I am rarely so struck by an article in the newspaper that I find myself thinking about it in the shower, while making breakfast, on my drive to work, AND on the drive home, but I recently read the following article in the New York Times and did just that:
Many Women at Elite Colleges Set Career Path to Motherhood By LOUISE STORY Women are being groomed to take their place in an ever more diverse professional elite. But many of these women say that is not what they want.
The article interviewed several young women at Ivy League universities and sited trends illustrating that more and more young women of "my generation" are planning to be stay at home moms. Intrigued by this notion and a bit befuddled by the tone of the article, I emailed it to my mom and a few of my girl friends and received the most interesting, diverse responses. For the benefit of debate, I will copy their comments here. I would be curious to hear your responses!
My mother:
Dear Jessica
Very interesting article! Im glad that someone is giving this some thought, Dad & I were just discussing it the other day. You're so lucky to be living in the "Internet age", Dad's company seems to have no problem with the "working from home" scenerio.....one of dad's co-workers, Michele, lives in Santa Cruz works from home, rarely comes into the office. Dad's big boss lives in New Jersey, works from home. It's becoming so common. I imagine by the time you have kids it will be fairly standard.
It also makes me feel good that young people are seeing the value of "stay at home mom's", I got alot of crap in the early years...It used to be an embarrassment to say "I'm a stay at home mom"....now I'm proud to say it!
Disney seems to be a company that value's family, that's clear....I bet they would totally support a woman that made the choice to cut back hrs & work from home,
You're a lucky girl.
Much Love
Mom
-----------------------
Kim:
you know, this is actually QUITE interesting.
the debate on women's issues concerning work and motherhood has gone on for a GOOD amount of time. this article brings out some interesting questions and observations:
-the second shift (work and home life) has been an INCREASINGLY dichotomy in the last 20 years, with women taking over jobs that require less time at home.
-more men have taken over the role of stay-at-home dad, and society (seems) to be taking this as ok.
-it seems that fewer incoming college women are not realizing the "out of the box" ideas that full-time working and full-time parenting can happen, no less for BOTH genders.
-as more companies begin providing on-site daycare, the problem of parenting OR working becomes less of an issue; however, this assumes one can obtain such a job and work at such a place.
-this survey definitely shows an upswing back into 1950s mentality of women not HAVING to work--the choice of whether or not they WANT to work brings an idea of fulfillment outside of current gender ideals for women.
-some would consider this a step back for the women's movement: is it? is feminism about taking power and control of one's life as a woman? (even if that means choosing to be traditional) or is it defying all traditional gender roles to create a space for girls to understand they aren't boxed in? hasn't that already been done? and why go to yale or harvard if you already intend on staying home (i totally don't believe in this one, but it's a good question nonetheless)? .....
------------------------
Kristy:
This article is VERY interesting and very true. I have been on abridal forum a lot recently and it is so strange for me to hear theslide towards traditionalism. While I think that in our currenteconomy/house prices it is pretty much impossible for a Californiawoman to quit working, I do know that many people are looking to getwhat Andrew calls an "Mrs" degree. Everyone wants to be a Mrs! Ihave yet to meet a woman who wants to keep her name (besides mycousins who never took their husbands names and my feminist friends).
Now to REALLY answer your question. I think it is tough for womento have it all. Somewhere, there is a chance that either home or workwill suffer. This isn't a garuntee, but it is a possibility.Especially since there are so many "bad" kids out there and lots of itis blamed on lack of parenting. There is still the issue of womenmaking ~74 cents to the male dollar. Well if two parents are raisinga child and one had to stay home, obviously the one making less will,right? Most of the time, that's the woman.
Thirdly, and this is where I fall into this group...many women justwant a break from working and see motherhood as an easy way out.Heck, I get TIRED from working so many hours and with all those kids! [fyi: Kristy teaches middle school] I would love to be able to take time off. Now does this mean that Iwant to stay at home all day with my rugrats? Not really. But maybe that's because I have never been a lover of young children. Hopefullymy own someday! All I know is that I hate cats, but I still love myChloe. :)
So we women have such high standards set for us from birth. Andof course, we try to do all that we can to reach it. But my guess is,many of us women are just getting lazy and want to slide back into the"old way", which seems easier. Yeah, its certainly easier, IF andONLY if you have a man who has evolved past the ways of the 1950s.That is something I think most women forget. Me? I'm just kissing the ground thanking the fact that Andrewcooks and cleans. Watch for me to be taking time off in 5 years, butas soon as I get sick and tired of that lifestyle, I will definitelybe back to work. Because, as you know, every smart woman needs achallenge. :-P
.......
