I Am Beautiful: A Celebration of Women in Their Own Words

The good old daysat home sweet homeby Marge Piercyhard, honest work. This day, I didn't feelthat way. Returning home with the family,I learned what it was like to be invisible.Not once did the grandfather addressme directly; I was clearly of solittle consequence that he never felt theneed to even look in my direction. I wastold that since the family was about tohave lunch, I could wait in the livingroom, or go outside to the park. I choseto wait in the park.Until I came to this country, Inever had hate in my heart for anyone.Yet I have been treated so despicably,and cried so much that now I have notears left. I listen with amusement toworking mothers who claim to wantgood, reliable child care, because I knowthey don't mean it. What many of thesewomen want is cheap, anonymous labor.What I still can't understand is whymothers would treat so inhumanely theperson to whom they have entrusted themost valuable person in their life.Should I be part of the family? Not necessarily,but is respect and compassiontoo much to ask? I refer to mothers purposely;one thing that always struck meabout the child care situations that Ifound myself in is that the husbandshave always been very pleasant, kinderand more thoughtful than their wives. Ihaven't decided what the problem wasbetween myself and the women I haveworked for. I know only that I came tothis country with an open mind. Trulyunaware that we were supposed to dislikeeach other—black and white, Jewand gentile, working class and affluent,as a sad result of my experiences my innocencehas been lost.I want to believe that the children Ihave loved will always remember me asfondly as I remember them. I hope theynever succumb to the prejudice aroundthem, learning to see me as only anothernanny in a long line of caretakers. I hopeI have left my mark on them, just as theyhave on me. In the end, it has been theirinnocence that has kept me from embracinghate. •On Monday my mother washed.It was the way of the world,all those lines of sheets flappingin the narrow yards of theneighborhood,the pulleys stretching out secondand third floor windows.Down in the dank steamy basement,wash tubs vast and grey, the wringersliding between the washerand each tub. At least everyyear she and I caughta hand in it.Tuesday my mother ironed.One iron was the mangle.She sat at it feeding in towels,sheets, pillow cases.The hand ironing beganwith my father's underwear.She ironed his shorts.She ironed his socks.She ironed his undershirts.Then came the shirts,a half hour to each, the starchboiling on the stove.I forget blueing. I forgetthe props that held up the lineclattering down. I forgetchasing the pigeons that shaton her billowing housedresses.I forget clothespins in the teeth.Tuesday my mother ironed myfather's underwear. Wednesdayshe mended, darned socks ona wooden egg. Shined shoes.Thursday she scrubbed floors.Put down newspapers to keepthem clean. Friday shevacuumed, dusted, polished,scraped, waxed, pummeled.How did you become a feministinterviewers always askas if to say, when did thisrare virus attack your brain?It could have been Saturdaywhen she washed the windows,Thursday when she burnedthe trash, bought grocerieshauling the heavy bags home.It could have been any dayshe did again and again whattime and dust obliteratedat once until stroke brokeher open. I think it was Tuesdaywhen she ironed my father's shorts.MARGE PIERCY is the author of 13 novels and 12 collections of poetry. What AreBig Girls Made Of? is her most recent work.© 1996 Marge PiercySpring 1997 • ON THE ISSUES 11