The Childless Revolution

childless revolution

The Childless Revolution: What it Means to be Childless Today by Madelyn Cain; published 2001 by Perseus Publishing

One thing I’ve always been sure of is that I want to have kids. Yes, the timing of it keeps getting pushed farther and farther back, and there are many aspects of pregnancy that scare me. I fear losing control over my body. I fear complications. I fear my children limiting my career, and I fear my career limiting my relationship with my children. But nevertheless, I’ve always wanted to have kids—and not just have them, but bear them.

It wasn’t until I saw this book that I considered what it would be like to not bear children someday. The Childless Revolution was written when Madelyn Cain realized that being childless is a complicated, deeply personal matter, but one that comes with a heavy social stigma—and nobody likes to talk about it. Laws are favourable toward families. Churches are all about the family. Being family-friendly is a positive attribute for films and literature. It’s not that people without kids are intentionally disadvantaged…they’re just kind of ignored.

So Cain decided to interview over 100 childless women, and this book is a summary of what she found. It is mostly presented in the retelling of these women’s stories, divided into sections by the reason for their childlessness. Cain defines three ways that women generally become childless: by choice, chance, or happenstance.

Childlessness by choice is the result of a woman choosing, for one reason or another, to not have kids. And these reasons include (but are not limited to): personal preference, religious conviction, and environmental conviction. A lot of women admit to simply not liking children, or not wanting them for reasons like what I mentioned above. Many like to say that women have a natural maternal instinct, but for many of these women, they feel awkward around children or they are simply ambivalent toward them. They’re not deficient as women; they just have a different personal preference. Other women, like nuns for example, choose to remain celibate and childfree so that they can dedicate their lives to a greater service. And others believe that there are too many people in the world already; they fear the depletion of the earth’s resources and the unfair imbalance of poverty.

Childlessness by choice is something that I have a hard time relating to; I’ve always wanted children. But what I can relate to is the frustration with not having your decisions honored and respected. The women whom Cain interviewed and who do not want children told of the difficult time they had convincing others that they were serious. They were patronizingly told that they would change their minds later. One woman who wanted to be sterilized was repeatedly rejected by doctors who told her she was too young; “I am too young to know what I want, if what I want is not to be a mother. It would be different if I wanted to be a mother. I would not be too young then,” she said. How incredibly insulting.

Childlessness by chance can happen with women who are infertile or are diagnosed with a medical condition that makes bearing children difficult or impossible. It can also happen with women who marry a man who already has kids or who does not want to have kids. It is heartbreaking to read about the infertility and medical issues that cause childlessness, and shocking to hear about the great financial costs of infertility treatments. Those women often get told to “just adopt,” as if adoption was such an easy process, or could make up for years of pain. My husband and I want to adopt, but it’s not an easy choice. It’s not for everyone, and it’s not an answer to the complicated issue of unwanted childlessness.

Happenstance is another source of childlessness. In this case, childlessness just happens for any number of reasons: a woman doesn’t meet the man she wants to have kids with until she’s older and the chance or desire of having kids has decreased, a couple decides to keep putting their careers first and finds that they are fulfilled, or a person just finds him or herself fulfilled by the relationships they already have. Parenthood is not at all a need—for anyone.

The information presented in this book is certainly interesting; the writing, however, was lacking. The presentation of the stories was disjointed and the transitions were awkward. The book was also written in 2001, which makes the “research” somewhat outdated. But the good part was definitely the content. I was challenged further in my perception of childlessness. I had already resolved to never ask a couple if they have children, but while before reading this book I refrained from asking because of the chance it could bring up a painful issue, now I refrain from asking because the question itself assumes a desire to have children which may or may not even be there.

If you’re interested in this subject, I do recommend giving this book a quick read. It won’t take long, and you might find your understanding of childlessness challenged and broadened.

The Last Runaway

the last runaway

The Last Runaway by Tracy Chevalier; published 2013 by Dutton

I’m a big fan of Ms. Chevalier’s—Burning Bright was fascinating and Girl With a Pearl Earring is one of my favorites—so I was very excited to pick up her new release, The Last Runaway.

