My Unsentimental Education Read online

  PRAISE FOR DEBRA MONROE

  “Fine and funky, marbled with warmth and romantic confusion, but not a hint of sentimentality.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Rangy, thoughtful, ambitious, and widely, wildly knowledgeable.”

  —Washington Post

  “Her characters, like her prose, have hard edges. They also have big hearts, dark humor, and purely unique ways of opening themselves up for our inspection. This book makes you want to take the author out for a drink and tell her your troubles.”

  —ANTONYA NELSON

  “If this book were a country song, Lucinda Williams would sing it.”

  —Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Prose that shimmers like a jazz solo.”

  —JONIS AGEE

  “Her intelligence tilts the world and offers her every encounter an almost hysterical spin. In a [book] laden with trenchant notes on our new world, Debra Monroe offers us a lively quest— a woman caught between the romantic and the semantic evaluates all the fangled possibilities for human connection.”

  —RON CARLSON

  “Intelligent . . . deliciously wacky.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  My Unsentimental Education

  John Griswold, series editor

  SERIES ADVISORY BOARD

  Dan Gunn

  Pam Houston

  Phillip Lopate

  Dinty W. Moore

  Lia Purpura

  Patricia Smith

  Ned Stuckey-French

  Also by Debra Monroe

  FICTION

  The Source of Trouble

  A Wild, Cold State

  Newfangled

  Shambles

  NONFICTION

  On the Outskirts of Normal

  My Unsentimental Education

  Debra Monroe

  © 2015 by the University of Georgia Press

  Athens, Georgia 30602

  www.ugapress.org

  All rights reserved

  Designed by Kaelin Chappell Broaddus

  Set in by 11/14 Filosofia Regular

  Printed and bound by Thomson-Shore, Inc.

  The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

  Most University of Georgia Press titles are available from popular e-book vendors.

  Printed in the United States of America

  19 18 17 16 15 c 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Monroe, Debra.

  My unsentimental education / Debra Monroe.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-8203-4874-2 (hardcover : alkaline paper) —ISBN 978-0-8203-4873-5 (ebook)

  1. Monroe, Debra. 2. Authors, American—20th century—Biography. 3. Women authors, American—20th century—Biography. 4. Working class women—United States—Biography. 5. Single mothers—United States— Biography. 6. Monroe, Debra—Relations with men. 7. Man-woman relationships—United States. 8. Sex role—United States. 9. Working class families—Wisconsin—Spooner. 10. Spooner (Wis.)—Biography. I. Title.

  PS3563.O5273Z46 2015

  813’.54—dc23

  [B]

  2015005541

  British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too.

  —ANNIE DILLARD

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  History and Practical Math

  Regional Trades

  On the Down-Low

  Drinks Are on the House

  Intermission

  In the Event of an Apocalypse

  Serfs and Landlords

  Depredating Deer

  A Dress Rehearsal

  Epilogue

  My Unsentimental Education

  Near the turn of the century, the recent turn, fragrant jasmine wafted and crowds of students milled. I sat on a bench near a bronzed statue of a young Lyndon B. Johnson carrying textbooks, his necktie flapping rigid as he strides toward his future. He’s the university’s most famous graduate, also known to have said, perhaps apocryphally: “If it wasn’t for public education I’d still be looking at the ass end of a mule.” If it weren’t for public education, I thought, I’d be a small-town waitress, divorced with grown children by now, haughty with boredom. But I was forty-something, a professor with a baby daughter, and Miranda, a student I was about to teach, sat down next to me and told me that the new day, the new season, springtime, inspired her. Apropos of not much else, she said, “I’m glad to have such a modern role model. And I always admire your shoes too.” I glanced at her sideways.

  I didn’t feel like a modern role model.

  The faces of previous students—Jennifer, Alyssa, Melissa, Kim, Samantha, Anne, Whitney—reeled past. They’d initiated parallel conversations. In my office, with books and papers stacked askew. Or, if spring had arrived, outside, like this—sap rising, dull roots stirring (lilacs, desire), students passing in pairs. In one version, the conversation implied I’d made an appealing life blueprint and followed through. In another version, I’d sacrificed womanly longing for Great Literature. Neither account is true, Gentle Reader. But I never said so. Pretending life has progressed according to plan is part of anyone’s job. And once, when I was just two years older than a student named Lucy—I still remember her anxious, square-jawed face, how she’d sublimated all her worries into a master’s thesis about Victorian heroines too bluestocking to marry—I’d even pretended at home.

  Lucy’s parents didn’t trust her judgment, she’d explained, so they’d asked to meet me. I wasn’t the first woman in what used to be a mostly male profession; I was part of that first mass wave of women entering it. Some of us used to correct our well-meaning elder colleagues who called us my dear and praised our hairdos, not our work. I didn’t, though, having clocked in for years at jobs where correcting your superior got you fired.