-------------------------------
For myself, what I found interesting about the article was the author's attempt to suppress what I sensed was a tone of dismay - as though these ivy league girls were going to waste their education by being stay at home moms. I would have been interested to know what percentage of men are considering the option of being a stay at home dad or part time dad. For example, my boss' husband is a stay at home Dad and she works from home on Fridays. The article just assumed that because more women were willing to stay home, we are returning to more traditional gender roles (and as Kim later pointed out: just because the article interviewed 4 girls from northeastern ivy league schools doesn't mean it's a trend). In another light, I think this can be seen as a step forward in the women's movement because a woman can "choose" to be a stay at home mom and not be thought of as a second class citizen because of it. The idea that a woman's monetary value is her only value is simply absurd, and a truly backwards way of thinking.
The article also seemed to skirt around the real problem (which Kristy also touched upon) - that it's simply not possible to be the best parent when both you and your spouse/partner are working full time; and unlike our parents' generation, our generation can see that. Sure, there are plenty of parents who have pulled it off and do a reputable job, but not without a considerable amount of stretch and stress - mostly on the part of moms. If you're going to make it to your kids soccer practice and piano lessons, you're probably not working the long hours usually required to make it into high-power roles.
If and when I ever have kids, I imagine that I would try to take a year or two off, or position myself in a job that did not require me to always be at the office... but I would expect my husband to have the willingness to do the same. And therein lies the rub, which I think Kim, Kristy, my mother, and I all agree on: If you can find a man (or woman) who has evolved beyond that 1950's mentality of subservience - who can respect his or her partner for staying home and raising their kids, then that is all that really matters.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
20 Minute Story (No. 1)
For the last several months I have been experimenting with the 20 minute story. I sit and write uninterupted for 20 minutes (more or less) without editing or thinking too much. Most of them are fairly worthless, and perhaps this one is too. I wrote it a couple months ago and had forgotten it until I reread it tonight. Make of it what you will, I suppose....
She dug her feet into the sand gently. The water rushed up over her toes, her ankles, but then stopped there before rushing back out again. It’s funny how a wave seems to hesitate like that – and it’s an immeasurable amount of time, that moment when the water stops before rushing away like a blushing girl. How long did it stop for this time, she wondered? A second? One third of a second? It didn’t stop long enough.
The water was warmer because the air was cooler, but now the thrill of water’s tickle-kiss was fading.
He should have met her there at least twenty minutes ago now, and soon those tiny lines the moonlight made on the ocean’s rippling surface would glow less bright as the moon continued to recede. They only had two days left, and already she got the feeling that he was growing tired of her.
(His hand reached across the bar’s surface to rescue the falling strands of hair that were about to make their way into her cocktail, and when she looked up she didn’t look away.)
She was not often on beaches when there was no one else around. She was not often on beaches. Most things move too quickly, but she likes how quickly things move until she hesitates for that brief moment – the moment before rushing back out again – and she wonders if she’ll ever rush back out again.
She was not often on beaches when no one else was around. She was not often on beaches. Especially at night. The sand keeps its moisture at night and the night smelled like dewy flowers, which would have seemed right if he would ever show up, but she was nearly convinced that he would not. She heard leaves brush and the crackle of a few branches but did not turn her head. It could not be him, and even if it was, a rushed flip of the head, a flyaway strand of hair would be all too expected.
And it was him. It seemed so artificial. So contrived, he thought. The air smelled of dewy flowers and the moon sparkled on the water. He did not like such things. They bothered him because he had read it before in a book that he didn’t even enjoy or in a magazine at the dentist’s office. So he stood there watching her for a moment in silence wondering whether he should give up the proposition all together.
