Several months ago, the Matron ceased to be a haphazard seeker but became the more serious sort. She was not happy. Wasn't that pursuit her God-given, Constitutionally endorsed 'right': "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness."
Self-evident and inalienable, this right to pursue happiness.
Not only did the Matron buy this hook, line and sinker, she could even sum up her life in a single word: yearning.
But over the years, it became clear to her that she did not know what this quality -- happiness-- really was. Sure, she had deep love for her children, husband, friends. Satisfaction and sense of purpose from work, paid or otherwise. The occasional sear of completion -- that all is well in the world and her place in it -- when she composes that perfect piece of prose. Enough money to feel safe and secure; confidence and success within the social order. Yes, she has possessed all of these things, at one time or another (sometimes together) to varying degrees and still does.
Happiness remained elusive.
Of course, it eventually dawned upon her that if asked, she could not define what 'happiness' was. The word seemed like an end to itself, a destination whose borders weren't quite clear. Are you happy? Yes, no. This seems like a one stop shop. But the precise qualities that constitute this state don't seem "inalienable" or "self-evident" at all. Is happiness a physical feeling, a psychological or spiritual state, a twist of the mind?
It seems to the Matron that we - perhaps particularly we Americans, with 'happiness' codified as an ideal -- are all in hot pursuit of something we cannot accurately describe to ourselves. We all use the same word: happiness.
But simple semiotics tells us that words are empty boxes we fill with our own precise meaning. Don't believe her? Imagine "COAT." Picture it in your mind. Give it color and definition.
COAT.
She does this exercise with her students and she means business here: conjure up that COAT in your head before proceeding.
The COAT in the Matronly mind is red suede knee-length, with a narrow waist and white stitching. That's what she sees when instructed like this to imagine "coat." One of her students once pictured a fresh white coat of paint.
She knows that the COAT in your mind was different from hers -- and most likely, different from everybody's else's.
Happiness is precisely the same: an empty box of letters that signifies something we supply. If we break down all language this way (and scholars too) the indeterminacy of language becomes evident. It doesn't really matter much if you think COAT and see a blue blazer, and I see red suede.
It matters a lot when we think about words like: justice, equity, ideal, God, or fairness.
Happiness isn't like COAT or table, dog, elephant. It --that pursuit of happiness or mandate toward happiness -- has a lot of power and prestige. Considerable psychic, spiritual, mental and physical energy is invested in things we desire -- pursue--and happiness is, it would appear, so highly desirable that we mention it a lot. Our nation has organized itself around that word. To achieve or pursue happiness is crystal, constitutionally, culturally and politically clear.
We tend to agree that the process -- activities, career, family, people, God -- that makes us happy varies from person to person: "Whatever makes you happy!" A stock social phrase, giving the individual carte blanche -- the ability to select from the bountiful menu that constitutes the 'pursuit,' the highly individual stuff we do and people we accumulate that set us up for the ultimate goal, happy.
The Matron would like to distinguish between the process and the end-game -- between the pursuit of happiness (the stuff we do to get there) and the ultimate destination (happiness itself).
She's right back to the beginning -- there's all that pursuit beside her (career, family, volunteer work, art, satisfactions of all sort) -- yet on a day she might call herself 'happy,' that state can be squashed in one rough hour of traffic. How secure was her foothold? Not very.
People will often ask us if we're 'happy.' Even if not asked, it's nearly always required to note that one is indeed, perfectly happy (which also means perfectly 'fine'). Class reunions, work meetings ("are you happy with that design?"), lunch with a girlfriend, late night conversation with the spouse, query to a child. Imagine the response if the answer was a definitive no. I'm not happy.
For the Matron -- who does not yet know what happiness is -- hearing that someone is not happy does not mean this person is unhappy (happiness's opposite, whatever that is) or particularly sad. It is just that this state -- happiness -- has not yet been met or recognized.
As of late, when people ask the Matron if she's happy, she says "sometimes." That seems like a good enough answer. Happiness, unhappiness, sadness, joy, serious, funny -- none of these seem like a solid-enough word to describe an overall state of sense of being. But of course, there's no mandate or sales pitch to exist in unhappiness, sadness, joy, seriousness, or humor as a consistent, quantifiable state of being. We're largely supposed to be pursuing happiness in love, work, friendship, vocation, and nation. Claiming that this state --happiness -- is currently not applicable to one's self is disconcerting to all involved.
Reality (at least hers, for her) is a good place to live these days, even if it means rejecting the standard notion of happiness and its fluid attainment. Is this reality complicated? Well, you just read this whole blog post: yes!
But it's honest.
And she knows precisely how to define and live in that word (even when she's not doing it well -- another topic : -).
Monday, July 23, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Showing Up
Last week, the Matron had Guest Anxiety.
Not only was she anticipating the arrival of Mrs. G, but preparing for her sister and, well, perhaps 200 people. That's right, folks. Each year, the Matron and her husband host The World's Greatest Potluck. Consider "world's greatest." This would imply a bar, high.
It is.
