blind insight

Wimmin's issues.

I've been processing some unresolved thoughts since Monday night's discussion group meeting. The plan was to have a less-structured-than-usual chat about what we each want from the group and whether we might engage as a group in some sort of effort for the betterment of the world (or a piece of it).

Whether accurately or not, I began to feel that our discussion was degenerating into a bitch-fest about how crappy things are for women, how impossible it is to balance life, work, career, children, and relationships, how the patriarchal workplace perpetuates the impossibility of reaching such balance, and how all of this is never going to change. I expressed my concern that we seem to be having this discussion repeatedly, and commented that I find it unproductive and frustrating. But I don't think I conveyed my feelings very well, since subsequent communications with members of the group reveals that they perceived me as being "bothered" by discussing "women's issues and struggles."

I certainly am not bothered by talking about women's issues. I went to Vassar, after all, and even served on the board of the Boulder chapter of the National Organization for Women at one point. But I do get tired of having the same conversation over and over again about the plight of the modern educated woman.

I find our discussions far more satisfying when we talk about something -- whether a planned topic or during our schmoozing time -- that is simply a random subject of interest to us. Then, the breadth of our perspectives and interests and backgrounds leads to a rich and fascinating exchange. I come away feeling energized when we talk about topics such as health care, the upcoming election, water policy, and why and how we've chosen various causes to which to devote our time and passion, because we approach the subject from our uniquely feminine perspectives and shared womanhood, leading to an entirely different discussion than we might have in a mixed group.

Sometimes it is interesting and empowering when we discuss how each of us struggles to find balance in our lives and reconcile the choices we've made. More often, though, it makes me feel sad and defeated, because what I really wish is that women didn't feel the need to justify these choices to one another and to ourselves, when most (but certainly not all) men seem to claim the right to simply make those choices and live them out. I dream of a society in which women allow themselves the full range of choices about life, love, work, and family, without rushing to pass judgment on themselves and their sisters.

And if I'm honest with myself, some of my frustration with this stuff stems from the feeling that I have little to contribute on the topic. I am blessed with a job that I adore, that allows me considerable flexibility, where my direct supervisor and half of my colleagues are women, and where the men are as concerned as the women about protecting their family time. Thus, when the topic turns to the difficulty of maintaining a balanced life, I feel as though I can't possibly relate to the enormous time and energy and frustration drains that the rest of the group members face in their lives and careers.

Plus, I'm single, I don't have kids, and as I've discussed before on this blog, I'm still struggling with ambivalence about my barely-audible biological clock and doubts about the likelihood that I'll ever marry and/or reproduce. So although our discussion on Monday in fact was considerably more substantive and the array of life-situations far broader, in my mind, all I could hear was "poor me, I've got a gorgeous baby and a great job and a perfect husband and I have to make these tough decisions about how much time to spend with each of them and all those single women and men with stay-home wives just don't understand." This, more than anything, is probably why I cringed when the discussion headed towards "life-balance" territory. Perhaps I need to spend less time urging the group to move on from moaning about women's trials and tribulations and more time examining the roots of my own aversion to the subject.
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As an addendum, I'd like to direct your attention to this marvelous dialogue running this week on Slate. The discussion ostensibly centers on the treatment of nannies in affluent U.S. households, but in fact addresses many of the issues that came up in my discussion group. The last post in Thursday's entry, by writer Barbara Ehrenreich, could have come verbatim from one of our meetings and hits the proverbial nail on the head in identifying the real culprit toppling women's efforts to "balance."

Unfaithful.

Last week, my women's discussion group talked about spirituality. As is our practice, the topic was selected by the evening's hostess, who had just returned from a trip to Peru led by a shaman and was trying to hold on to the intense spirituality she felt during her journey. For most of the evening, I listened quietly to the rest of the group discussing the efforts they have made to find a spiritual community or to bring spirituality into their lives. I enjoyed hearing about everyone's experiences, but felt disconnected from the discussion and had little to contribute myself.

Eventually, though, the group pushed me to speak. Reluctantly, I explained that I do not seek out spirituality on any kind of conscious or deliberate level. I added that I feel most "spiritual" when I am doing something active outside in a beautiful place. At those moments, I feel connected to all the elements, and most alive within myself. Rock climbing, in particular, produces a feeling of one-ness with my mind, my body, and the world around me.