Without turning her head – knowing he was there – she spoke:
“Did you bring it?”
“I did.”
“Good.”
He approached her slowly and sat down next her, opening the case carefully, and pulling out the small guitar as though it were a child.
“What is it tonight?” She asked. “New or Old”
“New. It doesn’t even exist yet – the song. I thought tonight that I would just play and you can tell me stop when the song is over.”
“Why didn’t you write it first?”
He didn’t answer. He tuned a few of the strings and then began to play. With a song that already existed, she would say Yes or No within the first few moments of his tune and immediately those to which she said No were crumpled and thrown into the ocean or made to vanish into thin air. But with a song that didn’t exist, she wasn’t quite sure how she would be able to perform her service correctly. Her service was to say yes or no to songs, but if a song didn’t exist, what was she saying yes or no to?
She stared down at her feet as the water came up to meet the bottom of her flexed foot. With its contact he struck his first chord – minor. Fast and bitter sad. The wave rushed back out like a blushing girl and the chord broke into the million tiny pieces – the wave crackling and foaming as it sunk into the sand, the musician boy leaning over his small guitar with his eyes closed and his mouth torn into a sideways wandering grimace.
Was it Yes or No. Yes or No? She thought of Yes or No. Yes! or No! it wasn’t so calypso as it was a rage or rush of something else. It subsided and brewed off shore for a moment as it rolled into itself. And he lay his chin into his chest.
(I’m going to help you, she had said to him the moment she met him. I will help you I will help you I will help you.)
He could play whatever she wanted to hear now and he knew it. A week of these nights. Nights on beaches and nights on park benches and nights in her hotel room, and he could play whatever she wanted to hear. And was that all she wanted?
“No.” She said. But this time he did not stop. There was no paper to crumple up and throw into the ocean.
She knew that he could play exactly what she wanted to hear, and that he would no longer come to her, and for that reason she wanted to hear no more of what he played. She wanted those hands to stop plucking those strings. They seemed tied to her somewhere.
The wave pulled up over the sand but did not meet her this time. It stopped just before the end of her toe, and she reached out to meet it but couldn’t.
He shook his head and laughed but did not stop playing. Soft trembling things now. Soft and trembling murmuring, but angry and sarcastic things. She stood up. The music stopped. He grabbed her skirt.
“Wait” he said. “No wait!”
Walking down the beach and not stopping, he lay down his guitar and walked just behind her until the nearness of him made her stop.
“I cannot help you.” She said just above whispering. “I cannot help you I cannot help you I cannot.”
And as she said the words he could not bear the thought of them being true. And his heart leapt in his chest.
She dug her toes down into the cool damp sand and tried to keep herself from rushing back into the rush. She dug her toes down into the sand, and breathed a deep shuddering breath. How long could she stop this time? A second? A third of a second? Not long enough.
She dug her feet into the sand gently. The water rushed up over her toes, her ankles, but then stopped there before rushing back out again. It’s funny how a wave seems to hesitate like that – and it’s an immeasurable amount of time, that moment when the water stops before rushing away like a blushing girl. How long did it stop for this time, she wondered? A second? One third of a second? It didn’t stop long enough.
The water was warmer because the air was cooler, but now the thrill of water’s tickle-kiss was fading.
He should have met her there at least twenty minutes ago now, and soon those tiny lines the moonlight made on the ocean’s rippling surface would glow less bright as the moon continued to recede. They only had two days left, and already she got the feeling that he was growing tired of her.
(His hand reached across the bar’s surface to rescue the falling strands of hair that were about to make their way into her cocktail, and when she looked up she didn’t look away.)
She was not often on beaches when there was no one else around. She was not often on beaches. Most things move too quickly, but she likes how quickly things move until she hesitates for that brief moment – the moment before rushing back out again – and she wonders if she’ll ever rush back out again.
She was not often on beaches when no one else was around. She was not often on beaches. Especially at night. The sand keeps its moisture at night and the night smelled like dewy flowers, which would have seemed right if he would ever show up, but she was nearly convinced that he would not. She heard leaves brush and the crackle of a few branches but did not turn her head. It could not be him, and even if it was, a rushed flip of the head, a flyaway strand of hair would be all too expected.