A hundred or so people -- creaking toward ninety, spry 20 somethings, toddlers, sixth-graders on bikes and their parents -- descend on the Matronly environs for a kick-ass party on July 28. The street is blocked off. The part starts with backyard theatre, a play Scarlett produces (which involves 20 children rehearsing three hours a day for the next week which is another blog post). The St. Paul Fire Department swings by with a rig for a tour; their Police counterparts do the same with the squad care. There's a pinata for the younger set and a band! Music, alive and in front of you. Dancing is sometimes involved as is a large keg of Summit beer (you Minnesotans know). This party has transpired every year, starting in 2000 when the Matron became Dr. Matron and determined Celebratory Activity was required. Things just snowballed from there.
Can she interject right now to note that no public servant -- police officer or firefighter-- in 13 years, has ever even consumed a single crumb off a table FULL of a variety of food so delectable that words will not suffice? Not even a brownie. This really squashed the Matronly stereotype of the doughnut guzzling guy with a badge. Instead, our public dollar has been 100% devoted to complete and thorough community service, as for 13 years, different police officers have dutifully opened squad car doors and let three year olds hit the siren. Thank you.
Naturally, given that the next two weeks would bring in throngs of people to the Matronly estate, a blogging celebrity and a relative, yours truly did what any woman would do: started a new book.
Not just any book, dear reader, but The Gathering by Ann Enright. If you have hands, use them now to purchase this item on your computer: a.m.a.z.on. Worry about independent booksellers after you've read this gripping, lovely, one-of-a-kind story. If you've ever felt like you're falling apart in the middle of your own life, this book is for you. It was for the Matron.
Between pages, the Matron popped up her head and pondered: Mrs. G! Theresa, the sister! Those 200 guests! Three hours of many children ripping through her house for the next six days! Building a set! This instant was enough to immediately lead her to pop right back down into those pages.
But . . . she eventually ripped herself away to mop some floors and shine windows. Flowers were plucked and propped into vases. All that evidence of little boy pee around the toilet rim (you know what she means, mamas) dutifully disappeared. In fact, the Matron sacrificed her book to clean her house. This is akin to a kidney. She vacuumed, swept, dusted, polished, primped and scoured from Monday dawn to well after dusk.
Tuesday, she could hardly contain herself!
Matron: "Heather! I'm so glad you're here! Remember those kids in high school who said they never studied for the test but you know they did? Or the women who say they didn't 'do a thing' and the house always looks that spotless?"
Mrs. G: "Yes, Mary? Is this you? We've never really met in person so it's lovely to see you!"
Matron (warm greeting set aside in service of SELF): "Well, I am NOT one of those people. I scoured this house honey."
Mrs. G: "Lovely. I hope you enjoy it."
This particular guest was so incredibly low maintenance that the Matron believed her: Mrs. G did not care that dog hair added a sheen to the couch, Merrick's arsenal masqueraded as posh porch decor or that breakfast was 'uh, here's the fridge.'
No doubt, this would make any hostess happy. Matronly delight was further solidified when she met other derfs at Nye's on Wednesday: Claudia, Nina and Kristen. Here, self-restraint was required. Instead of saying to Kristen: "OMIGOD you have the most important job in my life and here are Merrick's test scores" she said: "wow, you coordinate English curriculum for the school district. Cool!"
She now has an Oscar in her closet for that one.
Nina, she wanted to grab by the collar and ask: "Your son works for you in the same business and building and you are still standing?! Give me some of that powder!" Instead, she affirmed the details: successful business, adult children, grandchildren. Surely there was some magic ticket?
Claudia of Idiot's Kitchen? Complete Matronly dissolution. A woman who could not only cook and live to write about it, but could read music while playing an instrument. Both at the same time! This is a skill the Matron once attempted, only to break her tailbone and sit on a physician-mandated cushion for six months of poor clarinet performances.
Details, unimportant. But it is permitted to ponder: clarinet, sheet music, performance, broken tail bone. True.
All in all, it was a time of great satisfaction, good food and conversation. The Matron,who has not yet recovered from the thrill of receiving business cards when she earned tenure, is anxiously awaiting emails from the women who received these novelty cards. Hint.
The end game? After all this? The hoopla, anticipation, anxiety and events ahead? Here, the Matron found something other than what exists on the surface.
A life out there in the world -- yours, mine, ours, anybody's -- is important. Worth reading and worth writing. Worth paying attention to. The past few days and the week ahead actually isn't about that crystal toilet rim but the little boys who use it (sorry, can't help herself with that one). She plans to sacrifice duty for conversation and life, more often.
She plans to document hers--life, that is -- more often: three times a week. Showing up.
Thank you Kristen, Claudia, Nina, Denise and Heather. She appreciates that you each may have no idea exactly what you did, but thank you!
Kristen, can we talk about fourth grade? Merrick is at JJ Hill and on another note, the Matron thinks bribing teens with talent is not a bad idea.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Mrs. G!
Hey Minnesotans!
Mrs. G. is traveling the nation visiting the crowds who loyally follow her blog. We're going to be at Nye's (Minneapolis) at 6:30 Wednesday night (July 18). Would\\ love to see one and all of the local folk!
Mrs G. . .. for friends who read, have no idea what this means but think that Wednesday night out of the house is a pretty darn good idea!
Mrs. G. is traveling the nation visiting the crowds who loyally follow her blog. We're going to be at Nye's (Minneapolis) at 6:30 Wednesday night (July 18). Would\\ love to see one and all of the local folk!
