing an adequate job of raising Rachel. Also, because she realizes that Rachel can never truly experience independence and realizes that not everyone has the patience or he even the sense of obligation (as harsh as that may sound) to deal with Rachel.
It is inevitable for just one of them to attain independence, and I think that even with “independence,” neither of them would really be happy in the long run. Bernstein could not be happy in the long run because I am sure that she would be worried and missing Rachel, just like when Rachel flies to Florida. Rachel might not be unhappy; however her life would take turn in a completely new direction, which would probably end up unpleasantly.
What would other people think of Bernstein if she gave up after all this time? Anyway we look at it, it’s a lose-lose situation. Despite Bernstein’s (completely legitimate) desire for an independent or even a “normal” life, I don’t think she views it as a lose-lose situation, and I don’t think Rachel is even aware that there is a choice, or a norm. So although reality for the both of them consists of unavoidable and even at times unfortunate controversies, it seems that they could never shed their dependant and systematic shells.
Fathers
My focus throughout all of our recent readings - which I expect to remain my focus throughout the rest of the course - is the role of the father in parenting. I think I am especially curious about it when the material is presented through the mother's lens. I found the absense of the father in Cusk's work to be dissatisfying. Her explanation that this was because she wanted to focus exclusively on motherhood seems insufficient. I think that part of motherhood is its relation to fatherhood, and vice versa. I think that I witheld sympathy for Cusk amidst the difficulties she faced because I did not know how much her partner was suffering. It seemed that she thought herself to be the only affected person. There were glimpses of her husband once they started bottle feeding, but what else was he doing? I would like to know how much Cusk's mothering excluded the father, and how much it demanded of him. Is it easy to go to work every day, sleep poorly at night, while dealing with an infant and an incredibly stressed out wife? I would suspect that it is not.
While I was criticial of Cusk in A Life's Work, I was criticial of the father in Rachel in the World. Bernstein didn't dwell much on their separation, so it was difficult to tell how much she was bothered that she had become Rachel's sole guardian. His illness seems to be a somewhat legitimate excuse, the stress and fatigue that Rachel causes would most likely be detrimental. But why, even when they were together, was Bernstein the only one to try to discipline Rachel? The husband is repeatedly described as being the only one who can accept Rachel as she is, who doesn't try to impose the world upon her. Is this fair to Bernstein? She doesn't seem to mind, even thinks his role is important, but it suggests that she is the only one trying to impose a needed structure in her daughter's life. It also seems unfair that he would basically hang Bernstein out to dry, as the only victim of the "I hate you."
So what does the father feel when he doesn't have to live with Rachel? Relief? Guilt? Both? Is it guilt that prevents him from contacting Rachel? Why doesn't he have the craving, the excitement to see Rachel, that Bernstein has in Israel? Does he feel bad about leaving Rachel to do all of the work? I suppose this is actually indicative of a larger question about the world - what is it like for single parents, and for the parent who is not being a parent?
While I was criticial of Cusk in A Life's Work, I was criticial of the father in Rachel in the World. Bernstein didn't dwell much on their separation, so it was difficult to tell how much she was bothered that she had become Rachel's sole guardian. His illness seems to be a somewhat legitimate excuse, the stress and fatigue that Rachel causes would most likely be detrimental. But why, even when they were together, was Bernstein the only one to try to discipline Rachel? The husband is repeatedly described as being the only one who can accept Rachel as she is, who doesn't try to impose the world upon her. Is this fair to Bernstein? She doesn't seem to mind, even thinks his role is important, but it suggests that she is the only one trying to impose a needed structure in her daughter's life. It also seems unfair that he would basically hang Bernstein out to dry, as the only victim of the "I hate you."
So what does the father feel when he doesn't have to live with Rachel? Relief? Guilt? Both? Is it guilt that prevents him from contacting Rachel? Why doesn't he have the craving, the excitement to see Rachel, that Bernstein has in Israel? Does he feel bad about leaving Rachel to do all of the work? I suppose this is actually indicative of a larger question about the world - what is it like for single parents, and for the parent who is not being a parent?
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A Rose by Any Other Name
that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet
- Juliet (Romeo and Juliet)
I think the thing that has shocked me most about Rachel Cusk's writing is not her use of similes and metaphors, is not her distinct writing style as a novelist, but rather in blatant choice in omitting names. Cusk in her first chapter explaining why she is writing tells us the names of her two daughters and the time frame in which she is writing. But after that point she never mentions her daughter's name again, Albertine.
The power of speech and the power to name others is according to the Bible the one thing that sets man above all the other creatures. There is power to a name beyond merely reference. Whenever I discuss names I am reminded of a passage in All Quiet on the Western Front and while I have failed at finding the exact quote the idea is that the main character Paul Baumer is stuck in a trench with a soldier of the opposing army. The opposing soldier moves so Paul shoots him. As the man lay dying Paul approaches and looks at the man's ID card to discover his name. Upon this discovery Paul realizes that he has not shot some mysterious monster but a man like himself. Having a name humanizes you, likens you to everyone else. In my mind for Cusk never to again mention her daughter's name is a form of distancing herself and I think the reader.
In the first half of Cusk's book she refers to her daughter as "creature" and "it" never as a human. In the second half Albertine is referred to in the possessive "my daughter" or "my baby" but never as an entity of her own. Even as Albertine begins to move around and walk and play Cusk still refers to her in the possessive "my..."
Cusk seems to refer to everyone except her own family by name. It is as though she prefers to remain in isolation. I understand that she felt the purpose of her book was to write about motherhood, but is motherhood truly that lonely? Cusk even in the second half does not mention her husband or what form of help he was offering. She goes through elaborately documenting all the different nannies she tried Rosa, Celia, and Stefan. She goes into detail about each of their histories but never her own. Even other parents' children have names. "Cordelia! trilled the child's mother distractedly. Cordelia!" (pg. 170). It is as though the only people Cusk chooses to name are people who have either failed or committed some treason against her. For Cusk to not once mention the names of those in proximity of those whom she might love, Cusk heightens this sense of loneliness.
In her chapter Breathe Cusk mentions her friend Miranda and son Alexander. At first I was shocked to see Cusk admitting into her life a friend, someone who in her mind is experiencing the same thing and can be seen on the same page as herself. I was for a moment proud of Cusk. Until: "When Miranda and I were pregnant I thought that we were in it together, that we were somehow doing it together, but in fact it hasn't turned out like that. When I spoke to her after Alexander was born I knew straight away that it wasn't going to be like that. After the conspiracy of pregnancy, having the baby amounts almost to a betrayal" (p. 195). Cusk views her own friend as a villain and although Cusk continues to speak with her and phone her she does not feel a bond, "her life was in agreement with them where mine was not" (p. 198).
But I think the heart of the issue of why Cusk never refers to her daughter as Albertine is for the following reason... Cusk believed her daughter to be part of her. "My relationship with her is like my relationship with anybody: it takes the form of a search for oneness, a oneness lost but haunting with the prospect of is recapture" (p. 209). Cusk could not and would not refer to her daughter by name because that admitted that her daughter was not a part of her. Allowing her daughter to have a name gave her daughter an identity of her own which Cusk was not ready to do. By the end of the book I am still not sure that Cusk is ready, but she is clearly on her way.
By any other name would smell as sweet
- Juliet (Romeo and Juliet)
I think the thing that has shocked me most about Rachel Cusk's writing is not her use of similes and metaphors, is not her distinct writing style as a novelist, but rather in blatant choice in omitting names. Cusk in her first chapter explaining why she is writing tells us the names of her two daughters and the time frame in which she is writing. But after that point she never mentions her daughter's name again, Albertine.