And it was him. It seemed so artificial. So contrived, he thought. The air smelled of dewy flowers and the moon sparkled on the water. He did not like such things. They bothered him because he had read it before in a book that he didn’t even enjoy or in a magazine at the dentist’s office. So he stood there watching her for a moment in silence wondering whether he should give up the proposition all together.
Without turning her head – knowing he was there – she spoke:
“Did you bring it?”
“I did.”
“Good.”
He approached her slowly and sat down next her, opening the case carefully, and pulling out the small guitar as though it were a child.
“What is it tonight?” She asked. “New or Old”
“New. It doesn’t even exist yet – the song. I thought tonight that I would just play and you can tell me stop when the song is over.”
“Why didn’t you write it first?”
He didn’t answer. He tuned a few of the strings and then began to play. With a song that already existed, she would say Yes or No within the first few moments of his tune and immediately those to which she said No were crumpled and thrown into the ocean or made to vanish into thin air. But with a song that didn’t exist, she wasn’t quite sure how she would be able to perform her service correctly. Her service was to say yes or no to songs, but if a song didn’t exist, what was she saying yes or no to?
She stared down at her feet as the water came up to meet the bottom of her flexed foot. With its contact he struck his first chord – minor. Fast and bitter sad. The wave rushed back out like a blushing girl and the chord broke into the million tiny pieces – the wave crackling and foaming as it sunk into the sand, the musician boy leaning over his small guitar with his eyes closed and his mouth torn into a sideways wandering grimace.
Was it Yes or No. Yes or No? She thought of Yes or No. Yes! or No! it wasn’t so calypso as it was a rage or rush of something else. It subsided and brewed off shore for a moment as it rolled into itself. And he lay his chin into his chest.
(I’m going to help you, she had said to him the moment she met him. I will help you I will help you I will help you.)
He could play whatever she wanted to hear now and he knew it. A week of these nights. Nights on beaches and nights on park benches and nights in her hotel room, and he could play whatever she wanted to hear. And was that all she wanted?
“No.” She said. But this time he did not stop. There was no paper to crumple up and throw into the ocean.
She knew that he could play exactly what she wanted to hear, and that he would no longer come to her, and for that reason she wanted to hear no more of what he played. She wanted those hands to stop plucking those strings. They seemed tied to her somewhere.
The wave pulled up over the sand but did not meet her this time. It stopped just before the end of her toe, and she reached out to meet it but couldn’t.
He shook his head and laughed but did not stop playing. Soft trembling things now. Soft and trembling murmuring, but angry and sarcastic things. She stood up. The music stopped. He grabbed her skirt.
“Wait” he said. “No wait!”
Walking down the beach and not stopping, he lay down his guitar and walked just behind her until the nearness of him made her stop.
“I cannot help you.” She said just above whispering. “I cannot help you I cannot help you I cannot.”
And as she said the words he could not bear the thought of them being true. And his heart leapt in his chest.
She dug her toes down into the cool damp sand and tried to keep herself from rushing back into the rush. She dug her toes down into the sand, and breathed a deep shuddering breath. How long could she stop this time? A second? A third of a second? Not long enough.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Metropolis (and things in print)
If you didn't know already, I am an absolute magazine fiend... and my god, this is a fantastic magazine:
www.metropolismag.com
If you have any interest (at all) in design, architecture, and their social contexts... or just like pretty pictures and good writing, I offer Metropolis for your consideration.
My other recommendations include~
The New Yorker (a classic)
www.newyorker.com
Mc Sweeney's Quarterly Concern (Dave Eggers' journal)
www.mcsweeneys.net
www.metropolismag.com
If you have any interest (at all) in design, architecture, and their social contexts... or just like pretty pictures and good writing, I offer Metropolis for your consideration.
My other recommendations include~
The New Yorker (a classic)
www.newyorker.com
Mc Sweeney's Quarterly Concern (Dave Eggers' journal)
www.mcsweeneys.net
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Don’t Eat Guinea Pig with Germans in Peru… (and other observations)
I needed to get out. This was the conclusion I came to back in May, and as a result of a somewhat random bout of inspiration while sitting around the drum table in my living room, Lauren and I decided that the best thing to do would be to go to Peru. I needed to get out of LA, and out of the United States, and out of the seeming rut I was in. I need to get out.