Set in Ohio, rather than in Europe—where all of her prior novels are set—the novel captures a quiet Quaker community in the 1850s. Honor Bright has just arrived from England. Her purpose in coming to America was to accompany her sister who was to be married. Unfortunately, her sister dies during the passing and Honor is left alone on a strange, wild frontier where even in a community of Friends (Quakers), the moral boundaries are not always clear.

Honor’s living conditions are on shaky ground at first: she lives with her sister’s fiance Adam and his brother’s wife Abigail—Adam’s brother having died shortly before Honor’s sister. Two women and one man in the same household, none of them married, is a skeptical situation, especially in small Quaker community. Honor knows even before Adam and Abigail announce their wedding that she will have to leave. Having no family ties, the only way to do so is to be married herself.

The one man that Honor finds herself attracted to, unfortunately, is Donovan—a handsome slave catcher. He makes it clear that he would gladly take her as his wife, and even hints that he would submit his views to her Quaker belief that slavery is wrong. Honor will not marry him, but chooses instead to marry a Quaker from the community: Jack. After they marry, Honor joins Jack and his mother Judith and his sister. She quickly learns to be part of their farm, trying as hard as she can to assimilate to their American ways. But despite her efforts, Honor cannot find approval from Jack’s mother Judith.

Honor does not hesitate to start helping slaves who cross through their farm, as she assumes all Quakers would do—all English Quakers, anyway. But Judith will not support her and insists that Honor is putting the farm in danger. Caught in a moral dilemma, Honor decides to ignore her mother-in-law and continue helping slaves, which also puts her at odds with Donovan.

The story is engrossing and fully of lively characters, like Tracy’s other books I’ve read. I love that Tracy is able to write moving stories that engage the moral and political issues of their times. I also enjoy that Tracy does not shy away from a difficult ending—she forces her characters, and her readers, to accept that sometimes life doesn’t always give you a perfect answer, but that doesn’t mean you can’t live with it and still find happiness.

What was missing for me in this book was the art. I know that it might not be present in all of her books, but one of the aspects of Burning Bright and Girl With a Pearl Earring that interested me was the involvement of historical people. In Girl With a Pearl Earring it was the painter Johannes Vermeer; in Burning Bright it was the poet William Blake. Those stories got after the heart of those artists’ work and were used to comment on the political situations of the time. In The Last Runaway, Honor does herself have an artistic passion: she makes beautiful quilts and quickly gains a reputation as a masterful sewer. However, in this story the quilts did not play an integral role. They were mostly just a part of Honor’s character. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it made the book a little less gripping for me from a literary perspective. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to read the rest of her novels.

The Flight of Gemma Hardy

Flight of Gemma Hardy

The Flight of Gemma Hardy by Margot Livesey; published 2012 by Harper Perennial

It was hard for me to read this book, and it’s hard for me to write a review of it. The Flight of Gemma Hardy is a retelling of the classic Jane Eyre. And if you’ve been reading One Little Library for a while or have ever met me, you probably understand why this book is difficult for me.

I really tried to give this a fair shot. I promise. I really believe that a retelling is a new work of art. But I’m biased because Jane Eyre is my favorite book. The book tried too hard to make the plot work in a new setting while abandoning the best part of Jane Eyre: the ethical struggle.

Here are just a few of the problems:

