Cinderella Who?
The girl child and I went to see an opera tonight that was offered through her third grade cultural outreach program. Cendrillon, known to you and me as Cinderella. Stepsisters, shoes, fairy godmother, prince, happy ending. A two and a half hour opera in French.
Not to be confused with the two and half hour Rodgers and Hammerstein Cinderella musical. Or Prokofiev’s ballet.
Or the dozens of multi-cultural variations my kids have brought home from school libraries over the years…Korean, Chinese, Russian, French, English…all some version of the very sweet girl who cleans the house while letting every person in her life run all over her.
What is it with this chick? What deep, jungian human bell does she ring, that she should get so much attention? I hear Abe Lincoln was a pretty effective human. I’ve never seen his ballet. So what irreplaceable archetype does she represent?
My abiding thought while watching the opera was “She’s clearly agoraphobic. Fearful. Would rather be mistress of a small hearth than a big world.” Remember the song “In my own little corner I can be whatever I want to be?” Sometimes staying home and not having to impress anyone is a very comfortable thing. It’s worth a little abuse from the steps because hey, sooner or later they leave and it’s all yours. Every mouse, every bird.
She’s always so sweet and forgiving, though. Talk about turning the other cheek. Is she some kind of Mary, Mother of Jesus figure? She does wear a lot of blue…but that would make the prince her reward in heaven and the shoe a metaphor for …faith? Too weird. Let’s back up.
There is something about her that gets to me, though. Maybe it’s just because the story is told to us when we’re impressionable young girls and repeated so often that we want it to be a parable for our lives. But the point would be?
Perhaps something about the beauty of martyrdom. A guide to seeing the tedium of every day as a life choice that has meaning.
Think that’s nuts? How many times have you had to do the really awful job around the house? Not the dishes. Not the garbage. I’m talking about that middle of the night moment when my sick child has just vomited all over three layers of bedclothes and the carpet and my husband looks at me with that oh-so-male combination of “But I’m the dad –You know I’ll throw up if I have to do it – I’m too sleepy.” Instead of killing him (as he deserves) I summon my inner Cinderella and think, “Well, I don’t have a choice so I might as well be cheerful.” I manage some comforting words for the small as I get her to a warm shower and a little hummy tune for myself as I scrape you know what into a plastic bag and rinse out the sheets. And surprisingly, instead of feeling put-upon, I feel…strong. Certain. Like I know I’m doing the right thing for my child, for my family. Doing what needs to be done in the darkest hour when no one else will do it. Simply because it must be done. Is that love? Duty?
I know there’s no prince waiting. (He’s already fallen back to sleep.) No fairy godmother sees what I do and rewards me for it. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s just life. Motherhood. But curiously, doing my duty as a mom every day builds up a steady, constant kind of strength. It doesn’t come easily, and it doesn’t come fast. And it doesn’t come to silly dreamers like the stepsisters. Or users like the stepmother. Hm. Maybe Cinderella knows something they don’t.
Not to be confused with the two and half hour Rodgers and Hammerstein Cinderella musical. Or Prokofiev’s ballet.
Or the dozens of multi-cultural variations my kids have brought home from school libraries over the years…Korean, Chinese, Russian, French, English…all some version of the very sweet girl who cleans the house while letting every person in her life run all over her.
What is it with this chick? What deep, jungian human bell does she ring, that she should get so much attention? I hear Abe Lincoln was a pretty effective human. I’ve never seen his ballet. So what irreplaceable archetype does she represent?
My abiding thought while watching the opera was “She’s clearly agoraphobic. Fearful. Would rather be mistress of a small hearth than a big world.” Remember the song “In my own little corner I can be whatever I want to be?” Sometimes staying home and not having to impress anyone is a very comfortable thing. It’s worth a little abuse from the steps because hey, sooner or later they leave and it’s all yours. Every mouse, every bird.
She’s always so sweet and forgiving, though. Talk about turning the other cheek. Is she some kind of Mary, Mother of Jesus figure? She does wear a lot of blue…but that would make the prince her reward in heaven and the shoe a metaphor for …faith? Too weird. Let’s back up.
There is something about her that gets to me, though. Maybe it’s just because the story is told to us when we’re impressionable young girls and repeated so often that we want it to be a parable for our lives. But the point would be?
Perhaps something about the beauty of martyrdom. A guide to seeing the tedium of every day as a life choice that has meaning.
Think that’s nuts? How many times have you had to do the really awful job around the house? Not the dishes. Not the garbage. I’m talking about that middle of the night moment when my sick child has just vomited all over three layers of bedclothes and the carpet and my husband looks at me with that oh-so-male combination of “But I’m the dad –You know I’ll throw up if I have to do it – I’m too sleepy.” Instead of killing him (as he deserves) I summon my inner Cinderella and think, “Well, I don’t have a choice so I might as well be cheerful.” I manage some comforting words for the small as I get her to a warm shower and a little hummy tune for myself as I scrape you know what into a plastic bag and rinse out the sheets. And surprisingly, instead of feeling put-upon, I feel…strong. Certain. Like I know I’m doing the right thing for my child, for my family. Doing what needs to be done in the darkest hour when no one else will do it. Simply because it must be done. Is that love? Duty?
I know there’s no prince waiting. (He’s already fallen back to sleep.) No fairy godmother sees what I do and rewards me for it. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s just life. Motherhood. But curiously, doing my duty as a mom every day builds up a steady, constant kind of strength. It doesn’t come easily, and it doesn’t come fast. And it doesn’t come to silly dreamers like the stepsisters. Or users like the stepmother. Hm. Maybe Cinderella knows something they don’t.
posted by Whoopla at
8:11 AM
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