Woman: An Intimate Geography (64 page)

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Authors: Natalie Angier

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down stairs, they drink contaminated apple juice. Every mother learns this lesson, of life's porosity and her impotence against it. She can't shield her child against all hurt.
Whatever mothers do, by choice, chance, or necessity, we mothers need help. We need emotional support, not the slam from one side, dunk from the other: You're a feckless worker! You're a narcissistic mother! Enough already. We're guilty. It's the X chromosome's fault it has too much DNA on it. It's Eve's fault when she wasn't busy stuffing her face with fruit and tubers, she was leaving Africa and bringing us here. It's Lilith's fault she abandoned us to the merciless docility of Eve. It's our mothers' fault (goes without saying). It's our eggs, our cunning, our blood, our bustiers, our hip-to-waist ratio, our fat depots, our salmony smell, our solar flair. We've confessed. Now where is our mamal indulgence, our feminine, heathen writ of absolution? Where is our vim and forgiveness, the Dallas Cowgirls for womankind?
Mothers need practical help as well. They always have. It takes 13 million calories to raise a child, and these days nearly as many dollars. Businesses have been arthritically slow about helping parents. We beat our leaky breasts over child care. We grouse and grouse and get a few stale animal crackers tossed our way. After decades of feminist change, the slogan of the business world is still "Your babies? Your business." National child care must be an ongoing goal, a system like the public schools, available free to all. We can't afford it? Says which voting bloc? Women vary widely in their sexual and maternal strategies, and as Patricia Gowaty has pointed out, correctly, the feminists of the 1970s erred in their assumption that all women share the same goals; but if there's any objective that comes close to being of universal benefit to women, it's fine, free day care. Even women who don't have children will gain from universal day care, for anything that keeps women in the world, visible and unrelenting, that neutralizes the acidic effect of mother guilt and its corollary presumption that women are not up to the task of professional tenacity, buoys all women, raises all our madly paddling canoes.
And then there are the men, the fathers. Every time I read an article about the guilt of working mothers and the comparative lack of said guilt among working fathers, I want to know, why don't they feel guilty?

 

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And why don't we talk about their feelings and their responsibilities more than we do? Why are paid paternity leave and the full-time home-making father still the stuff of cultural sideshows? While it is true that in some segments of postindustrial society fathers now are more involved with the dailiness of child care than men have ever been, men still have not habituated themselves to babies as readily as women have to paychecks.
In explaining the asymmetry of newly acquired burdens and male lassitude and exculpation, we lazily grope toward biology. Women are said to be naturally inclined to motherhood, to bonding with their babies, to nurturance, patience, and generosity. Real mothers know that mothering is not a reflexive behavior but an acquired art. "We learn, often through painful self-discipline and self-cauterization, those qualities which are supposed to be 'innate' in us: patience, self-sacrifice, the willingness to repeat endlessly the small, routine chores of socializing a human being," Adrienne Rich has written. We indoctrinate ourselves to motherhood, through nursing, through touch, through the willingness to sit and stroke and capitulate. We give our bodies the chance to wrap around the infant and devour it with all our senses, and to present it to our bodies as our immune cells present the antigenic mark of selfhood to each other and thus declare, I am of you, and I belong. And our bodies give us back a whole-body blast. "We are . . . to our amazement, flooded with feelings both of love and violence intenser and fiercer than any we had ever known," Rich writes.
The habit of loving and nurturing an infant is not restricted to women. It is a habit that women fall into out of habit, because they spend so much more time around infants than men do. But sex be damned. The body is threaded through and through with the cilia of affiliation, which can be tapped and adapted and taught to beat in unison, provided we give them the chance. Look at the male rat. A male rat does not normally care for newborn pups. Fatherly devotion is not in the standard contract. Yet he has the raw goods of affection. If you put a young male rat into an enclosure with a litter of newborns and give him a chance to grow accustomed to their smells and hear their squeaks, he will eventually start nuzzling them. He'll huddle over them and lick them. If one should stray from the nest, he'll retrieve it. He has fallen in love with a pile of squirming pink pencil erasers. An essential

 