The power of speech and the power to name others is according to the Bible the one thing that sets man above all the other creatures. There is power to a name beyond merely reference. Whenever I discuss names I am reminded of a passage in All Quiet on the Western Front and while I have failed at finding the exact quote the idea is that the main character Paul Baumer is stuck in a trench with a soldier of the opposing army. The opposing soldier moves so Paul shoots him. As the man lay dying Paul approaches and looks at the man's ID card to discover his name. Upon this discovery Paul realizes that he has not shot some mysterious monster but a man like himself. Having a name humanizes you, likens you to everyone else. In my mind for Cusk never to again mention her daughter's name is a form of distancing herself and I think the reader.
In the first half of Cusk's book she refers to her daughter as "creature" and "it" never as a human. In the second half Albertine is referred to in the possessive "my daughter" or "my baby" but never as an entity of her own. Even as Albertine begins to move around and walk and play Cusk still refers to her in the possessive "my..."
Cusk seems to refer to everyone except her own family by name. It is as though she prefers to remain in isolation. I understand that she felt the purpose of her book was to write about motherhood, but is motherhood truly that lonely? Cusk even in the second half does not mention her husband or what form of help he was offering. She goes through elaborately documenting all the different nannies she tried Rosa, Celia, and Stefan. She goes into detail about each of their histories but never her own. Even other parents' children have names. "Cordelia! trilled the child's mother distractedly. Cordelia!" (pg. 170). It is as though the only people Cusk chooses to name are people who have either failed or committed some treason against her. For Cusk to not once mention the names of those in proximity of those whom she might love, Cusk heightens this sense of loneliness.
In her chapter Breathe Cusk mentions her friend Miranda and son Alexander. At first I was shocked to see Cusk admitting into her life a friend, someone who in her mind is experiencing the same thing and can be seen on the same page as herself. I was for a moment proud of Cusk. Until: "When Miranda and I were pregnant I thought that we were in it together, that we were somehow doing it together, but in fact it hasn't turned out like that. When I spoke to her after Alexander was born I knew straight away that it wasn't going to be like that. After the conspiracy of pregnancy, having the baby amounts almost to a betrayal" (p. 195). Cusk views her own friend as a villain and although Cusk continues to speak with her and phone her she does not feel a bond, "her life was in agreement with them where mine was not" (p. 198).
But I think the heart of the issue of why Cusk never refers to her daughter as Albertine is for the following reason... Cusk believed her daughter to be part of her. "My relationship with her is like my relationship with anybody: it takes the form of a search for oneness, a oneness lost but haunting with the prospect of is recapture" (p. 209). Cusk could not and would not refer to her daughter by name because that admitted that her daughter was not a part of her. Allowing her daughter to have a name gave her daughter an identity of her own which Cusk was not ready to do. By the end of the book I am still not sure that Cusk is ready, but she is clearly on her way.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Similes: The Writer or the Mother?
In the first half of “A Life’s Work” we briefly touched upon Cusk’s use of metaphors and similes to describe motherhood. However, as I read through the second half I began to notice even more the extensive amount of comparisons that were made in order to describe aspects relating to motherhood, especially the use of similes. For example:
“Suddenly our life was like a drama in which a bomb is being disabled against a clock”
“It was if she were fighting to emerge from quicksand”
“...I was ready for her, trained and vigilant as a soldier”
“...sleep is something you have to learn, like table manners”
“Watching her was like watching a film running backwards”
“...an atmosphere of reprimand like a headmistress’s study”
“Like Mary Poppins, like someone in a fairytale, she is on the side of the children”
“...who are in and out of bed like jack-in-the-box all night...”
I think the use of similes is exceptionally helpful in the case of this genre of writing. For one thing, I think it helps breach the gap between mother readers and those readers that are not mothers. The concern of a limited audience or an audience who cannot fully understand the situation because of lacking a personal experience can better understand motherhood through comparisons. I’m curious as to whether Cusk included a large amount of similes in the hopes of providing a better understanding to non-mothers.
As a writer, you take into account similes, metaphors, hyperboles, alliteration, personification, etc. There are many writing techniques utilized to enhance the style of your work. When I read through the second half of Cusk’s work though, I didn’t think of her utilization of similes as a way to enhance the style of her work or simply to provide comedic relief (as I felt some of the similes did). I felt that in some situations, providing a comparison was the only way to possibly describe it. Is it that explaining motherhood requires comparisons because there are simply not the words to do it alone? I felt as though that was the case. Especially for those who have not experienced motherhood (as I have not), providing these comparative images helped give a glimpse into the emotions of being a mother. For example, the simile, “Like Mary Poppins, like someone in a fairytale, she is on the side of the children” immediately brings forth emotions of comfort and relief because Mary Poppins has the connotation of being the perfect nanny and fairytales always end with ‘happily ever after.’ In my opinion, Cusk’s use of similes and other forms of comparisons in her writing really added to the text in terms of understanding, style, and humor.
Perhaps the biggest question I want to raise though is was Cusk’s extensive use of similes due to the writer within her or her desire to really capture the experience of motherhood? Or both? Would her writing have included this extensive sense of comparisons had her writing topic been about something else? Is it the mother using the similes or the writer?
“Suddenly our life was like a drama in which a bomb is being disabled against a clock”
“It was if she were fighting to emerge from quicksand”
“...I was ready for her, trained and vigilant as a soldier”
“...sleep is something you have to learn, like table manners”
“Watching her was like watching a film running backwards”
“...an atmosphere of reprimand like a headmistress’s study”
“Like Mary Poppins, like someone in a fairytale, she is on the side of the children”
“...who are in and out of bed like jack-in-the-box all night...”
I think the use of similes is exceptionally helpful in the case of this genre of writing. For one thing, I think it helps breach the gap between mother readers and those readers that are not mothers. The concern of a limited audience or an audience who cannot fully understand the situation because of lacking a personal experience can better understand motherhood through comparisons. I’m curious as to whether Cusk included a large amount of similes in the hopes of providing a better understanding to non-mothers.
As a writer, you take into account similes, metaphors, hyperboles, alliteration, personification, etc. There are many writing techniques utilized to enhance the style of your work. When I read through the second half of Cusk’s work though, I didn’t think of her utilization of similes as a way to enhance the style of her work or simply to provide comedic relief (as I felt some of the similes did). I felt that in some situations, providing a comparison was the only way to possibly describe it. Is it that explaining motherhood requires comparisons because there are simply not the words to do it alone? I felt as though that was the case. Especially for those who have not experienced motherhood (as I have not), providing these comparative images helped give a glimpse into the emotions of being a mother. For example, the simile, “Like Mary Poppins, like someone in a fairytale, she is on the side of the children” immediately brings forth emotions of comfort and relief because Mary Poppins has the connotation of being the perfect nanny and fairytales always end with ‘happily ever after.’ In my opinion, Cusk’s use of similes and other forms of comparisons in her writing really added to the text in terms of understanding, style, and humor.
Perhaps the biggest question I want to raise though is was Cusk’s extensive use of similes due to the writer within her or her desire to really capture the experience of motherhood? Or both? Would her writing have included this extensive sense of comparisons had her writing topic been about something else? Is it the mother using the similes or the writer?
There should be a "Babies for Dummies" book
From reading A Life's Work, I have an impression that there are many books out there on being the perfect mother, or something along those lines. I think it's great that people can feel more comfortable and confident about having a baby, but can't help thinking that there is also a negative side to it. There seem to be so many things that mothers have to do and remember to do when caring for a baby. It's like the book always tells you what you should and shouldn't do, and what is right or wrong. Also, books can suggest what practices can help jump start your baby's future - like make him/her smarter, faster. Still, I'm sure many women feel like Rachel Cusk as first time mothers: nervous, anxious, and under pressure. I really feel bad for her, and I can't help feeling nervous for her at times, because what if she messes up? I think if it were me in that position, my mind would be overflowing with quotes from books telling me what I should do and how I should do it. I would be a mess!