  Lucy’s parents stopped by my house, which Lucy’s mother reflexively praised—a rental house filled with eccentric used furniture. Lucy’s father shook my hand. “Ah then,” he said, “you’ve answered my question already. You’re wearing a wedding ring.” I nodded. At the time, I was at the tail-end of a grim starter marriage: my second. My husband would have been at work. Or so he’d say. Sometimes he was. Planning how to extricate myself, how to divorce with the least fallout, was currently taking up more mental room than the book I needed to write to keep my brand-new good job. But I didn’t volunteer that to Lucy’s parents. Publish or perish, I thought, pouring iced tea into tall glasses.

  You publish and die anyway, hopefully later.

  “Married and a lady professor too,” Lucy’s father said, smiling.

  I smiled back. This was just one version of myself: temporary.

  I’d already been so many.

  I moved away and got divorced. And now Miranda, who’d grown up ten years later than Lucy, ten more years of seeing women in white-collar jobs, sat beside me. Her aunt had a career, she said. “And she always has an exciting new boyfriend too,” she added.

  This aunt must live in a city, I thought. Or this was the public account of her private life. Or I was projecting. I wanted a man who’d match my old self, my new self, all my selves.

  So far I’d met Either and Or.

  Either. The night before, I’d gotten back into bed with a moody jack-of-many-trades I’d dated erratically for years—breakups, makeups, seeing him lately after dark as my daughter slept in another room, the baby monitor on my nightstand blinking green, serene, a can’t-last-much-longer arrangement, true. But I couldn’t change where I lived, half-rural, half-highbrow. The
night before he’d said he felt objectified. He hadn’t even known what the word meant when I’d met him, but he heard one of my friends say it and asked me to explain. I had, citing the standard complaint about Playboy—not that it’s sexually candid, but that its depictions of women don’t seem real. Maybe objectification is a woman-to-man problem, I thought. Because my first impulse had been to tell him that we would discuss feelings later, but go ahead and objectify me quickly because the baby might wake, and I had to get up early, my Monday morning to-do list long. But I didn’t. I lay there, silent. He got dressed and drove away, his headlights angling into the dark.

  “Where does your aunt live?” I asked Miranda.

  “San Francisco,” she said.

  Or, for example. Before I was a mother, I’d ignored the impracticality, the costly phone bills, and I had a boyfriend I’d met at a professional conference. We visited each other when we could. Mostly we gave good letter. I know the appeal of a sentence bent to please its reader, a glimmer of emotion solidifying to a point. I sent my own letters back.

  The fact that he loved me astonished him, he wrote once. Prone to genteel locutions, he said my letters arriving in his mail slot caused his heart to quicken. My heart acted odd too, but I thought it was jitters. He lived in a faraway city. He had a girlfriend already. Instinctively monogamous if a bit hit-and-run, I wasn’t good at being the Other Woman. I’d been raised with stark ideas about purpose: a woman who surrenders all to others, good; a woman who wants (covets), bad. Though I’d been taught to think more subtly since, first impressions last. Yet I hadn’t let go because he was the only man I’d wanted to sleep with who could discuss John Donne, the history of the English language, Aristotle, The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca. Our brains matched. Our bodies did. Remorse mixed with desire. The letters amassed. My heart thudded.

  Once, in an especially well-crafted paragraph, he said he’d dreamed a man in bib overalls stood next to me on the other side of a river, urging him to stop stalling already and cross over. Annoyed, I’d wondered: Why is a farmer my matchmaker in this dream? Because I kept a tidy house and sewed well? Because a hound dog slept on my porch? Because I’d lived in provincial towns and cities all over? My long-distance lover took the dream-advice seriously. In a real city, he moved out of the upscale home he owned with his girlfriend.

  I started planning what to do and say.

  His letters arrived two and three per day now: a tumble of script an imprecise substitute for a man, I noticed. Then they stopped. I felt scared. Tricked. I broke out in hives as I graded papers and listened to records. Someone to watch over me. Whether or not you have this, whether you feel lonely as the clock creeps toward midnight, is a personal problem, I decided. Work is necessity. Love is for evenings and weekends. He called ten days later. He’d never found a moment during one of our trysts, or during one of his letters either, to tell me he was epileptic. He’d had a grand mal seizure due to the stress of contemplating a new life, and the seizure was real, he said, not the cockamamie dream.

  Before either of these men, there’d been more. Scads.

  One night a friend from graduate school had called, worried her number was too high.

  “Number?” I’d asked.

  “Sex number,” she said.

  “People count that now?” I said. “Isn’t it also how many people you’ve loved?”

  “Loved?” she said.

  “Until you change your mind,” I’d added, confused. “Until it doesn’t pan out.”

  Sitting next to Miranda, I felt the urge toward truth this time. Because the world churns out aphorisms about school days, golden rule days, school the investment that always pays. But for me—improbably educated yet addicted early to books, convinced that what I’d read and remember would be honey in the larder for tedious years ahead— school had been a time of growing into one life and then another, another, changing social backdrops, lovers, husbands, each time hoping my new life would be the last revision. Men I’d gone to school with had heard women were their equals. I’d heard this too. But it was recent news then. We’d all been raised in homes where women weren’t. I usually dated down anyway, because dating up was work. Work was work, pretending to be who I wasn’t yet, pretending to be self-assured and expert by day. So at night and on weekends, I’d wanted to stop pretending. I chose men as if I’d never left home.

