EJust reading about parenting can be exhausting. Compensatory joys such as the tenderness of a child’s hug, the excitement of the first step and the first words, and the unconditional depth of love do not actually appear on the page. However, the pain of parenting with repetitive work and seemingly relentless demands is much easier to convey.
In the case of 39-year-old Frida Riu, the intermittently sympathetic protagonist of Jesamine Chan’s debut novel. School for good mothers (Simon & Schuster), complicated by her personal and career struggles. Her marriage to Gusto, which she still loves, has burned out over his infidelity, and his departure has devastated her and left her competing for income. And Gusto (helped by his young, health-conscious girlfriend, Susanna) shares custody of their 18-month-old daughter, Harriet, but only with Frida’s toddler she’s exhausted. increase.
After too many nights of sleep deprivation, a busy telecommuting mother knows what she describes as a “very bad day.” Leaving Harriet secured to a device called the Exer Saucer, she runs out of coffee and files from the office. She doesn’t intend to stay long, but enjoys her rare freedoms, she’s hours away — and an unidentified neighbor reports her daughter’s howl to the authorities.
Welcome to Chan’s dystopian surveillance. “Privacy isn’t gone,” Frida’s helpless lawyer tells her. “They are watching over you.” The most horrifying thing in the society that Chan envisions is that it looks very close to our society. Frida and her intimate people live in the familiar Philadelphia neighborhood, identify the names of the city’s most popular restaurants, and make a fuss on their smartphones like everyone else. (Chan lives in Philadelphia with her husband and daughter, but grew up in Oak Park. Frida is from Evanston. The author, like her personality, is the daughter of a Chinese immigrant, with Brown. I have a degree from Colombia.)
In Chan’s fictional Philadelphia, perfect motherhood is not just an ideal backed by social norms. It’s a law, and it’s becoming more stringent. Fathers count, but are bound by less stringent standards. Race is also a problem, and cracks and anxieties are similar to ours. Social workers are looming as Dickensian horrors, afflicting their mothers rather than helping their motherless children.
After Frida’s failure, Harriet was placed with her father, and all rooms in Frida’s house were equipped with cameras that could observe her emotions and behavior 24 hours a day, except for the bathroom. There are court appearances, consent forms, and other evidence of judicial normality. But it doesn’t really appeal. “We’re going to fix you, Mr. Liu,” says the judge.Entered the terrifying realm of George Orwell 1984 And Margaret Atwood The handmaid story— Or in Texas today, the female body is controlled by the state and the justice of vigilantism is stipulated by law.
In Chan’s novel, things only get worse. Frida’s optimism about her destiny is naive. In order to restore her maternal rights, she must submit to the guidance of a new experimental school aimed at fixing her failure. This is not exactly a prison. It’s a transformed campus of a bankrupt liberal arts college. However, there are uniforms, curfew, required routines, and electric fences. If the mother does not go well, she will lose her child. And if they reveal the school’s secret, their name will be added to the Negligent Parent Registry.
At school, mothers are identified by crime — abandonment, neglect, physical abuse, and even complaining too much about their children on social media. One was sanctioned for “spoiling” his teenage son. This includes chopping food and helping with shaving.
These false mothers need to practice their parenting skills with robotic dolls. The robot doll’s internal camera evaluates all movements. “The doll records where the mother’s hands are placed and detects body tension, temperature and posture, frequency of eye contact, emotional quality and credibility,” Chan wrote. Filled with blue liquid and sometimes in need of repair, the doll is eerily lively, clear, volatile and can be learned.
Frida and the other mother march through a series of parenting units and compete with each other to win the coveted phone call. They raise dolls, engage in play and practice protecting them from danger. They advocate mantras such as “I’m a bad mother, but I’m learning good things.” This is an indoctrination with the echo of the Chinese Cultural Revolution. “Mothers are always patient. Mothers are always kind. Mothers are always giving,” the instructor preaches. The rules continue to change as the mother struggles to confirm.
Counselors and social workers assess the likelihood that a mother will get her child back. Without children, mothers become obsessed with dolls.
As expected, factions and hostility often develop along racial lines. So is the romance stimulated by contact with similar (though less severe) school men for fathers. Just as she misses her daughter, Frida, who is determined and imperfect, is hungry to get the attention of men. (In Chan’s world, sex is always a wildcard.) Frida can be reckless. This is a core characteristic that remains unchanged, regardless of the amount of social engineering she endures. And it makes the completely amazing ending of the book inevitable.
About the first third of Chan’s novel is as advertised. A fascinating page turn that engrosses the reader in vivid prose, twists, and the author’s fantastic despair. The situation gets worse and the threat is crescendo. But then the pace of the story slows down. The work that the mother has to undertake begins to look repetitive, and so is the harsh consequences of failure.
Over time, the harsh consequences of Frida’s case will almost certainly be seen. Is it really possible to escape from this dark mirror image of motherhood?
Mother’s Re-education in Jessamine Chan’s Debut Novel-Chicago Magazine
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