  1. The book was set in the 1960s, but the book didn’t seem to break free of the early 1800s. Gemma goes to a ratty orphanage just like Jane did, where the girls are called by their last names, and where she’s required to work as a servant to earn her keep. Some things are definitely 1960s: there are vague references to the Labour Party, and Gemma speaks on the telephone and occasionally wears trousers. But the feel of the book was still old-fashioned, Victorian. Mr. Sinclair (the reincarnated Mr. Rochester) still lives in a looming mansion, and although the location is the Scottish highlands instead of Yorkshire, the isolation of the place only serves to reinforce the Victorian overtones. He is inexplicably wealthy and doesn’t work—must be nice.
  2. Gemma has no faith. Here I am complaining about how the book didn’t get far away enough from the novel, and yet I wished that Gemma’s spiritual journey was as robust as Jane’s, even if she doesn’t come to the same conclusions. Gemma outrightly rejects the Christianity of her beloved uncle—which is interesting, since she otherwise admires him and treasures everything about him. Gemma is helped by a pastor during her flight, and she finds sanctuary in a church. Yet she stubbornly insists that “Virtue is its own reward.” This idea is never fully explained; we never learn why exactly Gemma is so repulsed by Christianity, and why she insists on doing virtuous things without any underlying motivation.
  3. Gemma’s crisis is all social and relational, whereas Jane’s crisis was moral and spiritual. Jane had to deal with the fact that the man she loved had tried to commit bigotry, and she must then face the choice of becoming Mr. Rochester’s mistress and committing a grievous sin herself. In that situation, running away with no warning doesn’t seem all that farfetched. What makes Jane such a strong character is her integrity, her decision to stay true to what she believes is right despite her desperate love for Mr. Rochester. In comparison, Gemma comes across as a pouty brat. In the 1960s, if you’re just upset that the man you love did something you disagree with, running away with no warning is a little less understandable. So what did Mr. Sinclair do that was so bad? Honestly, I’m not sure. This is another problem of the book. Mr. Sinclair is afraid of the dark, but during WWII he was assigned to the mines, so he persuades his cousin Seamus to switch names with him and take his assignment for him while Mr. Sinclair goes off to do the fighting. In return, Mr. Sinclair tries to get his sister Alison to marry Seamus—which doesn’t happen, and Seamus is angry about it. The child whom Gemma nannies is Alison’s daughter, of unknown patronage. That’s it. Gemma throws a fit, runs out of their wedding, and dramatically leaves him because of this (and I’m still not even sure what “this” is). Mr. Sinclair says, “Please, Gemma…It’s not as if I have another wife, or a mistress, or a child. I did something wrong when I was eighteen.” I have to agree with him. In order for the rest of the book to be justified, Ms. Livesey needed to find an equally shocking moral dilemma to place Gemma in.
  4. Along the same lines, Jane Eyre not only has integrity, which drives her story; she also believes in “signs, presentiments, and sympathies.” The chestnut tree that is struck by lightning, the fire and ice motif, the mystical experience of hearing Mr. Rochester’s voice—these are very real for Jane. Gemma, however, being a very decidedly and outspokenly “practical” person (as if signs, presentiments, and sympathies can’t also be practical), isn’t able to make use of any of this rich symbolism that Jane Eyre offers. While traveling in Iceland, she does seem to hear Mr. Sinclair’s voice calling to her, but because of Gemma’s insistence that she does not believe in the supernatural, this scene comes across as forced and unbelievable—like most of the book.

Essentially, I think that Margot Livesey just tried to reinvent the facts of Jane Eyre while leaving out the most important part: the underlying themes and motivations. Jane is nothing without her integrity; therefore, a character with unreliable integrity such as Gemma just doesn’t work. Mr. Rochester presents a huge spiritual dilemma. He manages to be both endearing and frustrating. Mr. Sinclair only gathers the reader’s compassion, which makes Gemma even less likable for running away from him.

I understand the challenge of trying to recreate Jane Eyre. I tried for a long time to figure out how to do it as National Novel Writing Month project, but I couldn’t. Yes, you can twist the facts, but I just couldn’t settle on a moral dilemma that worked in a more modern setting. Not that we don’t have plenty of moral dilemmas today—we do, but they don’t seem to put a romantic relationship in jeopardy. It seems that, as a culture, we try to protect our sexual freedom by making everything acceptable. That’s nice for real life, but it makes it hard to rewrite Jane. Of course, if you can prove me wrong, please do.

I wish I could recommend this book, but I think you’d be better off with something that actually involves an ethical challenge—what’s really at the heart of Jane Eyre.

