On the Basis of Sex and the Open Discussion Project

The boys returned to school on Monday, and today Oliver stayed home sick. He is the easiest, most darling sick kid ever, and as today was frigid, we enjoyed a roaring fire while reading for book club, doing homework, and so forth. I got a bit of work done, though not as much as I’d hoped or planned. I am lucky that that’s OK, but it can be hard to not feel disappointed at times- at the loss of time, of the quiet hours counted on but taken. Tom and I showed the kids The Pursuit of Happyness last weekend, in part because it’s such a good movie but also for perspective; how on the line so many people are constantly, and the stress in that. It’s excruciating.

I didn’t think about it all too much until we picked up Jack and a friend and, as everyone had finished homework, went to see On the Basis of Sex. I felt this intense determination to see it. Today. I bribed my children with candy; Jack’s pal said, “Oh, that sounds wonderful. I’d love to see that.” I swear to god sometimes being with other people’s kids makes you believe that while you may not always see your lessons coming to fruition in your own spawn, you can have some faith that they are and will. Interacting with other kids with good parents lets you see that they can and do apply their skills and loveliness when the time is right. I see this all the time in my students too. Ah, parenting.

Anyway, after plying the children with all manner of “food,” we settled in to our seats, and I exhaled deeply. I’ve felt fitsy all week- tired, and an unsavory blend of worried and furious. The shutdown continues, hurting and stressing so many Americans. It continues because of an ignorant, mean man and the craven, pitiful people who enable him. It continues because of a greedy desire for power, nothing more. This shutdown has nothing to do with protection, nothing to do with security. It is wasteful and rude and the wall is stupid and ineffective.

I mention that because on Sunday I begin participating in the Open Discussion Project. I am both thrilled and honored to have been selected to do so, and yet, as the time approaches, I find myself nervous. The ODP, a joint project of six American bookstores, including my beloved Politics & Prose here in DC, is an effort to talk over the chasm of polarization dividing our country. You can learn more about it here, but in short, it brings together groups of people from across the political spectrum to talk and read books about current events and discuss them. “The goal of this effort is not conversion but conversation and understanding.”

I applied as soon as I read about the opportunity. I exclaimed aloud when I was accepted. I have studiously read our assigned book, highlighting and making mental notes all the while. And yet, I am nervous. I’m nervous because I’m furious. I’m nervous because although I value emotion and fully believe it comes from places of feeling and love I also recognize that it can counter reason, inhibit objectivism, and cloud and fuck things up. Emotion has always been part Achilles heel for me, part gift. We have a skeptical relationship, I think it’s fair to say.

In any case, I admit to feeling extremely correct in my belief that our country is in seriously bad straits, and I am sick to death of racism, sexism, bigotry, religion, and exclusivist conservatism cornering the fucking market on “real” and “salt of the earth” Americans.

No.

I, too, am a real American. A patriot. I am an atheist, an active anti-racist who recognizes that I will always have work to do, a feminist, and a proud progressive. I do not want walls built, on our borders or in our society. And so I worry that I will be unable to hear arguments for the wall. I worry that I will react badly to support for this “president.” I will try to listen, try to understand, but I’m nervous.

Back to the movie. We all loved it, the 7th graders and me especially. Ruth Bader Ginsburg is a boss. Incredible human. I cried at the end and found myself struggling not to cheer or retch aloud several times throughout.

“Please introduce yourselves and tell us why you deserve a spot that would otherwise have gone to a man.”
”You used to be pretty and so smart. Now you sound shrill and bitter.”
”You’re just not a fit. I mean, our firm is a family. The wives get jealous.”
”The natural order of things…Caretakers are women.”

Jesus christ. It’s enough to make me insane. Talk about rousing emotions. I was nearly apoplectic at times. And yet still, women carry the bulk of the familial load, the mental load, the emotional load, and so on. We manage the expectations of how to look, how to act, how to be. But most women can never actually win. Not really. Can never strive without seeming strident. Can never assert without seeming shrill. I mean, just look at “grab them by the pussy and take what you want” having zero consequence versus “I want to impeach that motherfucker” being talked about ad nauseum for days. (Trump, Tlaib, respectively.) Really?

I think I carry all this with me into the ODP. I am mad. And driven. And worried. And strong. But that leash of propriety is still around my neck, yanking me back at times. Into expectation or submission or appropriateness or whatever.

It’s infuriating and in instills fear, often simultaneously. And I’m white.