Mrs G. . .. for friends who read, have no idea what this means but think that Wednesday night out of the house is a pretty darn good idea!
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
When the World Dims
The Matron's world, that is.
Today is, in fact, a pitch-perfect warm day of a startling blue sky and movie-quality clouds. Everything seemed brighter: flowers popped their various rainbows and everywhere she looks, it is lovely.
But the Matron's mind is on food:
Mashed potatoes with real cream and half a stick of butter
These were key players in the Matronly menu for her dear friend and neighbor, Annie, who died Sunday night from cervical cancer. Let her tell you, folks, there is no such thing as pain 'management.'
Pain permeates. It is not physical, limited, contrite or controllable. For the body, one must anticipate and plan, 'get ahead' of pain's onset. This means the needles, the pills, the timing, the body's reception must all be in synch. Sometimes this happens and sometimes it does not. Psychic pain is another thing altogether. Here pain has the power of expanse for it can reach beyond the sufferer's body to everyone bearing witness, everyone who loves. Yes, indeed, pain--that small plain word -- defies neat capture, in prose or in life. Never again will the Matron stand for a second -- not a second -- the quick easy 'out' of assuming pain can be managed.
In all its manifestations, public and private, psychic and physical, pain has indeed permeated the Matronly world. She is acutely aware, these past three days, of Reality, writ large, and understands that this moment too -- like all the moments and lives before her -- will fade into something someone only remembers. This is both alarming and strangely helpful, understanding her current condition will some day be memory. She is of firm belief that feeling this way -- really, really bad -- is a now or sometime-later-when-you-least-expect-it sort of commandment. Now seems better.
The world lost not only an artist (the real deal) but the very best kind of person for whom there is no such thing as small talk, no gracious dribbling or waste. No. Meet Annie and in five minutes you would be talking like teenagers pondering the meaning of life or characters on a great adventure in a movie: spirit, heart, God or not god, love, politics, art, friendship, sex, bad behavior and its merits/drawbacks. Whatever. She went for the jugular, each and every time. This firm but joyful grasp on what really matters (who cares about how the job is, people!) is what made the Matron love her so. Other people have their reasons, but for the Matron, Annie's astounding ability to live every moment rooted in the big stuff (death, love, meaning of life) made her miraculous and inspirational. That woman mowed the lawn with God on her shoulder. You could see it.
Annie.
I promise to cry in public, demand real cream in my potatoes, look through life's lens for the best possible picture, remember to see what's over my left shoulder if my mind is only on my right, open my heart as much as is possible, visit strange places and talk even when I'm crying even if it's in the grocery store or this particular coffee shop as I am now. I promise to see the edges of color and lines in my life, and treasure them as singular beauties. I promise to be true to myself. I will not only accept reality but roll around in it with pleasure.
I'll forgive myself when I fail at every single of the above promises, as I already am --hiding my tears in the coffee shop and noting the time (pick up Merrick!) and worrying about whether the dogs got their run. Lucky me! Every few minutes I will break a vow (open heart always?!) and then -- I will get to remember you, forgiving me always and happy with every single flaw in my seams.
Can I fold laundry and walk the dog with the world radiating through me? Maybe if I remember you.
Good-bye, my darling.
Scarlett Ann Marsden 2009
Scarlett Ann Marsden 2009
Today is, in fact, a pitch-perfect warm day of a startling blue sky and movie-quality clouds. Everything seemed brighter: flowers popped their various rainbows and everywhere she looks, it is lovely.
But the Matron's mind is on food:
Mashed potatoes with real cream and half a stick of butter
Chocolate pudding and Popsicles
Berry scones from the Finnish Bakery
Cake: vanilla, chocolate, marble from a box with canned frosting. Add sprinkles
Egg salad sandwiches on white bread (Wonder is best)
These were key players in the Matronly menu for her dear friend and neighbor, Annie, who died Sunday night from cervical cancer. Let her tell you, folks, there is no such thing as pain 'management.'
Pain permeates. It is not physical, limited, contrite or controllable. For the body, one must anticipate and plan, 'get ahead' of pain's onset. This means the needles, the pills, the timing, the body's reception must all be in synch. Sometimes this happens and sometimes it does not. Psychic pain is another thing altogether. Here pain has the power of expanse for it can reach beyond the sufferer's body to everyone bearing witness, everyone who loves. Yes, indeed, pain--that small plain word -- defies neat capture, in prose or in life. Never again will the Matron stand for a second -- not a second -- the quick easy 'out' of assuming pain can be managed.
In all its manifestations, public and private, psychic and physical, pain has indeed permeated the Matronly world. She is acutely aware, these past three days, of Reality, writ large, and understands that this moment too -- like all the moments and lives before her -- will fade into something someone only remembers. This is both alarming and strangely helpful, understanding her current condition will some day be memory. She is of firm belief that feeling this way -- really, really bad -- is a now or sometime-later-when-you-least-expect-it sort of commandment. Now seems better.