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factor in the experiment: the mother rat must be removed from the scene, for if she were there, she would sooner kill the male than allow him near her young.
Men can love babies madly, and the more they sit and smell and clutch their babies against them, the more sensorily embellished the love becomes. How often, though, does the average father sit and rock his baby against his naked breast? Not often enough, and not nearly as often as the average mother does. Mothers tend to monopolize their babies. Of necessity they must hold their infants to breastfeed, and so they get into the habit of holding, and they are reluctant to let go. Too often a father's contact with his baby is restricted to those times when the mother is tired and wants a break, and so it becomes a chore and a duty to him rather than a rite. He keeps his shirt on. He's buttoned up. The nerve endings of his flesh detect the baby's frequency only faintly. And the mother watches the father to make sure he is doing everything properly. She is the baby expert, after all, and he is forever callow, a babe in the woods. Women chortle about men's clumsiness in holding babies, their fumblings, their bafflement. The nursery is still the mother's domain. There, she is poobah. Yet if we want men to do their share and to shine at it, it's unfair to give them the handicap of our doubt, to practice a reverse form of discrimination: "We suckle; you suck." If women expect men to dive into the warm, rich waters of body love and to feel the tug of baby bondage, we must give over the infant again and again. Between feedings, between breasts, play touch football, baby as pigskin pass it along.
Not all men may want to throw themselves bodily into compleat parenthood, or spend their nights with their nose buried in a baby's fontanel, or take paternity leave if offered. But I'll bet that many more of them would than currently do if such behavior became possible, acceptable, and fashionable. Which it might, as the economy goosesteps onward and women must work harder than ever before to stay abreast of life, and as they negotiate for reciprocity and fairness. I don't buy the arguments that men are inevitably less invested in their children than women are, that because there is always a chance to do better reproductively, to conquer new wombs, their feet are always shod and halfway out the door. In this murderously competitive habitat of ours, this teeming global agora, men's reproductive success may well hinge on

 

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their capacity to do just the opposite, to pay attention to every offspring, to shower each child with every possible advantage. Men need women and children now, just as women and children are always thought to need their men.
Human bonds are deep, as feral as civets, and for that, paradoxically, we have our brains to thank and rebuke. We love long and hard because we know too much. We know that we will die, and that awareness has shaped us profoundly. It has given us the world's religions. It has taken all our ancient hungers for power, esteem, love, connection and buffed them till they gleam like chrome, bouncing our reflections back at us. Stop for a moment, please, and talk. Stride away in full strength, but remember that time and space are curved and you will come back to talk again to me, your friend, your daughter, your mother, your love.
I am a utopian pessimist by nature, a mechanistic phantasmagorist. I believe in permanent revolution of the mind and will. In 1987 I sat over dinner with my grandmother, who was then in her late seventies, my mother, and my eighteen-year-old cousin, Julie. We talked about whether we would choose to be men if we could. Yes, we all said, even, to my surprise, my grandmother. "Men have more freedom," she said.
Recently I reminded my mother of that conversation. We agreed that we no longer felt the same. We no longer wanted to be men. It isn't merely a function of getting older and more accepting of ourselves. My grandmother was older than either of us when she said, I would if I could. Nor is it because I think women have made so much progress in the past decade, or that the prison door has melted and the merry inmates are now in charge. Instead, for me, and I think for my mother, the change of heart is the result of revelation, the realization that our strength and our anima stem in good part from our womanness, and from thinking about what it means to be a woman, here, now, in this culture, and in our imagined future. Our tribe is the tribe of woman. It is our tribe to define, and we're still doing it, and we will never give up. We live in a state of permanent revolution. The
frisson
of it! We will not abandon the tribe or the battle. We will not define the tribe as a default zone or a consolation prize. The wish to be a man is a capitulation to limits and strictures we never set for ourselves. It is lazy. It does not belong to us.
I have a daughter now. She's still too young to know that she has any

 

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limits at all, that she is not queen of the Milky Way, and that someday she will die. She knows she's a girl but she doesn't yet care about it, or realize what it means. Maybe it should mean nothing. Maybe that's what I want for her: that she will not think about being a girl, or a woman, in any categorical way. That it will not interest her, for she is too consumed with a glamorous calling, like calculating comet paths, playing the harpsichord, or pandering to her generations nostalgia for purple pedophilic dinosaurs and the Internet. Maybe she'll pull a Björk on me, rolling her eyes and miming a patted yawn whenever I mention the political trilobite called feminism.
Or maybe she will trade up her mother's tatty bark canoe for a mighty ship of gold and joy, with a mutinous crew of mad-haired Valkyries, cloven mermaids, and chafing nymphs. My daughter will sing herself hoarse as she rows firmly forward through squalls and calm waters, now in tune with her mates, now roaring against them. She hasn't yet found the fabled free shore, but no matter. She is always at home in the sea.

 

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