This washed up in my email inbox, and I couldn't help put take a poke at it. The story/inspirational poem is called "Invisible Woman", and my response to it is after it. (The response also refers to some comments made by others about the same piece, but I think they're clear from context.)
First, the story itself:
Perspective: The Invisible Woman
By Nicole Johnson
It started to happen gradually. One day I was walking my son Jake to school. I was holding his hand and we were about to cross the street when the crossing guard said to him, "Who is that with you, young fella?"
"Nobody," he shrugged. Nobody? The crossing guard and I laughed. My son is only 5, but as we crossed the street I thought, "Oh my goodness, nobody?"
I would walk into a room and no one would notice. I would say something to my family - like "Turn the TV down, please" - and nothing would happen.
Nobody would get up, or even make a move for the remote. I would stand there for a minute, and then I would say again, a little louder, "Would someone turn the TV down?" Nothing.
Just the other night my husband and I were out at a party. We'd been there for about three hours and I was ready to leave. I noticed he was talking to a friend from work. So I walked over, and when there was a break in the conversation, I whispered, "I'm ready to go when you are."
He just kept right on talking.
That's when I started to put all the pieces together. I don't think he can see me. I don't think anyone can see me. I'm invisible. it all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"
Obviously not. No one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all.
I'm invisible.
Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this? Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite guide to answer, "What
number is the Disney Channel?" I'm a car to order, "Right around 5:30, please."
I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again.
She's going, she's going, she's gone!
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England . Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well.
It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself as I looked down at my out-of-style dress; it was the only thing I could find that was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a banana clip and I was afraid I could actually smell peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, "I brought you this."
It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe . I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: "To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees."
In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: * No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names.
* These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished.
* They made great sacrifices and expected no credit.
* The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, "Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it." And the workman replied, "Because God sees."
I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. . No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become."
At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride. I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, "My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table." That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, "You're gonna love it there."
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.
And now, my response to this load of crap:
I think the thing that bothered me most about the piece was the husband.
Kids I can understand -- kids are naturally self-centered and anyone who has
spent time with a teenager is aware that their brains are not yet fully formed.
I would hope that once they grow up and move out, they realize what their
mother did for them and appreciate it (as I did).
But where is the husband in this "cathedral" analogy? He's pre-fabricated.
What's she building there? Why does he get a free pass to treat her like dirt?
He's not five years old. He's not going to be any great monument to her
life's work. He's just a jerk. My suspicion: the biggest reason she is
invisible to her children is because she is invisible to her husband. I would
suspect that her husband does not particularly respect women.
I agree with Johanna about the self-destructive ideology of the cathedral
analogy. Yes, invisible people made great sacrifices to construct great
things. But wouldn't those cathedrals still be as great if we knew who built
them? We know who built the Empire State Building. Giving recognition does
not invalidate a sacrifice. Invisibility is not a requirement of greatness.
As for women who are happy devoting their lives to their families...I can only
speak from experience, which seems a bit different than yours, Val. My mom is
a stay-at-home, lives-for-her-family kind of mom. But she was never invisible
to us, mainly because she didn't let herself be. If we said, "make me a
sandwich", Mum would respond with "What'd your last one die of?", i.e. I am not your slave. If we referred to her in third person in front of her, we got
"She's the cat's mother. Who?" until we said it properly. (Can you tell my
mother is English? Weird folks). Calling her "nobody" was not even in the
realm of possibility.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "No one can take advantage of you without your
permission." I think the Invisible Woman has been giving everyone plenty of
permission. It's very clear in the story -- "Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you
see I'm on the phone?'" Well, why didn't you just say it out loud? She's
allowed herself to become a martyr, and she takes pride in that fact. She's an
accomplice in her own subjugation.
She hasn't lost her identity. She's willingly given it up.
It's possible to be devoted to your family without losing your identity or
becoming a servant. And it's possible to be happy at the same time. But for
some people, it's more attractive to suffer in silence and take pride in their
own virtuous sacrifice. There's nothing you can do for those people except
pity them.
Any thoughts from the (nonexistent) peanut gallery?
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