The world lost not only an artist (the real deal) but the very best kind of person for whom there is no such thing as small talk, no gracious dribbling or waste. No. Meet Annie and in five minutes you would be talking like teenagers pondering the meaning of life or characters on a great adventure in a movie: spirit, heart, God or not god, love, politics, art, friendship, sex, bad behavior and its merits/drawbacks. Whatever. She went for the jugular, each and every time. This firm but joyful grasp on what really matters (who cares about how the job is, people!) is what made the Matron love her so. Other people have their reasons, but for the Matron, Annie's astounding ability to live every moment rooted in the big stuff (death, love, meaning of life) made her miraculous and inspirational. That woman mowed the lawn with God on her shoulder. You could see it.
Annie.
I promise to cry in public, demand real cream in my potatoes, look through life's lens for the best possible picture, remember to see what's over my left shoulder if my mind is only on my right, open my heart as much as is possible, visit strange places and talk even when I'm crying even if it's in the grocery store or this particular coffee shop as I am now. I promise to see the edges of color and lines in my life, and treasure them as singular beauties. I promise to be true to myself. I will not only accept reality but roll around in it with pleasure.
I'll forgive myself when I fail at every single of the above promises, as I already am --hiding my tears in the coffee shop and noting the time (pick up Merrick!) and worrying about whether the dogs got their run. Lucky me! Every few minutes I will break a vow (open heart always?!) and then -- I will get to remember you, forgiving me always and happy with every single flaw in my seams.
Can I fold laundry and walk the dog with the world radiating through me? Maybe if I remember you.
Good-bye, my darling.
Scarlett Ann Marsden 2009
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Wherein the Matron May Sound Like a Judgmental Half-Centenarian
Now, the Matron likes to think that her elliptical not only gives her a trim tummy but the pulse of America. Quite nearly every morning, 6:30 am will find the Matron her previously mentioned machine watching Good Morning America! Someday she plans to write a feminist critique of the show, which has a unique obsession with the female body.
So she takes this show with a grain of salt, seeing it as a daily Rorschach test of the American psyche: warts, bumps, bruises, ideals, dreams and aspirations. It was in this spirit that she watched the video about the two young men removed from a particularly grim graduation ceremony. Their crime? The dreaded: "whooo! Whoo!" They gave a shout out, twice.
Removed! This seemed, to the prim Matron, like the worst of sins: Overreaction. She also chided the glum, staid crowd whose demeanor makes the Stepford Wives seem like real independent-minded swingers.
Until she attended her own daughter's 8th grade graduation ceremony from an all-girls charter school in St. Paul. Kicking people out seemed like a tepid and ineffective response. Why, the Matron wanted to deputize her own fine self so she could pack off half that auditorium to jail. Indeed, at one point her more diplomatic husband saw the fire in her eyes and shook his head, no.
Thank you, honey.
The ceremony was held in a pretty little Macalester College Chapel. The charter school is tiny and the Matron guesses the girls graduating numbered around 40; each was allowed three guests. Emotions ran high -- extremely, spiritedly, beautifully high-- among the graduates, who are the first to attend this class from its inception through graduation (it's a new 5 - 8 grade charter).
Being the first fifth-graders meant these young women had a hand in starting the school. They wept and clung to one another. There were videos and testimonials. These girls were at the center of the school's first four years: fifth through eighth grade. Many of the girls can not only recite the school's charter and institutional philosophies by heart: they helped write it. All this, the Matron thinks marvelous and one of the reasons she picked this school for her daughter.
When each name was called, the girls screamed with joy and applauded. This was love and it was genuine.
To the Matron, sitting in her hot pink mini-skirt and previously good attitude, if the applause had ended with the players involved the entire endeavor would have been 100% successful.
But the parents and guests? Ruined the entire event.
Mayhem ensued for about a third of the names called. A row of people would rise to their feet, screaming and jumping and cheering. Two women grasped one another and jumped up and down, throwing programs in the air when one girl picked up her diploma. People screamed, whooped, pounded walls, threw small children and danced -- at the sound of the name of the kid they were ostensibly there for.
Friends, the Matron is not doing justice. The noise was so loud that screaming for each girl receiving the 'extra attention,' that the noise obliterated the entire announcement of the name for the next. If a third of the names stirred a tsunami, another third of the girls following walked up, unheard in the din.
General hoopla as a name was announced also meant that all eyes were on the celebrators. Ironically, nobody noticed the girls whose names caused each commotion. Nobody looked at the stage. Indeed, the entire room turned their eyes toward the whooping, jumping, weeping and nearly fainting family members.
Which made the Matron wonder who was the (unconscious?) real center of attention. Clearly, not any of the children: it was their parents.
At one point, Merrick covered his ears and said: "That hurts!"
The middle-aged man next to the Matron appeared the definition of class-bound sedation: suit and tie, clearly from a job that required such attire. He clapped politely until his daughter's name was called, then jumped to his feet: "WAY TO GO XXX YOUR DAD LOVES YOU."
Why, thank you, sir! Just that very second before you rattled the room, the Matron was fretting that perhaps these young women were not receiving sufficient love. Glad that got cleared up.
Now, the Matron realizes that she is being a fuddy-duddy. She actually affirmed this by using that phrase. There is nothing wrong with joy and celebration! The Matron also wishes she were a little less tightly wound -- the type of woman who would whip off a flowered straw hat and scream: "there goes my baby!"
