In Memory of Georgia Manguso

Posted on 06/25/2007 by Jane Devin

At thirteen, I was the babysitter for several families. The Adams family with their two affable boys, huge record collection, and never-ending snack supply were my favorites. Chuck Adams, the father, was something of a reformed hippie, mellow and easygoing, the kind of man I wished I had for a dad. In the spring of 1975, when Chuck told me he recommended me to be the full-time summer babysitter of his friend Georgia’s six children, I was filled with dread. The largest family I ever babysat for had three children, and six seemed like an impossible number. I didn’t want to disappoint Chuck and told him I’d think about it, but I was only buying time while looking for a gracious way to say no. Then Chuck took me to meet Georgia, and my objections evaporated.

Georgia was not a typically beautiful woman but I found the contrast between her hardened voice and fragile spirit fascinating. From the start, Georgia stirred me in ways I could not fully comprehend. I felt an overwhelming desire to help her, protect her, and smooth her path.

Georgia’s small three-bedroom house was just short of a disaster. Rooms were overrun with clothes, dishes and toys. The kitchen floor was sticky from half-washed spills and the countertops were invisible under piles of pots and plates. The bathroom was coated with soap scum and dried toothpaste. The patchy lawn was littered with bikes, Big Wheels, and hundreds of plastic soldiers.

The Manguso home was in disarray, but love was evident in the chaos. Children’s crayon drawings covered the refrigerator and spread out to the kitchen walls. Framed school and family photos filled the living room and Georgia’s bedroom.

Georgia’s sweet-tempered baby girl and five rambunctious boys were the light of her life. Her drawn-out divorce from the children’s father was, she told me, the end of years of physical and emotional abuse, and the start of a better life for her and the children, but also the start of a war. Her ex-husband, she said, was a wealthy contractor, remarried and living in Utah, and he threw his money into making Georgia’s post-marriage life miserable. He paid child support late or not at all, and he swore to continue fighting in the courts until he stripped Georgia of the thing she most valued – her motherhood. Perhaps it was this fight, or maybe all that preceded it, that lent Georgia her hard edges and vulnerable spirit.

Georgia was struggling, and working full-time, but she showered her children with affection. She seemed to be an easygoing, patient, and humorous mom. She was dating a man named Jerry, a kind man from all appearances, but she was not interested in remarrying any time in the near future. She wanted time to heal, to become her own woman, and to experience life on her own terms.

Georgia spoke to me as if I was an adult and a friend. Her voice was low and hoarse, and her laughter contagious. I was always apprehensive, especially around adults, but I swallowed my nervousness with Georgia. Our long car rides from my house to hers varied between solemnly tearful and joyfully riotous. When a particularly painful subject arose, Georgia would bite her lower lip and clench the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but they rarely overflowed. Eventually, Georgia would let out a long breath through pursed lips and then shake her head as if to cast off whatever sad thing we had discussed.

When the talk was happy, Georgia drove with one hand while the other gestured effusively, with or without a cigarette. Georgia was the first person I knew who could really make me bust open with laughter. Sometimes, unable to stop and howling in my seat long past the punchline, I worried that Georgia might think me simple-minded, but she would only smile and call me a goofball as she playfully pushed my shoulder or punched my arm.

I quickly fell in love with Georgia and her children. In my house, cleaning was the highest expression of care. A well-vacuumed or mopped floor could sway my mother into a smile on occasion, and cleaning was the one way I knew how to show my love for Georgia. It was a tangible expression, made all the better because Georgia’s time was stretched, her house was in desperate need, and I knew she’d appreciate the help.

I let the boys, ages three to eleven, in on my mission and made it a game for them to find the stray dishes and gather the jumbled toys. I bought candy treats and other small rewards, and invented contests in which there were no losers. The quickest, the most thorough, the ones who tried, and the ones who entertained the baby while the rest of us cleaned all got treats. Soon, the boys were coming up with exciting contest ideas of their own, and room by room Georgia’s house was became neater and more orderly. In between contests and meals, I read stories, played with the baby, and helped the boys build backyard forts.

