IN THE MARKET FOR DARKNESS

goth mom parenting

me on the inside // my ideal self (Rodarte Fall 2023)

Last night Pete Buttigieg began his DNC speech with a discussion of the strangeness of his position as recognizable from Fox News. In explanation, he gracefully wound in a religious tenet: that in his belief system, the world isn’t made up of good people and bad people, but rather that each of us is capable of good and bad things. In other words, the wolf you feed. Ah, I thought, that is Olive’s religion too. Harry Potter. I’m referring to the moment when Harry approaches his mentor, Serious Black, at headquarters and confides in him that he is angry all the time (um, is this not puberty?!), and that he is worried he might turn into the worst version of himself. He suspects that he might be as evil as the dark lord, Voldemort, and worries that he will not know the boundary between good and bad when it comes right down to it. 

Sirius Black responds much like Pete Buttigieg, saying that he has faith in Harry that he will summon the best of himself to step into his own destiny. It’s a strange ask from the Democratic Party, but I like it. I’m excited to watch Kamala Harris tonight, gathered around a computer, sustaining hope and action from now until November, when I will experience either crushing sadness or exalted euphoria, the outer manifestations of my own deep inner wolves.

I’ve long wanted to boot Harry Potter from my life, and not just because J.K. Rowling is 100% cancelable, but also because of its message about there being magical people and non-magical people and being born with those traits. This moment in the fourth book is a messy contribution to the other strange messages about identity in the story: whether one is a muggle or a wizard or some mix of them both, and also, more recently controvetial in my household, the sorting hat assignments. One of Olive’s favorite jokes is when I make my hand the hat and place it conspiratorially on her head and pause before announcing with full resolve: Gryffindor! So it was surprising when she asked me, in a moment of quiet, what house I would put myself in if I were to be the judge of myself.

It depends on the day, I said, backing out of the answer. Frankly, I just didn’t want to say that my heart is in Slytherin. I think it is for a deeply feminist reason that between slut and virgin, I choose slut and what is more FIRE than a silver green snake flag waving in the wind. Gryffindor victoriousness isn’t for me, though perhaps I’ve just been talked out of it by THE PATRIARCHY.

Anyway, my non-answer answer did not sit well with Olive and she looked downright grumpy about it.

It’s hard to see oneself clearly, I said, trying again. What would you place me in?

Hufflepuff, she said, without a pause. And I’m in Ravenclaw. Me and dad are in Ravenclaw.

I WAS AGHAST. 

Hufflepuff?! Hufflepuff is the house of softy, people pleasers who are so kind that they are accepted everywhere because schools would rather have rule followers than troublemakers. Good god, I realized, Hufflepuff is the house of “mothers”!

Internally my mind skidded across the lost traits of my identity—wit, sarcasm, humor, darkness, spontaneity—traded in for the more gendered attributes associated with motherhood: loyalty, hard work, dedication, one list actually sites co-dependence. I could see her point and felt immediately betrayed by the role I had so readily shaped myself into.

And what of this alliance between her and her dad? This felt too big not to discuss.

Do you not see me as smart? I asked, knowing that the most prominent characteristics of Ravenclaw are learning, wisdom and intellect. The Ravenclaws are the most talented of the students in school, motivated and ready to succeed.

The words came out quickly and I do not know what I would have said if the answer had been no.

Yes, she said, also without hesitation, but dad teaches me things, like math.

TEACHES ME THINGS! I was looking at the product of my parenting choices right in the face.

For many years before I was a parent the idea of not knowing the answer to my child’s questions haunted me. The reality is not that bad: you usually just can say something like, I don’t know, that’s a good question, let’s go to the library. Every question can be an adventure and an opportunity to explore more deeply a topic of interest. But there was a truth to Olive’s statement. She had been asking me to TEACH HER THINGS, since she was four years old. Teach me things, she actually said, and when she said it I consciously thought that I wasn’t sure WHAT concrete things I had that I could teach. Certainly I knew a lot of things, just because I’m an adult, but what things were important and which of those things could I effectively break down into something teachable? Instead I drew over and over from the parenting books that encourage people to guide kids toward their own inner wisdom, with the idea that knowing oneself deeply is all there really is to know.

That night I took a different approach.

We were watching many hours of Olympics and I struck up the opportunity to give O a lesson on decimal points, which I was able to point out quickly and effectively enough are not exactly the same as fractions. It was a fast lesson, fashioned mostly on gymnastics and understanding how close the scores between gold, silver and bronze winning medalists actually were. I also threw in the matter of difficulty and how one part of the score impacted the maximum for the overall number. In one evening, decimal points were absorbed and I got to witness a first in my relationship with Olive: watching her eyes light up as she grasped a new idea that was intellectual in nature.