Do something.
About a month ago the New York Times put out an article entitled, “Motherhood Should Come With a Warning Label.” I figured such an inflammatory headline and its accompanying video would “blow up” online. I waited to nod along with the comments and add my two cents to the discourse. But it didn’t blow up. I hardly heard a peep about it. Now the main article is behind a pay wall and I’ve yet to see much additional commentary…not even from the equity-centered organizations I often look to for such discussions.
Research has shown that 15 years after graduating college, mothers earn 11 percent less than women without children–and a staggering 42 percent less than fathers. This is what the article calls “the motherhood penalty.”
This term feels harsh to me somehow. Like if I identify with being penalized for being a mother then I’m not grateful to know and love my own child. This couldn’t be further from the truth. What this term does is apply context and statistical validation for the grief I’ve felt as a parent artist. Rage and grief have kept my creative fires burning through these early years of parenting. That and tenderness for the mother I had hoped I would be and for the career paths that dead-ended.
I know what it’s like to have my motherhood treated as a non-starter for artistic collaborations.
“Congratulations on the baby! He’s adorable. I guess we’ll see you in about…5 years?”
I know what it’s like to be spoken over and have my motherhood regarded as a roadblock for project management.
(Interrupting a conversation with a board member to say,)
“Oh, we’ve decided to table that for the moment. She just has a lot on her plate right now…”
And I know what it’s like to have years of dedication and career futures wiped away by the disregard for my abilities, “because she has that baby.”
I believe I would have been a different mother had I been able to raise my child in community and in closer relationship with my creative practice. During the pandemic my administrative job (working for a theatre nonprofit where I was also an artist) shifted without my consultation or consent. I took the position having discussed at length its trajectory from part- to full-time, its primary purpose in transitioning current leadership into retirement, as well as the eventuality of stepping into a leadership position myself. When COVID fast-tracked the process I was cut out of the equation and only informed after decisions had been finalized. Recognizing that my position was being downgraded to more of an office assistant, I worked out the remainder of my contract and took my leave.
I left because it felt like the only thing I had the agency to do. It was only after that I learned my son’s age had been the reason for the unexpected changes. “Losing my job” cost me more than an income. I lost access to the metaphorical and literal place where I felt so sure that I belonged. My creative community was how I cultivated meaning and purpose in my life. In the 5 years since I’ve struggled to find consistent work in my field. And I’ve yet to find the sort of belonging that I once knew. Despite my own efforts to increase accessibility in the arts I’m still struggling to make opportunities for myself.
As of this week I am once again swimming through the job pool. Cuts to NEA funding, downsizing in the arts, and the gutting of the federal Department of Ed. have only further complicated my search. Options “in the field,” even for those of us with accomplished resumes, are limited. More limited still are the opportunities for so many groups of people to see themselves reflected in the art that is actually being produced. This is what brings me to my purpose.
Grief and rage are surprisingly productive. As I’ve said, they are in part what has kept the flames lit all these years. Maybe it’s because I’m starting through The Artist’s Way for a second time. Or maybe it’s because of one or two other theatre-related articles that have caught my eye lately. Whatever the catalyst, I have found what I believe will be the antidote to my grief, the thing that will transform my rage into change.
It’s action.
The fullness of this action has yet to reveal itself. Through continued practice and with time, I believe it will come to be. For now, it’s time to give up some of those ghosts of Career Paths Past…
And I’ll keep the creative fire burning low for just a little longer.
Artwork was gifted by a former early childhood student. Much love to E.V. & her tender heart.