But she's not. She's the one sitting in judgment and that vein of thought gets the last word.
One woman yelled: "This is your education! Go get that education honey!"
Indeed. Education is a good thing. The Matron has devoted entire professional life to the cause. Because she teaches at a community college she understands full well the sacrifices some students make. Some of the Matron's students work two or three jobs, raise children, and go to school full time. Others are new to this country and a college degree is a dream that has sustained them through hardships she herself has read about but can only imagine.
One of these students, a woman from Sierra Leone, was 13 years old when she was raped at gunpoint by a soldier, one of hundreds of thousands of women suffering a similar fate. That was the day she decided that -- no matter what -- she would get out of that country. Her story still staggers the Matron who can barely type remembering the harrowing journey, true poverty and loss this young woman endured. The day she picked up her college diploma marked a decade of sacrifice, toil and death.
Nobody screamed for this woman when she walked to the stage and received her diploma. She got a nice round of applause instead and a few heartfelt sniffles from yours truly.
Graduating from 8th grade isn't a miracle or an Olympian achievement. Jesus is not passing out that diploma. It's sort of the law: children are required to remain in school until they are 16. Moving up a grade every year (or so) is the natural consequence of that legal requirement.
Hearty clapping, eyes on the stage and big hugs afterward will due.
The Matron has two years before her oldest graduates from high school, a rite of passage whose excesses are accepted as the norm. The Matron has two full years to acquire that Deputy License or a better attitude. Hmmm . . . which way to swing?!
John has already informed her that he plans to sit by himself.
Fine.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Reality, Knocking
This article has given the Matron pause. If you haven't, read Anne-Marie Slaughter's piece in The Atlantic, "Why Women Still Can't Have it All." Slaughter's title is the article's summation: she argues that it's impossible for a well-educated, professional woman with children cannot have both pinnacle family and career.
The Matron agrees. Completely.
But of course, from her vaulted position of critic and feminist scholar, she has Additional Comment and Observation.
Slaughter's 'all' that women aren't having is clear: it's financial, professional and family success. Having it all is the dazzling career dulled only by the brighter shine of successful and well-attended happy children (and spouse). One simply cannot be Time magazine's Woman of the Year and tuck your five-year old in at night while tomorrow's steak is marinating. Got it. True.
There's been no small amount of hoopla over Slaughter's argument -- commentary every which way one can imagine and too many too link here. But Google may just have met its match with "anne-marie slaughter response."
The one vein that bothers the Matron is this: "I DO have it all, just on my own terms" or "family IS having it all." Online and on-the-ground, the Matron has heard that Slaughter's goal itself -- having it all -- is actually, well, just undesirable or over-rated.
That's precisely the problem.
Women reject 'having it all' or redefine what this means precisely because achieving 'it' is actually impossible, as Slaughter maintains. We all know this trick on a lesser scale. The Matron sees this play out in her own household when Elder Son has an item Youngest Son covets. It's tasty.
Youngest Son: "Hey, I want that candy too!"
Elder: "Well you can't have it."
Youngest: "I didn't want it anyway. Who cares about that crummy candy?"
You cared, kid. But since the candy is in the steel grip of that sixteen year old brother, it is as good as non-existent. It's psychologically sound -- sane, even -- to not only learn to accept what we cannot have, but to retrain ourselves not to desire the unattainable in the first place.
It is the Matronly theory that much of the "I don't want it all" is simply learning not to desire what one can't have. Sure, she herself would like to be rolling around some Ivy League college lawn or watching her books fly off the shelf. The sacrifice this would require -- just the attempt, not an assured win -- is untenable.
Wait! She can still hear it! It is the Matron herself succumbing to the wiles of capitalism, the siren song of external success: "who needs all that! Family is all. I have enough."
The social system we all live in values and rewards personal, financial and professional success. It's natural, normal, logical to desire life achievements that are awarded respect within our culture. It feels good to be seen as successful. There's power and security in having one's own self-worth mirrored by the approving world around us.
Do you feel better wearing a size six or sixteen? Forget how your legs feel: which size gets the approving cultural eye, from medicine to fashion to the bus driver? Unemployed for a long enough period and instead of happy chatter following you at parties, the mood gets grim. Nobody wants to know. America loves a success story -- so why wouldn't we want success? Smile and the world smiles with you -- and who could not help but smile back? And so on.
Now, the Matron fully appreciates that there are among us many who have made conscious and painful choices to live a life decidedly not valued: she sees these people often at the Zen Center, people living on sazen and a dime. She knows whole families that never buy new, don't own cars (in Minnesota winters, folks --that's a commitment) and grow their own food out of deep philosophical commitment. People devote their lives to religion and serving the poor -- these people have made thoughtful choices. They sacrifice much in terms of financial security and socially-sanctioned success for ideals that loom larger. She's not talking about those people.
No, the Matron is talking about her own fine breed, those of middling success: a satisfying job, happy family, enough money to feed the children and a few stray cats. Those of us who could have done more. But won't. The Matron hasn't devoted her life to the alleviation of suffering or a greater good. Most of her considerable energies have been directed toward creating a life for herself. She's exactly the type of woman Slaughter is describing (okay, maybe a little lower on the pay scale and cultural hierarchy than Washington power types, but still . . . ).
