On Motherhood, Writing, and the Body…

An interesting conversation here between Rachel Zucker and Sarah Manguso.
(Thanks to Laurel Synder for the link)

I don’t often talk here on the blog about some of the more serious (and sad) things I go through in life. As someone who was told at a young age (21) that she wouldn’t be able to have children, life as a mother has pretty much been outside my range of possibilities for a long time. Most of my friends had children by the time they were my age; they take the possibility of having children for granted. There are a few who haven’t, and I am grateful for them, because their existence reminds me that I am not the only one. This conversation above reminded me of that too, and also, sometimes that space that exists between women who do or don’t have children, who do and don’t experience illness, how that space can be filled with respect or condescension, affection or resentment, assumptions and prejudices.
There are a lot of complications to being a woman who can’t (or doesn’t want to) have kids. The question strangers ask after “how long have you been married” is “do you have any kids?” (My response is usually a chipper “Not yet.”) Putting me in a box of “wife” and then “non-mother.” I can’t explain to them that I can’t have children, don’t want to detail the physical problems that make having children impossible. New doctors also “tsk” at me when I explain why I’ve been told I can’t have kids. “And how do you feel about that?” they often ask kindly. Well, how do you think I feel? It’s never pleasant to have possibilities taken away from you. But I’ve made some kind of peace with it. My husband was never that interested in having children, and I will note with some interest that most famous women writers of the past (Emily D., Jane Austen, Elizabeth Bishop, Marianne Moore) did not have children.
There can be misunderstandings, or worse, a sort of judgemental behavior, on both sides. I overheard Heather McHugh asking a young visiting female poet at Open Books, “Do you have children?” When she responded, “Not yet,” Heather replied with a relieved sigh, “That’s good. They only get in the way.” Not sure if she was making a joke or not. There can be so much self-righteousness involved in people who are parents – I shuddered when I read Rachel Zucker’s statement: “I think that when I think of women who are not mothers I both fear and pity them. I feel threatened and confused.” Yikes. Thanks a lot, and way to have empathy with people with different experiences; I guess I should feel confused and threatened by mothers, according to this logic? People that are not like you should not threaten you. We should embrace our differences. I was also a little angry that she said she only felt like a feminist towards other mothers; once again, it seems she was not able to look outside of her own experiences, which seems a tad close-minded.
I am not jealous of my friends that have children, though sometimes I am wistful, especially when their children are adorable. I am perhaps envious of the confidence they have in their bodies, how confident they are in the way it works. My body tends to let me down at important times (as Manguso’s has as well.) I hate the thought of being pitied for being childless (or child-free.) Baby showers aren’t a lot of fun for me for obvious reasons. I’m not going to ever really identify with the poems my friends and peers write about motherhood, although I read them with interest – because I’m interested in experiences that are different from my own. I don’t particularly like insinuations that children are the only fulfillment for females, that having children is what women were born to do, or the most important thing a woman can do, the only real way for a female to become a “real woman,” or variations on that theme.
I do identify myself first as a writer, that feels like the most important part of my identity, not as a woman, not as a non-mother, not as a wife. I feel very passionate about feminism, about protecting the rights of women, whether they have children or not. I am also passionate about children’s rights, about protecting children, even though I don’t have any. I believe one of the reasons I continue writing about fairy tales is that I believe they contain at their core important messages, a talisman power that will keep women and children safe.
I feel lucky in some ways; I have a wonderful husband who takes care of the house for the most part, is a great cook and the number one cheerleader for my writing career. I can move without worrying about school districts. I’m not dead yet, even though statistics might indicate that someone with my various genetic mutations might have a very short lifespan. I was encouraged to write at a young age by my teachers and my mother, and when I’m writing, all the “problems” that doctors might encounter when meeting me, the things (childlessness, genetic mutations, etc.) that might define me but that I resist letting define me, melt away.

A topical poem, first published in The Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion.

The Husband Asks Her

“Why is your heart sad? Am I not more to you than ten sons?” 1 Samuel 1:8

And this question makes sense to him,
because he sees them still as teenagers,
kissing in a tent, hiding from summer storms

and she sees herself as a would-be
grandmother, facing the endless sand alone,
envying the fruit of other wombs.

He knows he will love her forever,
past graying teeth and decaying gums,
past lies and promises kept or broken.

She believes her sway over him is waning.
She knows a woman with no child is out
of place, pitied. She turns to him, unable

to say these things. He pats her hand, smiles.
As years pass, it seems to her the rain
keeps its secrets. Her lips move silently,

although she believes no one listens.
She cries without tears. The arm of the Lord
is mighty, and strikes without warning.

Another poem on the subject, “Behold Your House is Left Unto You” can be found at Pebble Lake Review here.