This also makes me think of my own mother. I don't think my mom ever read any books on how to take care of children because all of her family helped her out along the way. Both my mother and father have a lot of older siblings who had already had children by the time she was pregnant with me. I don't know how she would feel about Cusk's book, and I plan on asking her how she did raise my sister and I, but I do know that her mother and relatives played a large part in helping her out. That makes me realize that I'll either have to rely solely on my parents or friends, if the time ever comes for me to have my own child. When I ask my mom how my sister and I were as infants and toddlers, she always says that we were usually well behaved and did not cry a lot - I'm sure my sister cried a lot though. The reason why I asked her was because I worked at a furniture store part time and only during summer and winter breaks, and I always had mothers coming in with strollers or little children that were guaranteed to run around and break things and then cry. Even when we warned parents to watch their children around the large mirrors (better yet, don't bring them in!), parents would ignore us and let their children get hurt. Maybe it was the kind of customers that we usually brought in since we had pricey furniture in a more high-end mall. All of my coworkers that worked full-time and had children of their own really had little sympathy for these parents. They would say, "Why can't she control that child? My children don't run around like this is a godamn carnival", or "if my child acted like that I'd give him a beating". I don't think they ever beat their children, but I wonder, are these the mothers that hire babysitters for most of the day? Are these the mothers that buy books and try to follow them? Because if the books tell you to let your child run around like a hyena and break everything it touches, then what are books for? I think what I'm getting at, in a sort of off-topic way, is are books always the best resources? We know that books aren't the answer to everything, but maybe our author Rachel Cusk was relying too much on them.
Additionally I just wanted to add that I watched Baby Mama recently. Yeah, it's kind of embarrassing, but I did it, and at least I can say that I didn't pay for it. Plus I really like Amy Poehler and Tina Fey. Atlhough this film was a comedy, it really puzzled me in the way that motherhood was portrayed. I don't want to spoil it for those that haven't watched the film, but it really glorifies motherhood to be something that I'm sure most mothers don't experience. I know there are women out there that would do almost anything to have a child. Others feel that they were born to have a child. But when I think about it, most films don't really represent women taking care of their babies through the many tough stages of infancy. In most films, that stage is skipped and you always see a happy mother holding a baby that looks like what Cusk describes as "babies, clean as pins, wrapped in crisp white towelling as if the stork had just brought them in" (115). It surprises me that there aren't more images and films of mothers going through these painful stages of raising their children. I mean, I guess no one wants to see and hear a baby cry for hours on end, but it just seems like oh, babies are such magical things, and it's all easy and fun. The only times that I hear about the hardships of motherhood are when they try to scare us in sex ed, trying to traumatize our teenage minds. I guess that is also why I'm glad that there are stories like the ones that we have read so far and why Rachel Cusk's story is something we can learn from.
This also makes me think of my own mother. I don't think my mom ever read any books on how to take care of children because all of her family helped her out along the way. Both my mother and father have a lot of older siblings who had already had children by the time she was pregnant with me. I don't know how she would feel about Cusk's book, and I plan on asking her how she did raise my sister and I, but I do know that her mother and relatives played a large part in helping her out. That makes me realize that I'll either have to rely solely on my parents or friends, if the time ever comes for me to have my own child. When I ask my mom how my sister and I were as infants and toddlers, she always says that we were usually well behaved and did not cry a lot - I'm sure my sister cried a lot though. The reason why I asked her was because I worked at a furniture store part time and only during summer and winter breaks, and I always had mothers coming in with strollers or little children that were guaranteed to run around and break things and then cry. Even when we warned parents to watch their children around the large mirrors (better yet, don't bring them in!), parents would ignore us and let their children get hurt. Maybe it was the kind of customers that we usually brought in since we had pricey furniture in a more high-end mall. All of my coworkers that worked full-time and had children of their own really had little sympathy for these parents. They would say, "Why can't she control that child? My children don't run around like this is a godamn carnival", or "if my child acted like that I'd give him a beating". I don't think they ever beat their children, but I wonder, are these the mothers that hire babysitters for most of the day? Are these the mothers that buy books and try to follow them? Because if the books tell you to let your child run around like a hyena and break everything it touches, then what are books for? I think what I'm getting at, in a sort of off-topic way, is are books always the best resources? We know that books aren't the answer to everything, but maybe our author Rachel Cusk was relying too much on them.
Additionally I just wanted to add that I watched Baby Mama recently. Yeah, it's kind of embarrassing, but I did it, and at least I can say that I didn't pay for it. Plus I really like Amy Poehler and Tina Fey. Atlhough this film was a comedy, it really puzzled me in the way that motherhood was portrayed. I don't want to spoil it for those that haven't watched the film, but it really glorifies motherhood to be something that I'm sure most mothers don't experience. I know there are women out there that would do almost anything to have a child. Others feel that they were born to have a child. But when I think about it, most films don't really represent women taking care of their babies through the many tough stages of infancy. In most films, that stage is skipped and you always see a happy mother holding a baby that looks like what Cusk describes as "babies, clean as pins, wrapped in crisp white towelling as if the stork had just brought them in" (115). It surprises me that there aren't more images and films of mothers going through these painful stages of raising their children. I mean, I guess no one wants to see and hear a baby cry for hours on end, but it just seems like oh, babies are such magical things, and it's all easy and fun. The only times that I hear about the hardships of motherhood are when they try to scare us in sex ed, trying to traumatize our teenage minds. I guess that is also why I'm glad that there are stories like the ones that we have read so far and why Rachel Cusk's story is something we can learn from.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Only the Mother is the Best Mother
Throughout this entire piece of literature, it seems to me that Cusk has continually found that advice from books, family, doctors etc. has been greatly different from her own experiences as a mother. At one point she realizes she is in “uncharted territory” when her daughter’s crying maxes out a timetable suggested by a doctor for how long to let a baby cry when trying to teach them to sleep for the entire night. I think there are situations which arise that cannot fit any prescribed formula, in this way the instinct of motherhood takes over. Cusk , however, seems to continue with the mindset that she is not different. I get sort of frustrated when reading her work as she takes and applies advice when it has continually failed. I realize that this experience is entirely new and scary, but is there not some sort of instinct or common sense that could lead her to a better sense of self, thus a better sense of what her child needs? Furthermore she is taking all of this advice, but the people she trusts had to learn from somewhere…most likely their own experience. I find it hard to believe that everyone had the same exact experience.
Reading the second half of a Life’s Work, I was particularly drawn to Cusk’s determination to find a nanny. She commented on the fact that her own parents raised her and her siblings, occasionally “operating on credit with other families” (144). Cusk is searching for the nanny who could be found “amidst choirs of heavenly angels” (147). From an outside point of view Cusk, without knowing it is searching for herself. Who better to take care of one’s own daughter than the parents? I don’t believe Cusk ever comes to this conclusion; it is more of an acceptance. It continually baffles me that Cusk would search for a nanny when she clearly finds things wrong with them. Yet again she takes the advice of her friends. One tries to warn her about Rosa, and another suggested Celia, whose previous history should have screamed something to the waiting mother. After these two failed she hired a man. Although his history looked clean he was more of a butler as he could barely tolerate holding the baby. I have nothing against nannies or people of different races; however all of these people were from different countries, not one an England native. I don’t know what to make of this. In addition to the foreign nature of her nannies, it is ironic to think that Cusk’s situation is not that foreign. It seems fairly common for parent(s) to search for some alone time. Cusk, much like other mothers, is more preoccupied, afraid and confronted with emotions of guilt and abandonment at having to leave her child. Cusk works upstairs in her study, yet when she leaves her daughter alone with the nannies, she yearns for the interaction between her and her child even more than when they were alone. It is within this that Cusk discovers the nannies are not all that they seem. In this situation, Cusk, I believe, relates to most parents, even though it is not written somewhere.