It's not that the candy isn't tasty or that she has acquired new, more altruistic tastes -- it's just that the goodies are in a steel-grip, out of reach.
The Matron agrees. Completely.
But of course, from her vaulted position of critic and feminist scholar, she has Additional Comment and Observation.
Slaughter's 'all' that women aren't having is clear: it's financial, professional and family success. Having it all is the dazzling career dulled only by the brighter shine of successful and well-attended happy children (and spouse). One simply cannot be Time magazine's Woman of the Year and tuck your five-year old in at night while tomorrow's steak is marinating. Got it. True.
There's been no small amount of hoopla over Slaughter's argument -- commentary every which way one can imagine and too many too link here. But Google may just have met its match with "anne-marie slaughter response."
The one vein that bothers the Matron is this: "I DO have it all, just on my own terms" or "family IS having it all." Online and on-the-ground, the Matron has heard that Slaughter's goal itself -- having it all -- is actually, well, just undesirable or over-rated.
That's precisely the problem.
Women reject 'having it all' or redefine what this means precisely because achieving 'it' is actually impossible, as Slaughter maintains. We all know this trick on a lesser scale. The Matron sees this play out in her own household when Elder Son has an item Youngest Son covets. It's tasty.
Youngest Son: "Hey, I want that candy too!"
Elder: "Well you can't have it."
Youngest: "I didn't want it anyway. Who cares about that crummy candy?"
You cared, kid. But since the candy is in the steel grip of that sixteen year old brother, it is as good as non-existent. It's psychologically sound -- sane, even -- to not only learn to accept what we cannot have, but to retrain ourselves not to desire the unattainable in the first place.
It is the Matronly theory that much of the "I don't want it all" is simply learning not to desire what one can't have. Sure, she herself would like to be rolling around some Ivy League college lawn or watching her books fly off the shelf. The sacrifice this would require -- just the attempt, not an assured win -- is untenable.
Wait! She can still hear it! It is the Matron herself succumbing to the wiles of capitalism, the siren song of external success: "who needs all that! Family is all. I have enough."
The social system we all live in values and rewards personal, financial and professional success. It's natural, normal, logical to desire life achievements that are awarded respect within our culture. It feels good to be seen as successful. There's power and security in having one's own self-worth mirrored by the approving world around us.
Do you feel better wearing a size six or sixteen? Forget how your legs feel: which size gets the approving cultural eye, from medicine to fashion to the bus driver? Unemployed for a long enough period and instead of happy chatter following you at parties, the mood gets grim. Nobody wants to know. America loves a success story -- so why wouldn't we want success? Smile and the world smiles with you -- and who could not help but smile back? And so on.
Now, the Matron fully appreciates that there are among us many who have made conscious and painful choices to live a life decidedly not valued: she sees these people often at the Zen Center, people living on sazen and a dime. She knows whole families that never buy new, don't own cars (in Minnesota winters, folks --that's a commitment) and grow their own food out of deep philosophical commitment. People devote their lives to religion and serving the poor -- these people have made thoughtful choices. They sacrifice much in terms of financial security and socially-sanctioned success for ideals that loom larger. She's not talking about those people.
No, the Matron is talking about her own fine breed, those of middling success: a satisfying job, happy family, enough money to feed the children and a few stray cats. Those of us who could have done more. But won't. The Matron hasn't devoted her life to the alleviation of suffering or a greater good. Most of her considerable energies have been directed toward creating a life for herself. She's exactly the type of woman Slaughter is describing (okay, maybe a little lower on the pay scale and cultural hierarchy than Washington power types, but still . . . ).
It's not that the candy isn't tasty or that she has acquired new, more altruistic tastes -- it's just that the goodies are in a steel-grip, out of reach.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Emergency Intervention: Day Three
The Matron adores her youngest -- the wild child. -- beyond all reason.
John: "Mary, why do you always say yes when Merrick asks to sleep in our bed? We need to pull together on this and get that kid in his own bed, all the time!"
Matron: "For the record, I am constitutionally incapable of refusing a late-night parental bed request from my baby. If he asks me, he's in. Keep me away from him after 9 pm."
Guess who sleeps with his parents?
The Matron makes light of the bedtime carousel, but has weightier concerns. The gun-toting, dog-loving, tree-climbing Merrick is doing poorly in math. Not just poorly. Emergency-level bad. His teacher actually called for an Official Two-Parent Consult to report that he is failing math.
Matron: "Merrick? What's 8 x 7?"
Merrick: "Three?"
The situation was significantly dire that the Matron called in the big educational guns and had her son tested for a learning disability. Nope. But Merrick has what the psychologist calls a "perceptual black hole," a gap in his cognitive ability. That gap? He cannot comprehend how parts fit into a whole.
Psychologist: "I showed Merrick a square made out of four sections, took it apart and had him put it back together. He made a straight line. Four times."
The psychologist reported that Merrick was a bright kid and generally strapping young man, but would benefit from individual focused instruction on how all those single digit numbers add up to ten, and the like. So Merrick is headed for four weeks (mornings only) of Summer Academy, a reading, writing and math camp. Starts next week!
Nobody wants to see a new fourth grader unable to add 2 + 2. Right?