Literary Wives Part One: American Wife

Today is the first installment of our monthly review of Literary Wives. Woo! Just a reminder: check out Audra, Angela, and Emily today as they post their reviews, and please join in the discussion! If you’re reading along, be sure to post the link to your review of American Wife in the comments and we’ll all take a gander.

American Wife

American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld; published 2008 by Random House

If I had known that this book was based on the life of former First Lady Laura Bush, I probably wouldn’t have picked it up. I’ve known about the book for quite a while—been mesmerized by the beautiful cover, enchanted by the story line as outlined on the back cover. Of course, I knew it was about “politics,” per se, but I thought it would be a more abstract look at politics—not politics steeped with some of the most powerful emotions and controversies of the last twenty years. After I had chosen it and told the other bloggers about it, I was reading reviews and quickly discovered the truth. Dear God, I groaned. This is going to be terrible.

But then I looked at that back cover again, and I couldn’t help but be pulled in. I still couldn’t help but wonder what being the wife of America’s president was like, and the fact that it at least drew its inspiration from reality gave it an interesting edge. So we still read it, and I’m happy we did.

To give you a quick glance at the storyline that intrigued me so:

*Warning: Plot spoilers ahead!

Alice Lindgren is a quiet, gentle person from small town Midland, Wisconsin. A model, bookish student, she is traumatized at age 17 when, while driving, she fails to see a stop sign in the darkness and crashes into another vehicle—and happens to kill the boy she is in love with, Andrew Imhof. In the wake of her grief, she attempts to absolve herself and assuage her guilt by giving Andrew’s older brother, Pete, what he wants—sex. She becomes pregnant. Her grandmother, who lives with her and her parents, takes her to a Chicago doctor who performs an abortion, though it was illegal then. This doctor, a woman, also happens to be her grandmother’s lover, and it is the first glimpse Alice has of homosexual relationships.

Years later, at 31, Alice is a school librarian in a slightly bigger Wisconsin town. At a friend’s barbecue, she meets Charlie Blackwell—the rich, charismatic, persistent, funny, handsome son of Wisconsin’s most influential Republican family. In a whirlwind romance, they fall in love and are married just a few months later. Charlie tries at first to run for Congress, but loses, to Alice’s relief. For many years, Charlie works at his brother’s meat company, feeling like a failure. Until he has the chance to help buy the Brewers, and eventually is persuaded to run for governor, and the President. Though she was happy in their quiet life, Alice must decide whether and how to support the man she loves when his ideals do not match hers.

This book could have been many things. It could have been a polemic against Republicanism. It could have shouted for abortion and marriage equality, or feminism. And maybe it does. I don’t mean to say that the book doesn’t support radical ideas—I think it does. Alice Lindgren is radical in her gentleness, radical in her empathy for all people, especially those who disagree with her. Ultimately, though, this is a book about a woman and her husband.

I think this question from the series is particularly relevant to this story:

In what way does this woman define “wife”—or in what way is she defined by “wife”?

Throughout most of the book, we see Alice again and again seek to define herself as “wife.” She is insecure about the validity of her existence since the crash and as a single woman approaching middle age. When Charlie proposes and she accepts, she says,

I’d traded friendship for romance, companionship for a husband. Was this not a reasonable bargain, one most people would make? I’d no longer be that allegedly eccentric, allegedly pitiable never married woman; my very existence would not pose a question that others felt compelled to try answering.

Again and again, although her ideals differ from Charlie’s and the entire Blackwell family’s, she chooses to remain silent in the hope of maintaining peace. Above anything else, she hates confrontation and studiously avoids it. Even when Charlie ignores her, mistreats her, and acts like the spoiled brat he is, she babies him.

I would follow, I would coddle, in exchange for the smallest amount of respect and sometimes in exchange for less than respect, for mere neutrality. Had anyone been watching, I probably would have seemed like a doormat, but I believed in picking my battles, and there was rarely anything I wanted more than I didn’t want to keep fighting.

