Of Governors and Governesses

When I was fourteen and first read Jane Eyre, I was completely immersed in Charlotte Brontë’s story of the young orphan who endures years of mistreatment at the hands of her callous relations and teachers before embarking on a new life as a governess. I enjoyed the book and liked Jane. She is plucky in a beaten-down kind of way, and she never indulges in self-pity. A worthy heroine, she thinks for herself and triumphs on her own terms. So I was pleased when I read about the new film adaptation of the novel, and one Friday night I indulged in a rare solo trip to the movies to see it.

It was a fine plan, and the seven other people in the theatre, all of whom were women of a certain age, reacted at all the appropriate places and seemed quite engrossed. However, I could not enter Brontë’s world this time. I stood apart, like Jane outside the door of Moor House, peeking in but never crossing the threshold.

Here’s why. You should never go to see Jane Eyre the same week that Arnold Schwarzenegger reveals that he had a child 13 years ago with his housekeeper and that International Monetary Fund chief Dominique Strauss-Kahn is hauled off to Rikers Island, charged with the sexual assault of a hotel maid. It ruins the story.

I could not see the romance between Jane and Edward Rochester as anything but inappropriate and sinister. What business does a smart, clear-headed young woman like Jane have with a manipulative, controlling employer who fails to communicate even the most vital information—my crazy murderous wife lives upstairs—but expects her literally to put out the fires and clean up the evidence? What does she see in a boorish, inconstant man who flirts with her but prances off without so much as a farewell to visit the beguiling Blanche Ingram? Edward Rochester is needy, gruff, and deceptive, a bully who carelessly exploits—at Jane’s expense—the privileges his status and gender confer.

During the movie, the imbalance of power undermined any possibility of ardor. I could not feel the story’s passion because I was preoccupied by the ominous sense that nothing good could come to Jane from a relationship with a man who pays her—and then only when she demands her overdue wages.

(It is the same icky feeling I had when I first saw The Sound of Music as an adult and felt viscerally that Maria should hightail it back to the convent while the Reverend Mother sternly explains to Captain von Trapp that it would take an act of God to transform a governess into an equal partner.)

Amazingly, something good does come to Jane. An inheritance. Newly-discovered cousins. A fire that destroys dark old Thornfield Hall, dispatches the crazy wife, and blinds Rochester.
When Jane hears a voice calling to her over the moors, I kept hoping it would be Judi Dench—as the housekeeper Mrs. Fairfax—telling Jane to take the money and build a progressive school for girls where she could be headmistress. If Edward Rochester wanted to brush up on his social skills and present himself on her turf, she could entertain any proposals. At the very least, I hoped Mrs. Fairfax would take Jane by the shoulders and tell her that she had to stop calling him “sir.”

Charlotte Brontë could not bring herself to do that for Jane, to choose freedom and integrity over companionship and love. It should be a terrible, false, obsolete choice, but as the week’s news reminded me, clichés are tenacious. What could be more banal than powerful men who treat the women in their domestic lives—from wealthy and powerful spouses to low-wage immigrant employees—like useful but stupid oxen? And what could be more trite than women who imagine that such a union is a good wager?

In the end, Charlotte Brontë endowed her heroine with the upper hand: desirable choices, real agency, and the necessary resources to make a good life. In both the movie and the novel, this sudden transformation requires a suspension of disbelief, but I can overlook the great stretch to find a satisfying ending for Jane. The disbelief I cannot quite suspend is that the heirs of Rochester carry on, as if Thornfield Hall had never been gutted.

Dana for the Poplar Grove Muse

Dreams and Determination

I’ll admit it. For many years, I have harbored the fantasy of being a guest on Oprah. I imagine myself sitting on stage in her modern upholstered guest chair, smiling out at the audience, discussing my new book. I feel the glory of applause and gratitude in response to my words. I enjoy the sense of connection, joyful that my creation has touched others. Oprah hugs me, not unlike she hugged Elizabeth Gilbert, and my book, now blessed with her Midas touch, becomes a best-seller.

This story could take on a sarcastic tone at this point. I could exaggerate Oprah’s influence, or poke fun at my fantasy. However, I write this in all earnestness. For many years, Oprah has represented a pinnacle for me, a goal to strive for, a sense of hope for my story being seen and heard by a wide audience.