  Tamping down a too-personal inflection in my voice, I told Miranda I couldn’t imagine myself without my job—my “vocation,” I said, using my work-day dialect. But, I said, I understood that having pursued it meant I’d bypassed turn-offs to other lives. Scraps of antiquated prose were free-floating around my brain. The angel in the house. Facilitating the family dialectic. I said this out loud: “I wanted to be the angel in the house.”

  Miranda frowned. “Angel? Is that a New Age idea?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s an old idea.” I explained that Harriet Beecher Stowe, who wrote for magazines and newspapers, not just the little novel that started the big war, had argued that a wife and mother did civilization’s essential moral work. I’d read Harriet Beecher Stowe in a class where the professor had emphasized that this accommodationist argument had helped set back women’s rights. I secretly admired it. I knew its logic by heart. It was a flattering way to describe the only options I’d once had. But times change. I’d changed, improvising. I’d made my piecemeal life, ragged stiches between phases.

  Miranda said, “But anyone can be a wife and mother.”

  I turned to Miranda suddenly. “Look, it was all a Plan B, C, and D.” I described my job interview here, two days of campus meetings with committees, the dean, the provost, the president, a last appointment with the hiring committee chair, who’d described the job’s details, a chair who was a woman, rare enough then. She’d said, “I confess I’m envious of you young women coming straight through with your PhDs. I waited for my husband to finish his degree, next for my children to go to school. Then I got my degree and put together a career as best as I could.” Disarmed by this unvarnished moment during three days of official posing and hand shaking, by the distinct flicker of regret—she was in the midst of a divorce, I’d heard—I blurted, “Are you kidding me? I had dozens of failed relationships. At a certain point, I realized it would inconvenience no one if I got a PhD.”

  The hiring committee chair had glanced away, embarrassed.

  Miranda was smiling. “So your career happened instead?”

  “Yes,” I said, “by accident.”

  History and Practical Math

  On my mother’s side, my grandmother was a teacher, the undisputed sovereign of a one-room school. Then she married a man she met at the fair. At their fiftieth wedding anniversary party—when I was twenty and thought I knew everything, or more than my over-the-hill relatives celebrating days of yore, not progress—I saw a photo of my grandfather, wearing spats, pants too wide to be respectable, standing next to a roadster, and nearby a woman who isn’t my grandmother wears one of those fur coats with dead animal heads dangling, and she sits on a road sign shaped like an arrow, her rump covering its letters. My uncle, who’d assembled the slide show, had included this photo. I glanced at him. Defiant, he was staking a claim for men’s right to roam. Or he was still mad at his father.

  I studied the photo, the vamp draped over the arrow. “Who is she?” I asked. One aunt giggled. My mother said, “Shush.” My grandfather threw back his head and laughed. My grandmother—her hair lavish, intricate, shellacked as a crown—looked aloof, this long-ago affront irrelevant because of fifty years of prodigious regeneration, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. My grandfather used to leave every fall to sell the harvest, I knew. He was supposed to return with cash and shoes for the children. But, having gambled, he’d return with no money, just someone’s silverware or, once, a Shetland pony he’d packed into the Chevy’s backseat. My mother had told me that my grandmother, gardening, canning, cooking, sewing for six children, would sigh and go ins
ide.

  After the slide show, everyone left for spare bedrooms in scattered farmhouses belonging to relatives. My mother and her siblings were tipsy, so I drove. One aunt asked my mother why my dad hadn’t come. My mother didn’t answer. My aunt said, “Why didn’t he?” My mother let go: “Because he couldn’t make the effort. Are you happy?”

  My mother and father had argued.

  She hadn’t told her siblings because everyone bowed down before the finality of marriage, and she thought my dad would too, in time. Marriage suffers insult, then self-repairs.

  My aunt said, “You should have set aside squabbles for one day.” We were at a stop sign, and my mother flung open the door and ran in heels and a DuPont faux-silk dress into moonlit fields. I stopped the car and ran after her. Sobbing, she fell into my arms.

  I’d assumed that only young people have sex and therefore only young people feel tragically rejected. Yet here was my mother, tragically rejected. My heart hardened. I didn’t want to be her. I didn’t want to be my grandmother, who’d married a man who wasn’t her equal in terms of ambition because ambition had added up to zilch without a man.

  Both of my grandmothers lived in North Dakota. The other was famous for her cooking—homemade sausage, kuchen, calf’s liver in sour cream—but also for having schizophrenia, though no one called it that yet. She gave birth to her first son in a sod house, and later to my father and another son in a wood house. She ran away when she got the chance, rebelling.

  Or crazy. Strangers brought her home. Someone used to lock someone else in the corncrib—an airy, aromatic prison, I used to think, with its weathered, silvery slats and golden litter of corn. Either the sons got locked up when my grandmother didn’t feel well, or my grandfather locked her up until the cows got milked, the hay baled. She might hit a son with a skillet, or she’d stop cooking, and the sons would have to walk to town in a blizzard to charge food at the general store. My mother, sister, brother, and I doubted a few of these facts. Some of them must be true. But my dad exaggerated, we knew. All those years without good mother love had made him need extra attention now.