I had these vague notions of Peru that mostly stemmed from misty pictures of Machu Picchu and the knowledge that there was once a great people in Peru called the Incas, but in retrospect I had absolutely no clue what I would find in Peru. When people would ask me why Peru, I would ask: why not? – simply because I had no better response. But even after reading my Lonely Planet and a couple other guide books and feeling like I had a pretty good idea of where we were going, everything about Peru proved to be a great surprise. To write an expository piece about my adventure would take too many words, and so for now I will patchwork together some snapshots of my favorite parts:
In Peru there are no traffic rules and no lanes and cab drivers charge you whatever they wish unless you ask them ahead of time. Instead of stopping at intersections, they honk. They also like to honk at pedestrians and speed up to scare them out of the way.
A view that will take your breath away is one located above 11,000 feet. Just a short walk up to the top of an island in Lake Titicaca can literally take your breath away and leave you lightheaded. So can the sunset and 360* views of a lake so huge it could be an ocean.
Standing next to an outhouse and the giant cow in the dark on an island that had neither running water nor electricity and realizing that I have never seen so many stars in my entire life. We could live on a lot less, with a lot less, and still be happy. We would be no less human.
Would you like some potatoes with your… potatoes?
The 7 hour bus ride between Puno and Cuzco: The window that had to be taped shut and still couldn’t keep out the winter cold. Wearing the alpaca knit hat and gloves the entire way. The native women in their brightly colored skirts and bowler hats and dozen parcels each yelling at each other at 1 in the morning because they could not agree who owned which box of shampoo bottles.
At one point (I think while we were on one of the “local” busses again and stopped in the middle of nowhere) Lauren made the astute observation that a place is only made shady by the people in it. People who live in crumbling adobe homes in cities where dogs run stray have no reason to harm you simply because they are poor.
Arriving at Machu Picchu at sunrise, we soon made the decision to hike the trail to Huayna Picchu… I am awfully glad that the mountain was hidden in the cloud because I do not think we would have made the massive climb if we knew what we were getting ourselves into. But sitting at the very top and looking down at the ruined city from afar, I realized that the truly amazing thing about Machu Picchu is that no matter how much it is hyped up, it will always exceed one’s expectations. I have never experienced anything else like it in this world.
Listening to Frank Sinatra on a cell phone mp3 player while drinking Pisco Sours with cute German boys and feeling swoony drunk. There will never be another night like this. I was awfully glad that I could lean on Lauren’s shoulder on the walk back to our hostel that night. The streets were cobbled and dimly lit.
In those same cobblestone streets, a tiny girl squatting next to an ancient Incan wall on a Sunday morning – her pee streaming toward the gutter. She looks at me with worried brown eyes and behind her in the Plaza de Armas a great Catholic clergyman speaks. Flags flutter soundlessly in the cold clear air.
Fresh squeezed orange juice and an avocado sandwich on a sunny porch where two dogs sat quietly at our feet. A stray horse ran through the street and frightened a couple uniformed school girls who had just left class for the day. The old gentleman tried to run but could not catch up with his horse. Where is his horse now?
Roosters. Damn it, not again!
Learning a lesson: Don’t eat Guinea Pig with a German boy in Peru, there will not be enough meat for the two of you and they will bring it out with the head still attached – its malicious little teeth gleaming… Bernd had it right when he said: “If we were out in the wild and all there was to eat was Guinea Pig… we would starve.”
Awaking before sunrise in the rainforest to the eerie din of Howler Monkeys like a stormy wind creaking through the trees and vines. Later discovering a family of Howlers in the trees above our heads and quietly venturing off the trail, through the jungle to have a closer look. Their fur an even more fiery red… their black faces looking curiously back at us. Thinking how this was my childhood fantasy come true.
3 girls hiking through the jungle at night looking for bugs (and Lauren’s peal of screams when a giant spider used her as a launch pad.)