Mothers Days

Due to a whole host events including spring break, Easter and Passover, Jack's baseball team is making up a missed game by playing a double header tomorrow. On Mothers Day. My first reaction was "hmm...I might have to play hooky from one of those," but then I thought about how I really enjoy watching the kids play, that it's a wonderful group of parents and Ol has a ball seeing the siblings, and it's supposed to be a pretty day; so whatever, play ball! Some of the other moms suggested making a party out of it; one thought having something catered would be fun; another felt the dads should motivate to bring the makings for a fete. Their spirit is excellent, and I wish I had the energy to make the giant layer cake recipe that Melissa Clark published in last Wednesday's NY Times Dining section. In any case, and although I have already learned this nine hundred times over, I was reminded that motherhood is largely an "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" sort of enterprise and so I might as well just bring my folding chair and some ice water and enjoy things because otherwise, I will surely miss J's most amazing play ever or some magnificent moment with Ol or a spontaneous visit with a friend or watching T pretend he's not as engaged as he is. Good memories are often made when we just get out there and play, literally and figuratively; stronger connections are forged in casual times of togetherness, in moments of understanding and simply saying "ok."

I think this is why college is such an unbelievable, largely unreplicable, seemingly magical time in life. You're thrown together with all sorts of folks and then you spend enormous amounts of time together, as roommates, classmates, clubmates, partymates, hallmates, labmates, showermates, etc; you're forced to just "play" with others for at least four years. During those activities, when you share, receive, observe, are challenged, discover commonalities, tend, assist and are helped, transformations occur. Though those can be positive or negative, the good ones foster closeness that is otherwise difficult to forge. The lesser ones are the stuff of life lessons, of notes-to-self for later dates.

It seems to me that in a slightly less equitable, longer term way, that's what parenting is too. As with a potential new friend, your newborn is unknown to you. I loved Jack and Oliver before they arrived, but I had no idea what either boy would be like. How could I have? And so I simply met them, with openness and eagerness and love.

Before language evolves, the connection between parent and child is largely one based on one-sided ministration. So you wait and care and respond and offer and a relationship blossoms and grows. And I've found that as long as I'm willing to remain open, our relationships will continue to evolve and deepen and become more reciprocal. Even (especially?) in the tough times, the chance for deeper understanding and connection is there.

Recently, I learned something new about our darling J. It was nothing too surprising really, but nonetheless I found myself a bit breathless. I took a day to think. To process and reflect and consider and absorb. And then, as when a Southern rainstorm finally lets up, the sun shone down, making the droplets and puddles of water glimmer like diamonds instead of the soggy aftermath of some climatic pounding.

Deeper insight into my little boy birthed a new perspective on him and on my dealings with him. Some of the patience I wanted to have but simply couldn't muster before emerged like a previously untapped wellspring, a salvo of understanding that changed and warmed my point of view considerably. What was once frustration became admiration, what was before concern felt newly like hope, what I didn't understand I now honored.

And isn't that a beautiful transformation?! A shift in understanding and a resultant appreciation that I know I'd welcome and feel he does too because what underpins such willingness to learn and change and respect is nothing more than love and a desire to connect and feel understood.

This evening, a friend and I went to hear Molly Wizenberg present her newest book, Delancey. If you're not familiar with Molly, she is the blogger behind Orangette, the author of A Homemade Life, co-owner of restaurant and bar, Delancey and Essex respectively, woman, wife, mother, cook. She came across as real, honest and grounded, and when asked about why she writes, and why she writes about personal stuff, she simply responded (general summation mine), "writing helps me make sense of my life...I want to honor my truth but also respect the truths and privacy of those in my life...surely I'm not the only woman to have experienced postpartum depression or had a less-than-perfect moment in my marriage. Why aren't we talking about these things?"

Exactly.

And though this isn't a confessional post, it is a sharing of sorts.

The few people with whom I shared our recent news simply said, "Ok. Great to know. Happy to listen. Let me tell you my history/story/experience with that and how totally fine it will be." As Molly averred, surely she and I and all of us are not alone. Of course we aren't. And if motherhood isn't a humbling, let's-get-real-with-each-other experience, I don't know what is, and in all likelihood, you haven't really been living it.

So as Mothers Day dawns, let us remember all that we moms and aunties and sisters and adopted moms/grandmas/aunties/etc have in common. Let us praise all we do for each other, and all that we can and want to. Let's share our truths in the good times so that when times are less rosy, the context is understood and we don't have to start at the top. Let's love and appreciate it as much as we can, but let's also be real.