One particular theme that ran throughout the second half of Cusk’s work was her attention to the male role. In one article the male is all too ready to get rid of his baby, “a ball and chain around his ankle” (126). In another article a man is the father of three children describing how there are no weekends. Cusk is almost outraged at this, “Their (male) outrage is fresh, the protest of the novice. There is something shaming in their objections, for they have arrived in the world of childcare full of revolutionary zeal, of disgust and despair at what they see, and their expostulations, their cries of reform, vibrate with unspoken criticism of those who have lived un-protesting under its regime for so long: the lifers, the long-term residents, women” (129-130). I think this idea relates to my topic before regarding no one is a better mother than the mother. This sentiment however has a different connotation when the male is forced to be the mother. At the same time that Cusk is for this over taking of boundaries by the male, she also feels neglected, perhaps no longer the mother that she was. This is best understood when her daughter bumps her head. Cusk tries to take her into her arms, but the child wanted her father. “I needed to be a mother more than she needed my mothering” (205). This passage particularly hit home for me. This one sentence describes my situation between me and my parents. When I was little I was very sick, my mother became my nurse and sort of left the motherhood role. From this sense I attached myself to my father, wanting him to take care of me more so than my mother. I would look to him to hold me, my mother forced to stand on the sidelines. Looking at this now, I feel sorry for my mother. She was cut off in a sense. To this day I am very much a daddy’s girl, the relationship between my mother and I not as close as that between me and my father. Reading the emotions behind Cusk’s reaction to her daughter’s choice of parenting makes me appreciate my mother even more. She allowed me and Cusk her own daughter, a future, even with an uncut cord of sufficiency.
Reading the second half of a Life’s Work, I was particularly drawn to Cusk’s determination to find a nanny. She commented on the fact that her own parents raised her and her siblings, occasionally “operating on credit with other families” (144). Cusk is searching for the nanny who could be found “amidst choirs of heavenly angels” (147). From an outside point of view Cusk, without knowing it is searching for herself. Who better to take care of one’s own daughter than the parents? I don’t believe Cusk ever comes to this conclusion; it is more of an acceptance. It continually baffles me that Cusk would search for a nanny when she clearly finds things wrong with them. Yet again she takes the advice of her friends. One tries to warn her about Rosa, and another suggested Celia, whose previous history should have screamed something to the waiting mother. After these two failed she hired a man. Although his history looked clean he was more of a butler as he could barely tolerate holding the baby. I have nothing against nannies or people of different races; however all of these people were from different countries, not one an England native. I don’t know what to make of this. In addition to the foreign nature of her nannies, it is ironic to think that Cusk’s situation is not that foreign. It seems fairly common for parent(s) to search for some alone time. Cusk, much like other mothers, is more preoccupied, afraid and confronted with emotions of guilt and abandonment at having to leave her child. Cusk works upstairs in her study, yet when she leaves her daughter alone with the nannies, she yearns for the interaction between her and her child even more than when they were alone. It is within this that Cusk discovers the nannies are not all that they seem. In this situation, Cusk, I believe, relates to most parents, even though it is not written somewhere.
One particular theme that ran throughout the second half of Cusk’s work was her attention to the male role. In one article the male is all too ready to get rid of his baby, “a ball and chain around his ankle” (126). In another article a man is the father of three children describing how there are no weekends. Cusk is almost outraged at this, “Their (male) outrage is fresh, the protest of the novice. There is something shaming in their objections, for they have arrived in the world of childcare full of revolutionary zeal, of disgust and despair at what they see, and their expostulations, their cries of reform, vibrate with unspoken criticism of those who have lived un-protesting under its regime for so long: the lifers, the long-term residents, women” (129-130). I think this idea relates to my topic before regarding no one is a better mother than the mother. This sentiment however has a different connotation when the male is forced to be the mother. At the same time that Cusk is for this over taking of boundaries by the male, she also feels neglected, perhaps no longer the mother that she was. This is best understood when her daughter bumps her head. Cusk tries to take her into her arms, but the child wanted her father. “I needed to be a mother more than she needed my mothering” (205). This passage particularly hit home for me. This one sentence describes my situation between me and my parents. When I was little I was very sick, my mother became my nurse and sort of left the motherhood role. From this sense I attached myself to my father, wanting him to take care of me more so than my mother. I would look to him to hold me, my mother forced to stand on the sidelines. Looking at this now, I feel sorry for my mother. She was cut off in a sense. To this day I am very much a daddy’s girl, the relationship between my mother and I not as close as that between me and my father. Reading the emotions behind Cusk’s reaction to her daughter’s choice of parenting makes me appreciate my mother even more. She allowed me and Cusk her own daughter, a future, even with an uncut cord of sufficiency.
Don't Forget to Breathe
A tantalizing theme I picked out from among the many in the latter part of A Life’s Work was the connection of parenting to the recurrent notion of breathing. This seems a normal, involuntary function of the body to most, but in this context it becomes more than this—it is the realization of the dramatic and perpetual metamorphosis humans undergo when they become responsible for sustaining another life and become conscious of the delicate but continual signs of that life’s existence.
For example, in the chapter labeled Breathe, a mother friend of the author named Miranda admits that she lies awake at night listening to her son’s breathing over a baby monitor to make sure he has not died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. This concept has so paralyzed the mother with fear (as have many of the books she has read which Cusk claims not to have been so affected by), that “now she couldn’t think about anything else,” and only can begin to go to sleep as her child awakes hungry and in need of attention (198). In this way Miranda has become a sort of slave to her infant living in captivity, a metaphor Cusk explores and analyzes throughout the chapter: “rigid with responsibility and worry, so full of anticipation…I forgot to breathe […] It was as if at these times I just stopped living because I was so taken up with looking after someone else […] my feeling that I was shut in a box, that I couldn’t breathe” (200-01). The sense of claustrophobia comes to mind; the inability to navigate in any space of one’s own (to bring up a previous trope).
This theme of parenthood and its relation to the process of breathing is curiously taken up elsewhere. In Hell’s Kitchen there is a poem by Coleridge depicting a parent and a child at midnight amid a deafening silence in which he can hear the very frost harden outside “so calm, that it disturbs / And vexes meditation with its strange and extreme silentness” (139). Cusk is taken with this descriptive parental moment, a rare moment in which, thankfully, her own child is sleeping and she has time to reflect on the deeper meanings of motherhood, the “elemental greatness”:
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My Babe so beautiful! It thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee.
This is a place in which Cusk has had time to not only breathe, but to meditate on the objective greatness of mothering and of taking joy in the life she has created. It marks, I think, a sharp contrast to most of the other moments in the book. She states, “For a writer such a love can represent the attainment of narrative authority over life itself…it is the means by which the self’s limits are broken open and entrance found to a greater landscape” (141). Thus, the notion of “breathing” is not merely connected to lack of air or space or oxygen, but is here enmeshed with the inexplicable, conflicting, resounding love of the mother or father for the breathing child.
For example, in the chapter labeled Breathe, a mother friend of the author named Miranda admits that she lies awake at night listening to her son’s breathing over a baby monitor to make sure he has not died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. This concept has so paralyzed the mother with fear (as have many of the books she has read which Cusk claims not to have been so affected by), that “now she couldn’t think about anything else,” and only can begin to go to sleep as her child awakes hungry and in need of attention (198). In this way Miranda has become a sort of slave to her infant living in captivity, a metaphor Cusk explores and analyzes throughout the chapter: “rigid with responsibility and worry, so full of anticipation…I forgot to breathe […] It was as if at these times I just stopped living because I was so taken up with looking after someone else […] my feeling that I was shut in a box, that I couldn’t breathe” (200-01). The sense of claustrophobia comes to mind; the inability to navigate in any space of one’s own (to bring up a previous trope).
This theme of parenthood and its relation to the process of breathing is curiously taken up elsewhere. In Hell’s Kitchen there is a poem by Coleridge depicting a parent and a child at midnight amid a deafening silence in which he can hear the very frost harden outside “so calm, that it disturbs / And vexes meditation with its strange and extreme silentness” (139). Cusk is taken with this descriptive parental moment, a rare moment in which, thankfully, her own child is sleeping and she has time to reflect on the deeper meanings of motherhood, the “elemental greatness”:
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My Babe so beautiful! It thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee.