But.
In the interim, one of the Matron's wise blog readers threw yours truly for a loop. She queried: why send a gun-toting, dog-loving, tree-climbing nine year old to squirm in a desk all summer? Perhaps--and the Matron is paraphrasing -- this child will thrive if he's tossed into the woods. An all body boy might not actually bloom in school. Thanks Suburban Correspondent!
This gave the Matron pause. Summer school is just four weeks, mornings only, out of the 12 week vacation. Merrick needs the instruction. But the Matron took a hard, self-critical look at how Merrick spent his time outside of school.
In front of the television.
More and more, that child had been gravitating toward TV. He argued at bedtime, not just about the parental bed but any - didn't want to go. He'd been having trouble falling asleep and rising early. Left to his own devices, he still grabbed a gun but carried it to the couch. With chips.
The television and computer were -- are -- superior in their cage-like capabilities. The Matron and her husband, who both work largely from home, both need to - well -- work. With and around their three children. They are also stage parents, schlepping Scarlett from one show to the next, another rehearsal, audition or now voice rehabilitation. HWCBN had baseball, debate. Driving to school. Teenagers -- at least theirs -- want to talk. They require energy, tutelage and concentration.
The Matron and her husband were all offhand, been there and done that, with third-graders. So they took the path of least resistance and let the television and computer take turns raising their child. Things have been even worse, as of late. HWCBN is gone for most of the summer (debate institute), Scarlett is still in school (year-round all-girls school) with theatre and friends in the evenings, most of Merrick's buddies are in day-care full-time. His only remaining reliable companion? TV.
A few days ago, the Matron juggled all this information: the poor behavior, problems in school, Suburban's advice, impending summer school, screen fixation, the absence of friends and siblings. Actually, she didn't just 'juggle.' She stood in the center of it all -- and knew.
Because she knows -- and loves -- this child.
No more TV.
On Monday, new screen rules -- okay, first ever screen rules -- were presented to Merrick. The parents tried to keep it simple: no television or computer from 9 am until after dinner. Not a quick game of bowling on the wii, not just one tiny episode of The Office. No youtube dog videos. Nothing. And no, it didn't matter what the older children were doing visa vie screen time. This rule was the household rule for children, twelve and under. Which was only him.
Friends, there were tears. Withdrawal and denial. He might as well have been attending his first AA meeting. He begged, pleased, bargained, cajoled and reasoned. That child raged about life's injustices. He pouted in his room and swore of all of humanity.
Until . . . he remembered his tent! Why, wasn't there a tent he could put up in the backyard? Indeed! The Matron could not pull out that tent fast enough. And . . . wasn't there a big box of untouched leggos in the basement? Yes! Here they are, darling! Merrick speculated that Scruffy needed a bath. Why, he could do it! During a routine Target run, he expressed interest in a BOOK which the Matron promptly tossed in the cart, library be damned. She was seizing that moment. Merrick had not willingly touched anything with text in four months.
Buying band-aids, Merrick inquired about the $8 package of 100 latex gloves.
Merrick: "Mom? Can we buy those? I have a couple of ideas for them."
This morning, Merrick forgot about television before nine. He had 12 solid hours of sleep under his skinny little belt, the second in a row after happily going to bed at a reasonable time -- in his own room. That child popped awake, grabbed ten latex gloves, a cap gun, a comic book and headed to his tree for some reading and what-not.
This is Day Three.
She knows, she knows . . . she's all Pink Cloud and La-La-Land and also probably entirely discovering what everyone else already knew. Parenting is like that. In all honesty, less Matronly income-generating activity has taken place. There have been a few dark moments when the dogs and outdoors and no tent would suffice: Merrick wanted just a few minutes of TV. She couldn't even find those few minutes to attend to this blog.
The final bright side to the screen ban is that for the very first time, the Matron and her husband scheduled work hours. One parent is fully on domestic duty and other, hunkered in an office. So for the first time in oh so many years, the Matron hasn't been checking email and scanning online classes in every free minute. Instead, she worked from 8 to noon Wednesday morning and will return to the trade on Friday.
Heaven.
Excuse her now. She and Merrick are biking to the dollar store, rounding through the park on the way home, and then headed downtown St. Paul where they plan to window shop. As God-Buddha-Allah-Oprah-Universe is her witness, window shopping was Merrick's idea. Then Merrick has offered to help make dinner.
Sixteen years into parenting, the Matron is smart enough to know a corner that needs to be turned when she comes to one. Not yet on the other side, but she is definitely rounding. It feels good.
John: "Mary, why do you always say yes when Merrick asks to sleep in our bed? We need to pull together on this and get that kid in his own bed, all the time!"
Matron: "For the record, I am constitutionally incapable of refusing a late-night parental bed request from my baby. If he asks me, he's in. Keep me away from him after 9 pm."
Guess who sleeps with his parents?
The Matron makes light of the bedtime carousel, but has weightier concerns. The gun-toting, dog-loving, tree-climbing Merrick is doing poorly in math. Not just poorly. Emergency-level bad. His teacher actually called for an Official Two-Parent Consult to report that he is failing math.
Matron: "Merrick? What's 8 x 7?"
Merrick: "Three?"