But, as I also told the group, despite my rather un-spiritual nature, I do feel deeply connected to Judaism. The Hebrew portions of the religious service, particularly the singing and chanting, give me a powerful sense of connection to my people and my roots. Yet the English readings leave me cold, and fail to spark any sense of faith or spirituality in my heart. That is, the ancient Hebrew, which I can read but for the most part cannot understand, is like a gossamer thread linking me inseverably to all who have uttered these words over the last five or six millennia. In English, whether translated from the Hebrew or added in the modern era, the words drop like lead on my ears and heart, full of paeans to God's awesome power and generous protection.

Mostly this is because I don't really believe in God. Or more accurately, because the concept of "God" gives me no comfort or guidance. Instead, I believe above all that we each are responsible for our decisions and actions, that things don't "happen for a reason," but rather simply happen for reasons we may or may not understand, and we are left to react and respond to those happenings as best we can.

At the group meeting, some of the women suggested that I reconceptualize God, or try to perceive God in all that surrounds me. But while I revel in the beauty of nature and the unpredictability of the elements, and while I never cease to be enthralled by the ever-shifting majesty of the Colorado sky, I don't associate these wonders with divine workmanship. These phenomena exist, they are perhaps beyond my understanding, and I am fortunate to perceive and experience them. Attributing them to "God" neither alters my perception nor heightens my experience.

I suppose there is something essential missing in me, preventing me from experiencing religious reverence and feeling the powerful force of a divine spirit. Probably, I would be a better person if I could experience a spiritual awakening from yoga, rather than simply enjoying the benefits of strength and flexibility that yoga brings to my corporeal self. Perhaps I would feel a greater fulfillment in life if I could open my heart and mind to religious guidance, whether from rabbi, shaman, guru, or some other spiritual leader.

But the idea that God -- whatever he, she, or it may be -- is watching over me offers no solace. Maybe I resist the notion of God because so much evil has been perpetrated in this world in God's name. Maybe I reject prayerful religiosity because I see so much hypocrisy shrouded in prayer. I do believe deeply in tradition, family, and culture, and I recognize many phenomena in life that I cannot explain through logic or science. And I support wholeheartedly those who adhere to any doctrine or faith that guides them to treat others with respect and kindness, to help those who are less fortunate, and to pursue peace and goodwill among all people.

Untitled musing.

I got a call the other day from the former girlfriend of a client, the mother of his daughter. My client was only seventeen when he was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. At that time, his daughter was only a couple of months old, and I think the girlfriend was barely sixteen.

My client has wanted desperately to find out how his daughter is doing and to have some contact with her. Our investigator found the mom, and was able to talk to her a month or so ago. We'd asked her to think about letting my client have contact with his daughter, or at least to give the girl some letters and artwork from her daddy and send him a picture of her. The woman was hesitant, but took my business card from the investigator and said she'd call me after she thought about it. I wasn't sure if we'd ever hear from her again.

But she just called me this week. We talked for a long time about her concerns about putting her daughter in touch with my client, although I had to make clear that I couldn't share any information with her about the case or about my conversations with the client.

Perhaps in part because I've been thinking about the whole parenting business these days, I was incredibly impressed with this young woman. She's around 24 now, and married with two young sons in addition to the daughter (who's 8). According to my investigator, who met with this woman in person, she has made a comfortable life for her young family, and lives in a nice apartment in a clean, safe neighborhood. My own interaction with her left me with the impression that she is exceptionally mature, intelligent, and articulate, and a caring and responsible mother.

She told me she's always taken care to make sure her daughter knows that she has a father who is a different man from the stepdad, and to only tell her daughter good things about her real father. She said the girl knows her real dad is in prison, and that they will talk more about what this means when she is older and can maybe understand it better. The mom told me that she grew up without a father, and she never wants her daughter to feel the kind of pain and sadness she knew growing up.

When I got off the phone with this woman, I sat at my desk for a while staring out the window, trying to imagine how I would have managed as a sixteen year old with a new baby and a boyfriend convicted of murder and in prison for the rest of his life. Though I know it's not likely to happen (or even appropriate under the circumstances), I want to talk to her again, and to learn the rest of her story. How did she survive during those early years as a single teenage mother, without turning to the destructive behaviors I've seen in so many other similarly-situated young women? How did she find it within herself to set aside her own admitted anger at the child's father and raise the girl with a positive picture of her dad? How did she acquire such strong parenting skills, despite her own troubled childhood? And how did she manage to build such a stable and secure life for herself and her growing young family, against the odds that obviously were stacked against her?