This is a place in which Cusk has had time to not only breathe, but to meditate on the objective greatness of mothering and of taking joy in the life she has created. It marks, I think, a sharp contrast to most of the other moments in the book. She states, “For a writer such a love can represent the attainment of narrative authority over life itself…it is the means by which the self’s limits are broken open and entrance found to a greater landscape” (141). Thus, the notion of “breathing” is not merely connected to lack of air or space or oxygen, but is here enmeshed with the inexplicable, conflicting, resounding love of the mother or father for the breathing child.
Monday, September 8, 2008
To Be or Not to Be...
Cusk writes, “To be a mother I must leave the telephone unanswered, work undone, arrangements unmet. To be myself I must let the baby cry, must forget her in order to think about other things. To succeed at being one means to fail at being the other.” Cusk couldn’t make a clean break between the two, and instead she had to learn to legislate the two states. Although Cusk and every mother always have options, it seems that they never have choices. This, I feel, is because of an innate and maternal guilt, which takes over. Thus, Cusk tends to her crying infant, regardless of the growing disdain and unpleasantness of their relationship. I have seen this guilt render my own mother’s heart tired.
I have seen my mother let the telephone ring so that I could eat dinner before she would give up her Friday night to drive me (when I was younger) to a friend’s house. As I wave goodbye to her, she sits in the car listening to smooth jazz or occasionally (if things with my dad were exceptionally tough) a Christian motivational speaker and she waits until I am safely inside of my friend’s house. I take her protective care for granted. I am indifferent to her sacrificial lifestyle.
I have also seen my mother decide (occasionally) that enough is enough, washing her hands of her three kids (and their father), to enjoy a night out (or in) with her friends. I’ve taken a great pleasure in making her feel guilty for leaving us for a few hours.
She knows I love her and that is the driving force which keeps her going. Subconsciously she embraces the “motherbaby,” and we are an entirely sustainable unit. But although I continue to suck the energy right out of her, I no longer take her for granted.
So, Cusk is right. To succeed at being one, you must fail at the other. But I think she should add that despite success in one field (whichever it happens to be at the moment), appreciation is rarely an immediate reward, and that the resulting anger, confusion and resentment, ultimately yield unpleasant contact between mother and child.
When I was younger, I never wasted time thinking about why a father doesn’t face the same guilt as a mother, and instead gets to make his choices. Now, I consider it time well spent to ponder this question. My mother still feels “guilty,” and although I can only imagine from a daughter’s perspective how frustrating it is to swim through nasty and violent waters, "the dark side" of motherhood, wounded by an overwhelming sense of guilt, always feeling like the bad guy, I wish my dad would have made better choices.
As I continue to read A Life’s Work, and venture through Cusk’s stories of the dark side of motherhood, it seems to me, that aside from a mother’s initial choice to harbor her baby’s once small body inside her own, everything after birth is not a matter of choice, but a matter of trying to balance the self and the mother, trying to break free from, and at the same time embrace the entirely sustainable “motherbaby” unit.
Maybe the antics of the dark side of motherhood exist only to fill the void of the choices that a good mother gives up.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Pregnancy and Babies
I am ploughing my way through the dark side of motherhood with Rachel Cusk's A Life's Work and as I reach the midway point I vow never to have children, ever. Her view of giving birth is death of the mother's old self in a way that she will never be retrieved. Plus her struggles through feedings and collic don't sound much like a piece of cake either. But on the other hand the allure of this incredibly life changeing experience feels like something that everyone has a right to explore. Even if I never give birth physically I hope that I would still be able to build a relationship similar to that of a mother and daughter.
As I was reading I tried to ask myself the question of who she was writing for and who in the world would be interested in reading this expereince? Even in her own introduction she mentions that those who have not had children may find her writing inaccessable or at least boring, not being able to find anything personally relevant in her work. I have read it from the perspective of both a daughter and as someone who may have to go through something similar in the future and I found it both interesting and horrifying. But, I can easily see how someone who knows that they will never phsycially go through birth would find the stories redundant and flat or at the very least irrelavant. Her main audience I see as other mothers and I think that anyone who went through something similar to her experience would find this book invaluable to know that they are not alone in inperfect motherhood.
The other question that keeps popping up for me is at what age will her daughter read this book and understand how much suffering she inflicted unknowingly on her mother and what the revalation will do for her and for her relationship with her mother. While I'm sure she would see the intense love that Cusk wants to deposit on her new baby Cusk also speaks harshly of this creature that uses up so many of her resources and kills her non-mother self. It would be interesting to hear a response from the baby who is the reason this book was written.
As I was reading I tried to ask myself the question of who she was writing for and who in the world would be interested in reading this expereince? Even in her own introduction she mentions that those who have not had children may find her writing inaccessable or at least boring, not being able to find anything personally relevant in her work. I have read it from the perspective of both a daughter and as someone who may have to go through something similar in the future and I found it both interesting and horrifying. But, I can easily see how someone who knows that they will never phsycially go through birth would find the stories redundant and flat or at the very least irrelavant. Her main audience I see as other mothers and I think that anyone who went through something similar to her experience would find this book invaluable to know that they are not alone in inperfect motherhood.
The other question that keeps popping up for me is at what age will her daughter read this book and understand how much suffering she inflicted unknowingly on her mother and what the revalation will do for her and for her relationship with her mother. While I'm sure she would see the intense love that Cusk wants to deposit on her new baby Cusk also speaks harshly of this creature that uses up so many of her resources and kills her non-mother self. It would be interesting to hear a response from the baby who is the reason this book was written.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
A Space of Your Own
I can't say that after these recent readings I have anything profound to say or add to what has already been said. I had wanted to focus on the idea of space as we have seen thus far. In Move In, Move Out, Move On and our first set of readings all the authors seemed to be struggling in a way with their space. They recently moved in with their boyfriends or are failing at divvying up and allocating responsibilities for within their new spaces. Ursula Le Guin in her The Fisherwoman's Daughter asks for us to consider where a woman is allowed to sit and write, what a woman writing looks like.
In thinking about Le Guin's challenge I too came up with Jo from Little Women. I picture in my head a woman hunched over a writing desk at night with a lamp focused on her paper as she scribbles away. What dawned on me as I continued to read through Le Guin's essay was that my mother is a woman writer. Why is it that I didn't immediately think of her? She never wrote in the darkness of night, in the solitude of night, she always wrote midday basking in the sunlight. Le Guin noted that for a woman to compose her writings in the middle of the house as Harriet Beecher Stowe did was absurd. We discussed in class a couple of reasons why: 1) there is no space for the woman to call her own and therefore no way for her to create something truly her own. 2) there is no quiet so how can a woman work in peace. 3) for a woman not to have a space of her own means that she also has no time of her own, and therefore cannot compose for a consistent amount of time.
What I realized is that my mother never worked in solitude. She did have a designated space but she always wanted to be aware of the goings on of the house and therefore set up her office in the middle of it all. In our old house it in the living room and in our current house it is next to the kitchen. I think that her constantly being in the center of all the action inspired her as it inspires me. People are motivation and inspiration and to lock oneself away is, I think, foolish.
Now to The Yellow Wallpaper and The Mother Knot. The woman in the The Yellow Wallpaper clearly has been affected by her solitude in the same room. She looks for solace in a world outside of her own, in the world of the yellow wallpaper. She becomes obsessed with the space in which she is trapped to cope and in the end becomes part of it. Much like the women in The Mother Knot she does attempts to break out of her prison or in the least change it. She says "I've got out at last, in spite of you and Jane. And I've pulled off most of the paper, so you can't put me back!" Similarly in Lazarre's excerpt the main character equates her situation with a prison. She calls it "the wall which had kept me alone, the prison cell, the solitary confinement..." It is in this moment of realization that all confines are released and the women no longer remain trapped. They free themselves from their solitary lives to change them for the better.