The ironic thing is that, as of last Wednesday, her show has ended. Yet my dream of writing a book is still alive. My dream didn’t die with the Oprah show.

I believe in my mission, and it seems that universal forces do too. This might sound strange, but I found it necessary to receive the blessing of my maternal ancestors in order to proceed. I come from a lineage of hard-working, salt-of-the-earth women, who gardened for survival rather than enjoyment. I had to confront my guilt around “indulging” in an artistic pursuit when what I really “should” be doing is hoeing the soil to feed my family. But I realized that writing is MY way of working the soil, and my generation is the first in our family to have this option from birth. Once I explained that to my great maternal grandmother, we came to an understanding. No, I’m not a rotten apple on the family tree.

I have carved out time to write beginning June 21. I have divided my word count goals into days. I am not going to let anything stop me. This amount of determination, I’m discovering, is what it takes to write a book. I’ve confronted the “who do you think you are” whispers that have held me back. I’m daring to be more selfish with my time for awhile. I’m ready to roll.

Over the next six months you may find me rolling in self-doubt or reveling in happiness as I pound out a manuscript. I share this with you because good, bad, or ugly, I trust the process of creating something is worth documenting. I’m fully aware how declaring my intentions may be setting myself up for failure. I don’t care. I dare to fail. I'm encouraged by others I've seen do the same, and dammit, I want my daughter to witness me in this process.

So thank you, Oprah, for providing a chair for me to dream into. Thank you creative spark, for sticking around even after that chair has been removed from the stage. Thank you ancestors, for your blessing, and thank you WWFAC for providing me a sense of community to lean on. I’ve got a story to share, and I’m determined.

-- Kim for the Poplar Grove Muse

Breaking Bread and Boundaries

I am co-leading a feminist spirituality group in my faith community, along with two remarkable women whose life stories are quite different from my own. Apart from traditional women’s circles and auxiliaries, I wonder if there has ever been a class limited to women only, devoted to thinking about women, their faith journeys, and their life stories in this congregation before. It has been a rich experience, drawing women from all stages of life—20’s to 80’s, gay, bi- and straight, every marital status, with no kids, young kids, and grown kids, from a surprising array of faith and non-faith backgrounds, and an array of political perspectives for a largely progressive community.

We are reading Sara Miles’ Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion, a memoir of her sudden, radical conversion, as a leftist, lesbian, atheist journalist, to Christian faith manifested in feeding others, especially the poor and those most unlike herself. One of her central, evolving tenets is that we must rub shoulders with those who are not like us to truly make a difference in the world. I tend to take a pretty traditional approach to lesson preparation, and I really didn’t know what to expect from this group. But the discussions have been delightful, wide-ranging, and deeply questioning. I should have known that we could count on a group of engaged adult women to come together to talk, having done the reading, with many reflections to share, in a spirit of mutual respect, tolerance, and safety.

I am still processing a February 11 column in the New York Times by Bob Herbert, in which he stated: “As the throngs celebrated in Cairo, I couldn’t help wondering about what is happening to democracy here in the United States. I think it’s on the ropes. We’re in serious danger of becoming a democracy in name only.” I actively grieve recent political developments and devolutions, and sometimes despair of how we, at the local, grassroots level, can work to repair and rejuvenate our societal fabric despite the torrent of partisan hatefulness that rains down from our national “leadership.”

This class renews my faith, in a number of senses. Other uplifting examples of “good works” I am buoyed by in Bloomington include: the Interfaith Winter Shelter, staffed by believers and non-believers alike and supported by a wide range of faith communities and political perspectives; the November 2 passage of a local referendum to support our schools, and the ongoing community conversations, some more contentious than others, on how best to use those funds to educate all kids; WWF(a)C’s ArtsWeek “Day of Writing and Art” for girls grades 4-12, which brought together writers, teachers, and artists of all stripes to interact with a patchwork of girls from many corners of our community; the Bloomington Farmer’s Market, where everybody and anybody is drawn together by a common love of food and festivity.

We are lucky to live in this community. Let’s increase our good fortune by supporting and participating in efforts like these that bring together folks who don’t necessarily see eye to eye, on common ground, where we can extend and break down our boundaries, “presuming good will.” What are you doing, or what can you do, to widen your world?

Mary for the Poplar Grove Muse