The situation was significantly dire that the Matron called in the big educational guns and had her son tested for a learning disability. Nope. But Merrick has what the psychologist calls a "perceptual black hole," a gap in his cognitive ability. That gap? He cannot comprehend how parts fit into a whole.
Psychologist: "I showed Merrick a square made out of four sections, took it apart and had him put it back together. He made a straight line. Four times."
The psychologist reported that Merrick was a bright kid and generally strapping young man, but would benefit from individual focused instruction on how all those single digit numbers add up to ten, and the like. So Merrick is headed for four weeks (mornings only) of Summer Academy, a reading, writing and math camp. Starts next week!
Nobody wants to see a new fourth grader unable to add 2 + 2. Right?
But.
In the interim, one of the Matron's wise blog readers threw yours truly for a loop. She queried: why send a gun-toting, dog-loving, tree-climbing nine year old to squirm in a desk all summer? Perhaps--and the Matron is paraphrasing -- this child will thrive if he's tossed into the woods. An all body boy might not actually bloom in school. Thanks Suburban Correspondent!
This gave the Matron pause. Summer school is just four weeks, mornings only, out of the 12 week vacation. Merrick needs the instruction. But the Matron took a hard, self-critical look at how Merrick spent his time outside of school.
In front of the television.
More and more, that child had been gravitating toward TV. He argued at bedtime, not just about the parental bed but any - didn't want to go. He'd been having trouble falling asleep and rising early. Left to his own devices, he still grabbed a gun but carried it to the couch. With chips.
The television and computer were -- are -- superior in their cage-like capabilities. The Matron and her husband, who both work largely from home, both need to - well -- work. With and around their three children. They are also stage parents, schlepping Scarlett from one show to the next, another rehearsal, audition or now voice rehabilitation. HWCBN had baseball, debate. Driving to school. Teenagers -- at least theirs -- want to talk. They require energy, tutelage and concentration.
The Matron and her husband were all offhand, been there and done that, with third-graders. So they took the path of least resistance and let the television and computer take turns raising their child. Things have been even worse, as of late. HWCBN is gone for most of the summer (debate institute), Scarlett is still in school (year-round all-girls school) with theatre and friends in the evenings, most of Merrick's buddies are in day-care full-time. His only remaining reliable companion? TV.
A few days ago, the Matron juggled all this information: the poor behavior, problems in school, Suburban's advice, impending summer school, screen fixation, the absence of friends and siblings. Actually, she didn't just 'juggle.' She stood in the center of it all -- and knew.
Because she knows -- and loves -- this child.
No more TV.
On Monday, new screen rules -- okay, first ever screen rules -- were presented to Merrick. The parents tried to keep it simple: no television or computer from 9 am until after dinner. Not a quick game of bowling on the wii, not just one tiny episode of The Office. No youtube dog videos. Nothing. And no, it didn't matter what the older children were doing visa vie screen time. This rule was the household rule for children, twelve and under. Which was only him.
Friends, there were tears. Withdrawal and denial. He might as well have been attending his first AA meeting. He begged, pleased, bargained, cajoled and reasoned. That child raged about life's injustices. He pouted in his room and swore of all of humanity.
Until . . . he remembered his tent! Why, wasn't there a tent he could put up in the backyard? Indeed! The Matron could not pull out that tent fast enough. And . . . wasn't there a big box of untouched leggos in the basement? Yes! Here they are, darling! Merrick speculated that Scruffy needed a bath. Why, he could do it! During a routine Target run, he expressed interest in a BOOK which the Matron promptly tossed in the cart, library be damned. She was seizing that moment. Merrick had not willingly touched anything with text in four months.
Buying band-aids, Merrick inquired about the $8 package of 100 latex gloves.
Merrick: "Mom? Can we buy those? I have a couple of ideas for them."
This morning, Merrick forgot about television before nine. He had 12 solid hours of sleep under his skinny little belt, the second in a row after happily going to bed at a reasonable time -- in his own room. That child popped awake, grabbed ten latex gloves, a cap gun, a comic book and headed to his tree for some reading and what-not.
This is Day Three.
She knows, she knows . . . she's all Pink Cloud and La-La-Land and also probably entirely discovering what everyone else already knew. Parenting is like that. In all honesty, less Matronly income-generating activity has taken place. There have been a few dark moments when the dogs and outdoors and no tent would suffice: Merrick wanted just a few minutes of TV. She couldn't even find those few minutes to attend to this blog.
The final bright side to the screen ban is that for the very first time, the Matron and her husband scheduled work hours. One parent is fully on domestic duty and other, hunkered in an office. So for the first time in oh so many years, the Matron hasn't been checking email and scanning online classes in every free minute. Instead, she worked from 8 to noon Wednesday morning and will return to the trade on Friday.
Heaven.
Excuse her now. She and Merrick are biking to the dollar store, rounding through the park on the way home, and then headed downtown St. Paul where they plan to window shop. As God-Buddha-Allah-Oprah-Universe is her witness, window shopping was Merrick's idea. Then Merrick has offered to help make dinner.
Sixteen years into parenting, the Matron is smart enough to know a corner that needs to be turned when she comes to one. Not yet on the other side, but she is definitely rounding. It feels good.
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