I do not wish to presume with this (seemingly longwinded) post, that to be alone is to be insane or depressed. But it just seems to me that an ongoing theme throughout each reading is this idea of space. Can space be shared? Is having too much space bad? Is having to little space bad? What happens when spacial concerns are violated? These are the sorts of questions that I think each reading has, in its own way, attempted to answer.
Responses and Questions
"It may be familiar or even obvious to others, but to me, it's something new and surprising. I never knew that so many women struggled through motherhood until I did all of these readings in class." Seriously. And we're only a week into class. I'm terrified that in like, ten years, if we have a kid, my wife is going to hate me. I would like to read something from the perspective of the mothers of the writers we are reading. These mothers seem to be the archetypal mothers. My guess is that they didn't think too much about their role, and just did it. But maybe I'm wrong, maybe they had the same complaints as this new writer generation, and there was just even more societal pressure to not say anything about it.
I really enjoyed The Yellow Wallpaper. The process of becoming the woman in the wall was extremely (and creepily) engaging. In response to Serena's question about how it relates to motherhood - I think it relates more to womanhood in that time period. It seemed like the author was attacking the characterization that women are weak, that they just ought to bear children, and not think very hard. The other essays we have read seem to share this sentiment, but they also take it a step further. By discussing just how difficult motherhood is, they're saying that, actually, women have to be extremely strong to raise children and not go crazy, and that thinking hard (writing, being creative, etc.) is really helpful in not going crazy, but it makes it even harder to raise children.
I've started wondering what we would be reading if it was customary in our society for fathers to stay home and raise their kids, and the women would work. I think there would be some of the same domestic problems if the men were suddenly doing full days of house work + raising the kids and the women were working + indulging in a few hobbies. However, some of these essays have expressed experiencing a motherly love that seems more like a need and craving for their children than what I would think of as typical parental love. Do men have this same craving? How strong is this craving? Does it have a role in preventing the women-raise-kids / men-work dynamic from being reversed? But a lot of families have parents that both work, and they put their kids in child care. So do not all women have this craving for their kids? Do they have it and just ignore it? How long does it last after giving birth?
I really enjoyed The Yellow Wallpaper. The process of becoming the woman in the wall was extremely (and creepily) engaging. In response to Serena's question about how it relates to motherhood - I think it relates more to womanhood in that time period. It seemed like the author was attacking the characterization that women are weak, that they just ought to bear children, and not think very hard. The other essays we have read seem to share this sentiment, but they also take it a step further. By discussing just how difficult motherhood is, they're saying that, actually, women have to be extremely strong to raise children and not go crazy, and that thinking hard (writing, being creative, etc.) is really helpful in not going crazy, but it makes it even harder to raise children.
I've started wondering what we would be reading if it was customary in our society for fathers to stay home and raise their kids, and the women would work. I think there would be some of the same domestic problems if the men were suddenly doing full days of house work + raising the kids and the women were working + indulging in a few hobbies. However, some of these essays have expressed experiencing a motherly love that seems more like a need and craving for their children than what I would think of as typical parental love. Do men have this same craving? How strong is this craving? Does it have a role in preventing the women-raise-kids / men-work dynamic from being reversed? But a lot of families have parents that both work, and they put their kids in child care. So do not all women have this craving for their kids? Do they have it and just ignore it? How long does it last after giving birth?
There's a Fine Line..
I love quotes, and when I find a particularly good one, I save it. I was recently looking through some quotes when I came across one that fit perfectly with how I was feeling about my current boyfriend. As I read the quote over a few times, I began to realize that this quote not only applies to my own situation, but to many of the situations we’ve read about in class so far. For me, it ultimately began to the raise the question of the fine line that exists between love and hate within any relationship.
“I've never felt like this before, I'm overwhelmed by an unbelievable amount of hatred for him, yet, I couldn't be more in love. It's like I want to throw him out into traffic, and then risk my life to save him.”
I think throughout the readings thus far, we’ve been able to see this idea of a love/hate relationship existing between couples, especially within “Excuse Me While I Explode.” However, there seems to be this strong love/hate relationship not only amongst couples, but also in the relationships existing between mothers and their children as we saw in “The Mother Knot.” Seen especially in the beginning of “The Mother Knot,” the idea of a fine line between love and hate is an interesting topic that is brought up.
The concept of hating someone, while loving them seems so contradictory, yet it seems to exist in all sorts of relationships. I think what struck me the most in “The Mother Knot” was the dialogue in which the mother noted, “Oh, I love him and everything” which was shortly followed by “But I could kill him sometimes (pg.65).” Of course, she did not mean to actually kill him, but those feelings of frustration and anger seem to be so much stronger for the people we truly care about. I like to think I know my own mother pretty well, and I can picture her thinking those same thoughts about myself and all of my siblings. In fact, on the flip side, I’ve felt that way towards both of my parents. I love them, yet sometimes they can make me so angry. I’ve learned to appreciate them more now that I’m older and not living at home, yet I can still remember stomping up the stairs after being “grounded” when I was younger and cursing under my breath, “Ughhh I hate you.” How can something so contradictory like love/hate make such perfect sense? Is there always that aspect of hate with the ones we truly love?
I also saw these similar feelings within the relationships that existed in The Bitch in the House. In particular, within “Excuse Me While I Explode” the woman in the relationship comments, “...I feel total affection for him,” while hardly a page later exclaiming, “...I grow angrier and angrier, until I could not even stand his presence in the same room (pg. 7& 8).” Is it possible to have relationships with only love? Or is this idea of love accompanied by hate inevitable? When we love someone so much, we are going to hate them at times too…
“I've never felt like this before, I'm overwhelmed by an unbelievable amount of hatred for him, yet, I couldn't be more in love. It's like I want to throw him out into traffic, and then risk my life to save him.”
I think throughout the readings thus far, we’ve been able to see this idea of a love/hate relationship existing between couples, especially within “Excuse Me While I Explode.” However, there seems to be this strong love/hate relationship not only amongst couples, but also in the relationships existing between mothers and their children as we saw in “The Mother Knot.” Seen especially in the beginning of “The Mother Knot,” the idea of a fine line between love and hate is an interesting topic that is brought up.
The concept of hating someone, while loving them seems so contradictory, yet it seems to exist in all sorts of relationships. I think what struck me the most in “The Mother Knot” was the dialogue in which the mother noted, “Oh, I love him and everything” which was shortly followed by “But I could kill him sometimes (pg.65).” Of course, she did not mean to actually kill him, but those feelings of frustration and anger seem to be so much stronger for the people we truly care about. I like to think I know my own mother pretty well, and I can picture her thinking those same thoughts about myself and all of my siblings. In fact, on the flip side, I’ve felt that way towards both of my parents. I love them, yet sometimes they can make me so angry. I’ve learned to appreciate them more now that I’m older and not living at home, yet I can still remember stomping up the stairs after being “grounded” when I was younger and cursing under my breath, “Ughhh I hate you.” How can something so contradictory like love/hate make such perfect sense? Is there always that aspect of hate with the ones we truly love?
I also saw these similar feelings within the relationships that existed in The Bitch in the House. In particular, within “Excuse Me While I Explode” the woman in the relationship comments, “...I feel total affection for him,” while hardly a page later exclaiming, “...I grow angrier and angrier, until I could not even stand his presence in the same room (pg. 7& 8).” Is it possible to have relationships with only love? Or is this idea of love accompanied by hate inevitable? When we love someone so much, we are going to hate them at times too…
After reading The Mother Knot, I think I've come to a sort of "conclusion" about many of these writings on motherhood. As Lazarre wrote, "We learned always to expect sentences to have two parts, the second seeming to contradict the first, the unity lying only in our growing ability to tolerate ambivalence - for that is what motherly love is like". It may be familiar or even obvious to others, but to me, it's something new and surprising. I never knew that so many women struggled through motherhood until I did all of these readings in class. I know parenthood certainly is difficult, but I've only known people to complain little, and be proud a lot. But I think that's where we find these contradictary statements. These women hate it, but love it too. And surprisingly, out of all of the readings, I enjoyed this one the most, maybe because of the format it was written in. I experienced the frustrations, rebellions and observations that the writer shared and was surprised to find the ending as content and happy as it was. Usually at the beginning of the readings I find myself swearing never to have children, which is different for me because I've always liked kids. In high school I remember thinking that I wanted to have children in my late 20's but now I have definitely changed my mind. In the end of most of the readings though, there is a subtle acceptance of motherhood that I think is almost like a natural progression through all of the roller-coaster emotions that these women go through.