Georgia was amazed at the transformation, and I loved to watch her expressions as she walked from room to room admiring the effort me and the boys put forth. She tried to give me extra money a few times, which made me uncomfortable because I had to argue against it, and I did not have the words or the confidence to fully say what was on my mind. I knew her cupboards were spare, her gas tank near empty, and her bills overdue. Georgia’s continued affection and happiness with my performance was far more important to me than an extra two or three dollars.

Near the end of July and my end as full-time babysitter, Georgia asked me if I thought I could babysit for a whole weekend. Jerry had invited her to someplace out of town, but she hesitated to be away from the children. She was afraid her ex-husband would find out and use the trip as ammunition against her. At the same time she was sorely in need of a break and a good time.

I urged Georgia to go, have fun, and not to worry about the kids or me. I assured her that we’d be fine. If her ex called, I would say she was shopping or working, and then I’d call her hotel so she could call him back. He would not find out from the children or me where she was. I would not tell anybody.

Georgia left on a Friday night, slowly, and only after much reassurance. And that weekend, the boys and I went on an all-out mission. We cleaned the windows, and hosed the outside of the house. I mowed the lawn and the boys raked. I washed all the bed sheets and blankets and dusted all the picture frames. When Georgia called to check on us, we told her we were just hanging out watching television, not doing anything special. On Sunday morning, we walked to the store and bought Calgon bath oil and a big Hershey candy bar. The boys wrapped the presents with comic strips and made signs welcoming their mother home.

When Georgia returned late Sunday afternoon to welcome signs, seven excited kids, presents, and a sparkling clean house, she was overcome to the point of tears. Oh my God, she kept saying, Oh my God, I can’t believe you kids did all of this. My spirit soared, and the boys were full of happy pride as they clamored to share their individual accomplishments.

After the presents were opened, Georgia went to her bedroom closet and retrieved a black and white checkered bag. She asked me if I enjoyed bowling. I said I’d never been, but thought it looked like fun. Georgia handed me the bag and laughed as my arm fell with the weight. “It’s my bowling ball,” she said. “I was a pretty good bowler in my day. I want you to have it so you’ll always have something to remember me by. I want you to go bowling one day real soon and have a good time.”

I was puzzled and pleased. A bowling ball seemed like such a strange gift, and Georgia’s comment about remembering her seemed out of place. Did she really not know, after a whole summer, that I would never forget her? Didn’t she know that I loved her, and the kids, and wanted to be part of their lives for a long time to come? I wondered in awkward silence, but at the same time I was thrilled. Georgia had given me a part of herself – an object engraved with her name – and one that had brought her happiness in the past.

I babysat for Georgia a few more times and then she quit calling. I asked Chuck if he had heard from Georgia lately, or if she said anything to him about my babysitting. I worried that she didn’t like me anymore. Maybe she really wasn’t happy that I’d cleaned, maybe she found it offensive. Maybe she thought I didn’t do a good job, maybe she found somebody better. Chuck didn’t have any information and I was too afraid to call Georgia on my own and take the risk of rejection.

In late August, I opened the morning newspaper and learned of Georgia’s suicide. Consumed with grief and depression, Georgia drove into the woods and shot herself. Her husband had recently won permanent custody of the children.

Georgia was judged on many levels, both in life and in death. Many people called her selfish, or blamed her for not trying hard enough, or fighting hard enough. Many people also said ”if only I knew.” But most of them did know that Georgia was struggling. She was very open about her feelings and her pain. And it may be that no one could have helped Georgia, but we will never know. In polite society, we simply do not pry into the affairs of others – we wait, instead, for them to come to us asking for a specific kind of help. Yet we know, really, that the most truly depressed or challenged people will not cry out, much less impose upon strangers and acquaintances with their problems.

Humans are imperfect, not always strong enough to handle life’s tragedies, and there are probably few among us who do not have their own “final straw” story.