The novelty of hot running water and electricity after a time without it… and realizing that our trip was almost over. In that moment I knew that even after I was back in my own room in Los Angeles, I would never be the same again.
I had these vague notions of Peru that mostly stemmed from misty pictures of Machu Picchu and the knowledge that there was once a great people in Peru called the Incas, but in retrospect I had absolutely no clue what I would find in Peru. When people would ask me why Peru, I would ask: why not? – simply because I had no better response. But even after reading my Lonely Planet and a couple other guide books and feeling like I had a pretty good idea of where we were going, everything about Peru proved to be a great surprise. To write an expository piece about my adventure would take too many words, and so for now I will patchwork together some snapshots of my favorite parts:
In Peru there are no traffic rules and no lanes and cab drivers charge you whatever they wish unless you ask them ahead of time. Instead of stopping at intersections, they honk. They also like to honk at pedestrians and speed up to scare them out of the way.
A view that will take your breath away is one located above 11,000 feet. Just a short walk up to the top of an island in Lake Titicaca can literally take your breath away and leave you lightheaded. So can the sunset and 360* views of a lake so huge it could be an ocean.
Standing next to an outhouse and the giant cow in the dark on an island that had neither running water nor electricity and realizing that I have never seen so many stars in my entire life. We could live on a lot less, with a lot less, and still be happy. We would be no less human.
Would you like some potatoes with your… potatoes?
The 7 hour bus ride between Puno and Cuzco: The window that had to be taped shut and still couldn’t keep out the winter cold. Wearing the alpaca knit hat and gloves the entire way. The native women in their brightly colored skirts and bowler hats and dozen parcels each yelling at each other at 1 in the morning because they could not agree who owned which box of shampoo bottles.
At one point (I think while we were on one of the “local” busses again and stopped in the middle of nowhere) Lauren made the astute observation that a place is only made shady by the people in it. People who live in crumbling adobe homes in cities where dogs run stray have no reason to harm you simply because they are poor.
Arriving at Machu Picchu at sunrise, we soon made the decision to hike the trail to Huayna Picchu… I am awfully glad that the mountain was hidden in the cloud because I do not think we would have made the massive climb if we knew what we were getting ourselves into. But sitting at the very top and looking down at the ruined city from afar, I realized that the truly amazing thing about Machu Picchu is that no matter how much it is hyped up, it will always exceed one’s expectations. I have never experienced anything else like it in this world.
Listening to Frank Sinatra on a cell phone mp3 player while drinking Pisco Sours with cute German boys and feeling swoony drunk. There will never be another night like this. I was awfully glad that I could lean on Lauren’s shoulder on the walk back to our hostel that night. The streets were cobbled and dimly lit.
In those same cobblestone streets, a tiny girl squatting next to an ancient Incan wall on a Sunday morning – her pee streaming toward the gutter. She looks at me with worried brown eyes and behind her in the Plaza de Armas a great Catholic clergyman speaks. Flags flutter soundlessly in the cold clear air.
Fresh squeezed orange juice and an avocado sandwich on a sunny porch where two dogs sat quietly at our feet. A stray horse ran through the street and frightened a couple uniformed school girls who had just left class for the day. The old gentleman tried to run but could not catch up with his horse. Where is his horse now?
Roosters. Damn it, not again!
Learning a lesson: Don’t eat Guinea Pig with a German boy in Peru, there will not be enough meat for the two of you and they will bring it out with the head still attached – its malicious little teeth gleaming… Bernd had it right when he said: “If we were out in the wild and all there was to eat was Guinea Pig… we would starve.”
Awaking before sunrise in the rainforest to the eerie din of Howler Monkeys like a stormy wind creaking through the trees and vines. Later discovering a family of Howlers in the trees above our heads and quietly venturing off the trail, through the jungle to have a closer look. Their fur an even more fiery red… their black faces looking curiously back at us. Thinking how this was my childhood fantasy come true.
3 girls hiking through the jungle at night looking for bugs (and Lauren’s peal of screams when a giant spider used her as a launch pad.)
The novelty of hot running water and electricity after a time without it… and realizing that our trip was almost over. In that moment I knew that even after I was back in my own room in Los Angeles, I would never be the same again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