Once again, the solution to many of these marital frustrations is communication. As simple as communicating sounds, it's incredibly hard when you're stuck in a certain state of mind. When I read about these women I always think, "God, if she could just talk to her husband openly...", but then I realize I also have the same problems communicating. When I'm mad at my boyfriend I only think of myself and how unfair things have been for me. It's kind of pathetic since I'm supposed to be a professional writing major and yet when I get caught in the whirlwind of frustration I can barely come up with words that could solve a problem. But in the story, changes occur after the women begin to talk amongst each other about their problems and eventually the fathers begin to take their children out a little more. Although some marriages are broken, others continue, if only for the sake of the children.
The Yellow Wallpaper, on the other hand, did not really talk about issues of motherhood in my opinion. It was hard for me to read through only because it feels almost like being inside the mind of a crazy person. I'm glad that I read "Why I Wrote The Yellow Wallpaper", though, because I almost missed it. Now I know the point of this story and why it screamed insanity. Maybe I didn't read into it deep enough, but how does it relate to motherhood? It is about a woman living in a nursery which she can hardly stand. She has other people taking care of her baby, which is different from the other readings because she does not have a highly interactive relationship with her child, but is not worried about it much. It really is a strange writing, but I'm glad that it saved more people from going insane, which is reallly unbelievable.
Once again, the solution to many of these marital frustrations is communication. As simple as communicating sounds, it's incredibly hard when you're stuck in a certain state of mind. When I read about these women I always think, "God, if she could just talk to her husband openly...", but then I realize I also have the same problems communicating. When I'm mad at my boyfriend I only think of myself and how unfair things have been for me. It's kind of pathetic since I'm supposed to be a professional writing major and yet when I get caught in the whirlwind of frustration I can barely come up with words that could solve a problem. But in the story, changes occur after the women begin to talk amongst each other about their problems and eventually the fathers begin to take their children out a little more. Although some marriages are broken, others continue, if only for the sake of the children.
The Yellow Wallpaper, on the other hand, did not really talk about issues of motherhood in my opinion. It was hard for me to read through only because it feels almost like being inside the mind of a crazy person. I'm glad that I read "Why I Wrote The Yellow Wallpaper", though, because I almost missed it. Now I know the point of this story and why it screamed insanity. Maybe I didn't read into it deep enough, but how does it relate to motherhood? It is about a woman living in a nursery which she can hardly stand. She has other people taking care of her baby, which is different from the other readings because she does not have a highly interactive relationship with her child, but is not worried about it much. It really is a strange writing, but I'm glad that it saved more people from going insane, which is reallly unbelievable.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Gender Roles & the Mundane
The Mother Knot and The Yellow Wallpaper both construe the hardships of woman/motherhood post baby. As new mothers, each finds herself hard pressed to become a member of the ‘domesticated’ woman. The theme that sticks out through both of these works is the boredom each woman faces, yet is unable to voice from either fear of being labeled a bad mother or from having other people unwilling to see it. It seems strange that the author of Mother Knot would find herself unwilling to voice this opinion, as she clearly thinks these thoughts in her head. Her conversations with other women even prove that she is different, often looking forward to the unusual reactions of her conversation partners.
It is interesting to note that although both of these women’s problems stem from the births of their children, The Yellow Wallpaper focuses more on the mother and her familial situation rather than the baby, supposedly the beginning source of her discomfort. I would call her ‘disease’ post partum depression; however the doctors (her husband included) felt that it was a nervous disorder. The benefit of allowing the reader to relate only to the mother, I think, captures and thrusts the reader into a true sense of what new motherhood possibly feels like. So anyone, male or female, young or old, can grasp her insanity and feelings of being pulled in so many different directions and finding oneself groundless; the melee of motherhood without a child. In previous classes we were talking about the need to find a quiet space to write. In this piece of work, the author finds herself enclosed and almost suffocating, her writing her only release of the accumulating emotions. So is this ‘vortex’ as mentioned by other authors draining? The author has to do her writing in secret as her family believes that it will hinder her recovery. She on the other hand finds it liberating, however it is within her writing that we begin to feel the madness within her mind and within her fixation on the yellow wallpaper.
The Mother Knot finds the mundane too discomforting, boring, much like the author of Yellow Wallpaper. Her constant search for someone to exchange quips with, someone who is not as satisfied with this style of living as she is, forces her to meet new people. This also, however, helps her to develop a bond with her child. There is definitely tension in her interaction with the baby. In one sentence I think she clearly underlines the trials of motherhood “’let’s go get him now’, I would say, wanting to hold him or hit him but hating to lie there silently listening to him” (Lazarre 68). There are so many different heightened emotions running at once. She wants to be a mother running to stop his crying, out of need for quiet, out of need to be comforting, or just simply taking action. It seems as if the child, since its birth has brought a constant need to take action, as if her life before was still. This stillness, however, replicates itself in her housing conditions, thus her search for the chaos of motherhood. This chaos is developed in the group meetings that she has put together.
Another fascinating point to bring up is the role of father in both of these readings. In Mother Knot the father is a student, his role summed up by a conversation with another woman commenting on washing her husband’s pants; “ He’s very busy, has a lot of pressure on him, stays up all night studying, I have to do my part, I don’t mind” (Lazarre 66). The author can’t get over this woman’s complacency and ultimate acceptance of her role as wife and mother. She even comments on the fact that she felt most attractive when she was a working woman (Lazarre 63). What does this say about motherhood? Clearly she sees herself resigned to this role, and yearns to be working at something. So what does this say about the idea of a working mother: is it even possible? This idea of the working mother doesn’t necessarily happen for her, but it does happen for a man whose wife left him. He had to take on the duties of mother, a complete role reversal. It is of note that he was able to go to school and take care of his children, so why couldn’t the mothers in this piece of work? Furthermore, this concept of mothers not being able to work and take care of children, while it seems men can is dramatically emphasized in the following idea. In the beginning the author wrote that women addressed her anger towards men and took it out on their children. Since that was not fair she would turn it inward creating creased, unbecoming lines on her face. However when this man asserted this role the lines on his face made him more attractive (Lazarre 64, 77). The role of father in Yellow Paper is quite the opposite as portrayed in Mother Knot. He is the nurturing type, always looking to her health, to the point where he is always there. However we see this nurturing role towards the wife and not directed towards the baby. In this sense the two stories connect. The male is distant towards the child, what does this mean in its application? Perhaps these two works are more about gender roles and their perception in society than they are about new motherhood.
It is interesting to note that although both of these women’s problems stem from the births of their children, The Yellow Wallpaper focuses more on the mother and her familial situation rather than the baby, supposedly the beginning source of her discomfort. I would call her ‘disease’ post partum depression; however the doctors (her husband included) felt that it was a nervous disorder. The benefit of allowing the reader to relate only to the mother, I think, captures and thrusts the reader into a true sense of what new motherhood possibly feels like. So anyone, male or female, young or old, can grasp her insanity and feelings of being pulled in so many different directions and finding oneself groundless; the melee of motherhood without a child. In previous classes we were talking about the need to find a quiet space to write. In this piece of work, the author finds herself enclosed and almost suffocating, her writing her only release of the accumulating emotions. So is this ‘vortex’ as mentioned by other authors draining? The author has to do her writing in secret as her family believes that it will hinder her recovery. She on the other hand finds it liberating, however it is within her writing that we begin to feel the madness within her mind and within her fixation on the yellow wallpaper.