We all know someone who is facing tremendous difficulty. Someone whose human mistakes or health or history has cost them dearly. Maybe it’s our neighbor, or one of our children’s friends, or the friend of a friend, or someone who sits at the desk next to ours. Maybe she’s the quiet type, hesitant to share the details of her home life, but whose eyes light up when she talks about her children. Maybe he’s the single young man without a family to lean on, who is struggling to find his place in the world.

Today, close to the anniversary of Georgia’s death, I want to encourage people to think about others in their life who may benefit from their help. Maybe an encouraging word is all you have to give, but please think about giving one. Lend an ear, be a friend, share some coffee and care. There are literally thousands of ways to give and all of them have meaning.

I bowled a 110 at Bryant Lanes tonight for you, Georgia. And that ball is still heavy.

Update 5/5/09: A little awhile ago, I was honored to receive an email from Georgia’s eldest son. Today, I spoke with the youngest, Georgia’s only daughter. Both found this article through Google. I am amazed and so thrilled to know that all six children are doing well. They had a tough childhood, and still deal with the consequences of their mom’s death, but all have built loving families of their own. I was especially amazed that Georgia’s daughter is so much like her — a beautiful, sensitive soul.

Ayn Rand & the Spirit of Rebellion

Posted on 06/19/2007 by Jane Devin

They sprawled in couches and chairs at the farthest corner of the Uptown coffee shop, their dyed black hair cut at odd angles or spiked with colored gel. Non-confomists, sharing the same style of clothes, chains, and tattoos. Smoking Camels or Camel Lights that they held between their middle knuckles rather than their fingertips.

I felt a connection with all of them, probably because the shadow of my own rebellion is never far behind me, but when I heard them arguing Objectivist philosophy versus human nature and social equality, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of affection.

Their conversation was heated and passionate. They may have shared youth and a style of discontent, but their philosophies were distinctly their own and ran the gamut from revisionist socialism to ultra-virtuous capitalism.

I was there once. Young, and searching for the perfect world order. I read Atlas Shrugged when I was fifteen — a novel that played a significant political and social role in my generation — and remember being amused when Objectivist author Ayn Rand said that she couldn’t think of a more appropriate symbol for a thinker than the burning tip of a cigarette. Rand apparently did not know the smokers that I did. My mother and her husband, who smoked reflexively, the teenagers who made idiotic sport of blowing smoke rings and yes, myself, distracted, having to brush ashes off the page or keyboard.

I suppose it’s the nature of metaphors to be expedient. Rand didn’t carry her thought through to include yellowed filters, heaping ashtrays, toxins, and littered streets. She gave all that unpleasantness up in favor of the burning tip. When I read that line, nearer the end of the book, it made me wonder about all the other things Rand might have given up to tell her story.

A Russian emigrant, Rand’s disgust and disdain for communism led to her becoming a wide-eyed and awed disciple of industry, with a particularly slavish devotion to the titans of American enterprise. Rand’s ideals were simplistic and austere, and her canvas reflected her values. The metal of industry, the green of money, the white marble of pedestals, the gray of smokestacks, the translucence of sweat, the bruise of passion, the black and white distance between the haves and the have-nots and the pure and the corrupt.

In Rand’s idealized world, “bad” would not be rewarded because the “good,” even if in the minority, would overcome and overpower all. True titans, given full control and value, would never be corrupt because (with the nature Rand imposes on them) they are so immaculate that purely dark motives never fuel their desires. Even when they are being punitive, these men are beacons of enlightenment.

Rand envisioned a safe and wholly rational world under the rule of such men, who would never purposely manipulate the economy to oppress a populace, or use their power to enslave a culture, or trade corrupt political favors for their own social gain. These men would not build slave ships, rape women, or lynch those in search of freedom. These titans would not bring children into the factories to work for a pittance. Being men of reason, they would not operate tyrannical or brutal sweat factories. They would not manufacture shoddy devices, rig elections, or advance prejudice through discriminatory hiring practices.