I hope that she can teach her children the kind of resourcefulness she must have within her. I wish that she or someone like her was reaching out to the many, many young people who turn to drugs and crime out of desperation or simply not knowing any other life, and telling them "hey, I'm just like you, and I've held it together and stayed clean." There are so many of them, those girls who keep having babies year after year in the hopes that the losers who father their kids will stick around and support mother and baby. The men keep leaving, and too many of the women end up turning tricks or moving drugs because they've got six kids and no skills.

Sometimes the realities of my clients' lives are too depressing to contemplate. But talking to this young mother mostly made me feel optimistic and hopeful. Even if I can't do much on the legal side for this client (which remains to be seen at this point), I hope I can at least help him re-establish his relationship with his daughter in a way that will work for everyone involved.

Baby it's you.

A prefatory note to my mother: you might want to go back to gazing at pictures of your adorable grandson and skip this post.
Love,
Mad.

Several conversations I've had this week, both live and electronic, have revolved in one way or another around the issue of having children. As my friends have started breeding at a rapid pace, and especially now that I'm an aunt to gorgeous baby Nathan, I keep waiting for those Burning Maternal Urges to come my way, along with the ticking of the proverbial Biological Clock. So far, though, my desire to be a parent remains muted at best, and my biological clock must be ticking too softly for me to hear.

For a long time, I told myself that I didn't want kids because of my sucky genetics. My law school boyfriend embarked on a vigorous campaign to change this attitude; though we've long since parted ways (and he's now married with a brood of his own), he succeeded in convincing me that my disabilities presented no reason not to reproduce. As he put it, if my kids turn out to have Usher Syndrome they'll just be like me, which wouldn't be so terrible. I still worry a little about that prospect, but the gene that causes my Usher has been identified and I now know that my kids can only get the disease if my theoretical future husband carries that gene (and even then it'd be only a chance, not a certainty). So it's not a very good reason to avoid childbearing.

I also worry about the logistics of having kids when I can't see or hear very well. But plenty of blind and deaf people have children, and the wonders of modern assistive technology have pretty much mooted this excuse.

It's possible that my uncertainty about having kids ebbs and flows depending on the presence or absence in my life of a putative baby daddy. Yet even when I'm in a serious relationship, the ambivalence lurks. Some of my friends are aching to be mothers, or as new moms feel blissfully complete. Others are absolutely sure they do not want children. I don't fall into either category.

There are times when I am with a pregnant friend, or hanging out with a friend's adorable, happy child, and I feel stirrings of interest within me. Holding my new nephew for the first time brought up a flood of emotion I'd never imagined I could feel for such a tiny bundle of life. At other times, particularly with new parents whose lives seem to revolve entirely around their child, or when a little kid in my vicinity lets out that horrible, spine-jarring shrieking noise, I feel anxious and claustrophobic and swear to myself that I'll never have kids.

One reason I sometimes think I do want kids is that I have such a great relationship with my parents. They're brilliant, kind, interesting, fun, multi-talented people who've been an incredible source of strength and support to me throughout my life. At this point, especially since I've been back in Colorado, I feel like they are not just my parents, but also my close friends and trusted advisors. It would be amazing to have that type of relationship with a child of my own.

Yet how could I possible ensure that my child grows up to like and respect me as much as I like and respect my own parents? My parents raised us with the knowledge that we could do and be anything we set our minds to, and that any obstacle could be overcome through tenacity and resourcefulness. But do I have it in me to provide a similar foundation for my own children? How on earth did my folks survive my teenage insanity without irreparably destroying our relationship? What if my child has some horrible mental, physical, or emotional problem that not only will require enormous sacrifice on my part, but will prevent the child from ever truly connecting with me? And what if my kid turns out to be a Republican?

I think that before you become a parent, you should recognize that there are even more "what ifs" than you can possibly concoct in your nightmares, and that you must be prepared to weather whatever storm life flings your way. In theory, if your marriage goes south, you can get divorced. If you hate your job, you can look for another one, or change careers entirely. But by bringing a child into the world, you're in for the long haul, and you have no way of predicting what lies ahead. That scares the crap out of me, and makes me very, very uncertain whether I'm up to the task.

Or maybe I'm thinking about this too much. Maybe people shouldn't focus on the realities and unknowns too much before they have kids, because if they did the population would die out in a generation.

As I said earlier, it's all very theoretical for me right now, but I wonder sometimes why, at almost 33, my body and heart aren't sending me clearer signals about motherhood.