The Mother Knot finds the mundane too discomforting, boring, much like the author of Yellow Wallpaper. Her constant search for someone to exchange quips with, someone who is not as satisfied with this style of living as she is, forces her to meet new people. This also, however, helps her to develop a bond with her child. There is definitely tension in her interaction with the baby. In one sentence I think she clearly underlines the trials of motherhood “’let’s go get him now’, I would say, wanting to hold him or hit him but hating to lie there silently listening to him” (Lazarre 68). There are so many different heightened emotions running at once. She wants to be a mother running to stop his crying, out of need for quiet, out of need to be comforting, or just simply taking action. It seems as if the child, since its birth has brought a constant need to take action, as if her life before was still. This stillness, however, replicates itself in her housing conditions, thus her search for the chaos of motherhood. This chaos is developed in the group meetings that she has put together.
Another fascinating point to bring up is the role of father in both of these readings. In Mother Knot the father is a student, his role summed up by a conversation with another woman commenting on washing her husband’s pants; “ He’s very busy, has a lot of pressure on him, stays up all night studying, I have to do my part, I don’t mind” (Lazarre 66). The author can’t get over this woman’s complacency and ultimate acceptance of her role as wife and mother. She even comments on the fact that she felt most attractive when she was a working woman (Lazarre 63). What does this say about motherhood? Clearly she sees herself resigned to this role, and yearns to be working at something. So what does this say about the idea of a working mother: is it even possible? This idea of the working mother doesn’t necessarily happen for her, but it does happen for a man whose wife left him. He had to take on the duties of mother, a complete role reversal. It is of note that he was able to go to school and take care of his children, so why couldn’t the mothers in this piece of work? Furthermore, this concept of mothers not being able to work and take care of children, while it seems men can is dramatically emphasized in the following idea. In the beginning the author wrote that women addressed her anger towards men and took it out on their children. Since that was not fair she would turn it inward creating creased, unbecoming lines on her face. However when this man asserted this role the lines on his face made him more attractive (Lazarre 64, 77). The role of father in Yellow Paper is quite the opposite as portrayed in Mother Knot. He is the nurturing type, always looking to her health, to the point where he is always there. However we see this nurturing role towards the wife and not directed towards the baby. In this sense the two stories connect. The male is distant towards the child, what does this mean in its application? Perhaps these two works are more about gender roles and their perception in society than they are about new motherhood.
Trying to Touch the Bottom
I come at this class and these blogs from an unlikely place. I have been in a live-in, same-sex relationship for five years with a partner who has co-adopted a daughter with his ex. She is now nine years old, and though this may seem overwhelmingly unconventional, or comparable to the “bizarre live-in boy/girl friend circumstances” which Jana blogged about, it puts me in a position which is close enough to parenthood to witness Tillie Olsen’s “bursting of the ego” (110), without having to live out the constant obligation and requirement of full-time parenting. It is also helpful that we only have her on weekends and holidays because to her it is almost like a vacation from her stricter parents, while it is like a treat for us to see her.
When I first met Marissa (the daughter in question), she was four, and already having three men as father-figures in her life she politely asked me if I was a Dad too. I said no with a nervous chuckle, but I wish now that I could have given her a little more of an explanation. When the three of us are out in public, it is interesting to note the ways in which people shamefully stare, trying to figure out whatever it is about the situation that puzzles them. I’m sure that this is in part due to the fact that Marissa is African-American, while my partner and I are not.
As far as the domestic situation, the chores, duties and finances are split evenly for the most part. There are days when one of us complains about laundry or groceries, but these are minimal. There are times when one of us foots the bill because the other is terribly strapped. I think there is some kind of unspoken understanding between us, and, as I was reading the essays in The Bitch in the House I was struck by the amount of ink spilled on topics surrounding domestic duties and the anger that swelled in the authors over the subject of household work. In most instances, the speaker in the essay would get angry over the fact that the chores were not done, but then grow angrier at the thought of not doing those chores herself! As an aspiring writer, I think it is important to voice frustrations and anger on the page, but it is also true, as quoted in David’s blog: “It might have been remarkably useful [for the writers] to tell their partners first.”
In my own house, we are both clean to an extent, without going overboard. Me being the messier one, I am allowed my side of the bed to make disorderly (and I do this very effectively—shirts, towels and jeans lay sprawled out on the floor below the window in a delightfully chaotic fashion), while the rest of the room/house remains spotless. The magic to this lack of stress, I believe, lies in the underlying theme of the preceding blogs: communication. On the topic of marriage, well—as we know, it is not necessarily easy for us to do—but it has not been ruled out. The last blog stated, “To be an individual means to find an individual answer,” a notion that I find rings very true in a situation such as mine, for what page in what book do I open for help in navigating this complicated life I’ve fallen into? What parental role do I emulate or wish to rebel against? Which gender, if any, should I try to perform, and, more importantly, how do I set an example for this young girl who once asked if I was her father?
I know that these questions will never get any easier to answer as she grows up, as she develops her own identity, as society peers in nosily, whispering, casting knowing, disapproving glances amid PTA meetings and Tupperware parties. I can only hope that she was not slighted that day that I said “no.” I can, however, find some solace in the security of my own loving relationship—knowing that it will serve as a safe base for her already unstable childhood. My current relationship has provided me with a solid emotional foundation in these last interesting five years and I don’t see it disintegrating, but rather, growing stronger each day. However it turns out, I hope to ultimately set a good example. That is all that I can hope to do.
When I first met Marissa (the daughter in question), she was four, and already having three men as father-figures in her life she politely asked me if I was a Dad too. I said no with a nervous chuckle, but I wish now that I could have given her a little more of an explanation. When the three of us are out in public, it is interesting to note the ways in which people shamefully stare, trying to figure out whatever it is about the situation that puzzles them. I’m sure that this is in part due to the fact that Marissa is African-American, while my partner and I are not.
As far as the domestic situation, the chores, duties and finances are split evenly for the most part. There are days when one of us complains about laundry or groceries, but these are minimal. There are times when one of us foots the bill because the other is terribly strapped. I think there is some kind of unspoken understanding between us, and, as I was reading the essays in The Bitch in the House I was struck by the amount of ink spilled on topics surrounding domestic duties and the anger that swelled in the authors over the subject of household work. In most instances, the speaker in the essay would get angry over the fact that the chores were not done, but then grow angrier at the thought of not doing those chores herself! As an aspiring writer, I think it is important to voice frustrations and anger on the page, but it is also true, as quoted in David’s blog: “It might have been remarkably useful [for the writers] to tell their partners first.”
In my own house, we are both clean to an extent, without going overboard. Me being the messier one, I am allowed my side of the bed to make disorderly (and I do this very effectively—shirts, towels and jeans lay sprawled out on the floor below the window in a delightfully chaotic fashion), while the rest of the room/house remains spotless. The magic to this lack of stress, I believe, lies in the underlying theme of the preceding blogs: communication. On the topic of marriage, well—as we know, it is not necessarily easy for us to do—but it has not been ruled out. The last blog stated, “To be an individual means to find an individual answer,” a notion that I find rings very true in a situation such as mine, for what page in what book do I open for help in navigating this complicated life I’ve fallen into? What parental role do I emulate or wish to rebel against? Which gender, if any, should I try to perform, and, more importantly, how do I set an example for this young girl who once asked if I was her father?
I know that these questions will never get any easier to answer as she grows up, as she develops her own identity, as society peers in nosily, whispering, casting knowing, disapproving glances amid PTA meetings and Tupperware parties. I can only hope that she was not slighted that day that I said “no.” I can, however, find some solace in the security of my own loving relationship—knowing that it will serve as a safe base for her already unstable childhood. My current relationship has provided me with a solid emotional foundation in these last interesting five years and I don’t see it disintegrating, but rather, growing stronger each day. However it turns out, I hope to ultimately set a good example. That is all that I can hope to do.
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