No, in Rand’s America, devoid of historical truths and lessons, true titans would disempower the “bad.” Corrupt enterprises, if they were built, would quickly go out of business for lack of interest or value. All the geniuses and their prodigies, and those who worshipped and faithfully served them, would rise to their rightful and sanctified places. No one else really need exist. If they did, they could only be ever-grateful and tireless laborers, street bums, or other lost souls.

I found it interesting that midway through her epic novel, Rand sends her handful of genius-heroes into sanctuary to “stop the engine of the world” after they have been treated poorly and victimized by a corrupt and irrational society. Atlas, representing the titans, was shrugging the weight of the world from his shoulders. And of course, the world suffers greatly when its strongest members disappear. The sanctuary though, a large valley in Colorado, becomes an industrialized and mutually worshipping paradise.

Two things about Rand’s sanctuary are particularly telling. First, the clear streams, tall pines, and majestic mountains of Colorado move Rand not at all – she writes excitedly about the environment only when nature is conquered by industrialization. Second, it seems Rand could not envision her heroes successfully reordering the chaos of a corrupt society while in the midst of it – she had to send them away.

Rand ends her novel with a plane ride – the heroes returning home – but never realizes the redemption or reclaiming of the world as a more rational place. There’s only a promise of society’s brighter and more rational future, which readers are supposed to trust because Rand has consistently clarified the brilliance of her heroes and showed us how, with logic, effort and desire, a trail could be blazed. Rand’s fictional sanctuary was a massive expanse of privately owned land, and the blazed trail was far removed from the chaos and constrictions of public domain. This detail seemed not to effect Rand’s vision of the larger, more encompassing future.

At fifteen, I was drawn to Rand’s ideals, but also skeptical. I was looking for answers, in search of mentors and guidance, and seeking pathways to adult success. The stark simplicity of Atlas Shrugged appealed to the part of me that craves logic and order. The penniless orphan that became hero John Galt catered to my hopefulness. Rand herself – an immigrant, a laborer, an avid learner, and then a successful writer – was an inspiration. I might not have read anything except one line of Rand’s work – when one of her characters states that he is never lonely when he is alone (from an early draft of The Fountainhead) – and felt an affinity for her thoughts.

I was relieved when Ms. Rand ushered a couple of artists and underlings into the Atlas world. Of course, they were incredible beings – titans of their craft or prodigal sons – but prior to their introduction, Rand left me wondering if such people would have any place in her industrial world.

Rand was a charismatic and inflexible promoter of capitalistic extremes. She chose her scenes carefully and seemed to have an answer, even if brusquely economical, for the most common questions. She hinted at the rough-edged and well-considered beneficence of her rulers, but didn’t elaborate how this would effect the common person, the broken person, or the larger social order. By focusing on the bright light of industrial genius and repelling mediocrity as its opposite, Rand evaded much that was human, elemental, and inevitable.

Still, at fifteen, excited and anxious to enter the adult world and make my own living, I was drawn to Rand’s heroes. I did not have the genius of a John Galt or Dagney Taggart, but I thought I might be a Jonathon – Dagney’s trusted assistant – or even a part of John Galt’s loyal crew. I rewired my solitary energy and went in search of connections – and heroes. Thirty years later, I know why Atlas Shrugged was so compelling, and also why Rand needed fiction to sustain her philosophical ideals.

Rand was a genius at complicating the simple credo of the American dream – which is the basis for her Objectivist philosophy – but she needed a simplicity that could only be offered by fiction in order to make any of it sound believable or possible. She had to push aside all of the political, social and human realities that defied her hardline approach, in order to create a black and white world where the virtuous and the villainous were clearly separate, and where virtue ultimately held all the power.

The bright young rebels at the coffee house will likely attempt conformity somewhere down the line. Their hair may go back to its genetic roots, their piercings and tattoos may be hidden, but each of them, I know, will carry the ideals of their favorite philosophies in their pockets. Each will approach adult life believing there is a safe harbor somewhere in their future, where abundant opportunities will exist for bright and eager people like them, who are differently minded, passionate, and idealistic.