For a brief time, Alice considers leaving Charlie, and actually does take their daughter Ella to her mom’s house for a while. And yet she can’t bring herself to actually divorce him. She remembers her dad’s motto: Whatever you are, be a good one. And she remembers that many people besides just she, Charlie, and Ella, would be affected if they got a divorce. So she returns, and at that moment it seems she is making a decision to stick with Charlie no matter what. It certainly appears that way—she follows him to the governor’s mansion and the White House, attending speeches, giving speeches, campaigning, following all of the rules, and fulfilling all of the duties.

However, throughout the narrative, Alice slips in hints that she actually subtly distinguishes between herself as a wife and her true self:

I loved my husband out of affection and also out of habit, I loved him with my wife’s heart, and with my secret heart, my dream heart, I loved Andrew Imhof.

Alice is intensely practical about marriage; she knows that it is about two very different people coming together, and sometimes you just try to get by:

We are each of us pathetic in one way or another, and the trick is to marry a person whose patheticness you can tolerate. …Anyone who has been married, and especially anyone married for several decades, knows the union is a series of compromises.

The great controversy at the end of the book comes when Alice admits publicly that she thinks the war her husband started should end. Charlie, of course, feels that she has betrayed him. But she has enough clarity to know that they’ve both betrayed each other in small ways. She forgives him because she genuinely loves him, and yet the book closes with the reminder that “there must remain secrets that are mine alone.”

What makes the book so remarkable, to me, is that Alice is somehow able to be loyal to Charlie, to think well of him, to have compassion for him, to love him, and to also be loyal to herself. That is her definition of “wife.”

That is a great feat in marriage. I know that I tend to think dualistically in my own; I think that either Andrew is right or I am right. I don’t know how to live in tension—but that’s exactly what a marriage is, learning to live in tension.

Phew. What a way to start this series! I’m really looking forward to engaging in conversation with everyone, so please join in and check out my fellow contributors’ blogs!

During May we’re reading The Paris Wife by Paula McLain. If you’ve been dying to read this bestseller, now’s your chance!

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Exciting News! & when blogging is a blessing, not a burden…

Hi, friends. It’s been a while. I have some great news!

If you’ve been following the blog for a while, you’ll know that my life has been in almost constant flux for the past two years. Living the life of a freshly graduated, newly married young-20s woman has been… fun? Interesting, to say the least. But I’m thrilled to announce that my life is changing yet again in a way that I pray will bring some stability. I’ve accepted a job as an Editorial Assistant at Corwin Press!

This means that, for now, I will no longer be accepting new clients for freelance editing. Sad… But I’ll be learning so many more skills and getting to see the workings of a publishing company from the inside, which means I’ll be a much better editor farther along down the road if I take up freelancing again. Yay!

It also means that, once again, Andrew and I had to move. This time we stayed closer—just thirty minutes down the road and still in California—but it was moving all the same. If you’re counting, this is our fourth move since we’ve been married. And I never want to see a stupid box again.

This is the pile of books yet to be unpacked.

This is the pile of books yet to be unpacked.

And with all of the fun and excitement comes really long to-do lists. I need to unpack all of this shiz, clean the new place, shop for the things we need, and prepare for starting work on Monday. Plus, I still have editing work to catch up on, friends I’ve promised to hang out with, and a Bible Study I’m leading. Which means I’ve started avoiding my computer like the plague. Every time I see my email account with messages I still haven’t responded to, I have a small heart attack. It’s all I can do to keep reading American Wife.

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The other day my husband said, “Hey, honey—you haven’t blogged in a while. Are you going to do that soon?” And I swear my lungs stopped working. Sometimes having a blog stops feeling like the immensely joyful hobby it usually is and starts feeling like a huge commitment—Things to Do, People to See, Posts to Write… Eek. I don’t want that.

So, at least while my life is in happy tumult, I respectfully decline the necessity of posting every day or every other day. I will post when I have the time, energy, and goodwill to do so. One Little Library is a blessing, and I want to keep it that way.

I’ll see you on Friday, May 3 to review American Wife. Don’t forget to be reading along!

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