I couldn’t imagine telling them otherwise, and I didn’t. Instead, I listened and found myself smiling on the inside. My generation is not theirs. Mine kept few promises and failed to live up to many ideals, but its days are now numbered. The world will belong to a new generation, hopefully one that’s full of youthful energy and new ideas, and one that won’t rely on fiction, no matter how compelling, when it’s their turn to build a better world.

The Unnecessary Humbling of a Genius

Posted on 06/16/2007 by Jane Devin

The callers were, for the most part, gleefully vicious. Egged on by a radio talk show host with a tendency to overplay the part of incredulous citizen, the callers ripped into the girl and her parents, citing everything from the moral decay of the world to irresponsible parents who raise children with no discipline and no sense of accountability.

The girl in question was a West Virginia high school student with a 4.5 grade point average. The issue was that the girl’s parents were suing her school over an “F” grade their child received for being one day late with a biology assignment.

On its face, it does seem like a rather frivolous suit. The girl was late with an assignment, received a poor grade, and should take responsibility for failing to complete the assignment on time. That was, at least, the general consensus of the callers who failed to hear or who didn’t want to hear the rest of the story.

The girl was on an academic field trip the day the assignment was due. Written school policy allowed that students on field trips could hand in any assignments that were due while they were gone upon their return.

However, when the girl received the “F” and the teacher would not bend, and the girl argued this point to the school, she was told that the policy was meant to apply to athletes – not to high school honor students engaged in off-campus study.

The teacher did not have to let the “F” stand. She might have used some common sense and realized that punishing one of the brightest students in school, for the “crime” of being on an academic field trip hardly constitutes an educational lesson.

Then again maybe education was not teacher Jane Schultz’s only goal. The leaf project for biology class did not go unlearned – the student did, after all, show proof of her work when she handed the project in. Schultz might have chosen to judge the girl’s work on its merits, but instead she chose to obliterate the girl’s work in total, determining not that it was below average or poorly done, but that being one day late constituted a total academic failure.

While society tends to put teachers on a pedestal, and rightly so in most instances, teachers are not infallible. They carry the same seeds of imperfection as the rest of us, and it is not out of the realm of possibility that teachers, too, can be jealous, spiteful, and unreasonable.

It is not improbable that some teachers and officials in the school system may misuse their power and authority in order to dress-down and humble a student they perceive as over-gifted or over-privileged.

As the callers to this radio show and others of its ilk so often illustrate, there is a tendency among some people to resent those who are more blessed than average, especially when they make waves, or fail to accept some responsibility others believe they should have, or who prove by their mistakes that they are, indeed human.

Was resentment and the desire to humble and humiliate a young genius at the root of the school’s decision? I am not certain, but there’s a lack of logic in the teacher’s action and the school’s reflexive support of the teacher that seems antithetical to the higher principles of education.

Those who claim that the lawsuit is frivolous have, I think, missed a crucial point. The lawsuit isn’t merely about one girl’s hurt feelings or diminished GPA, but about the school’s failure to extend its own written policy on school-supported absences to non-athletes. According to the principal, football players attending an away game should be allowed to be late with assignments, but students on academic field trips should not. That some have a knee-jerk reaction to a headline like “Girl Sues Over Failing Grade,” or fail to see the irony of a school supporting sports over education, does not invalidate the lawsuit’s merits.

I don’t know where the case stands today; the issue has disappeared from the news, but I am sure of one thing — the girl will find this experience repeated throughout her lifetime in one way or another. The same world that reveres talent often mocks and resents it, attempting to “bring it down a size” or “teach it a lesson.” That lesson is rarely educational, and not meant to be. Hopefully, the girl is as emotionally smart as she is academically, and will learn to filter out the undue resentments and the cruel and unnecessary lessons in humility.