Black Milk: On Writing, Motherhood, and the Harem Within

  That was the stage in her life when she desired to be many things at the same time, and excel equally in each. A mother, a housewife, a writer, a poet . . . She wanted everything to happen immediately and flawlessly. Perhaps she was also in love with her creations. She stubbornly retained the belief that she could be an ideal mother and an excellent poet: the perfect Poet-Mother. It was not an easy combination, especially in the climate of the 1950s, when everyone thought a woman had to make an either-or choice. She refused to choose.

  Nevertheless, her effort to become “superwoman” wore Sylvia Plath down. Before long she noticed that she was pushing herself too hard. When she made it to one place, she discovered she had skipped over another; when she fixed one thing, something else was falling apart. Slowly but surely, she realized she could not be perfect. That is why her poem “The Munich Mannequins” begins like this:“Perfection is terrible, / It cannot have children.”

  With the money she got from literary prizes or grants she would pay for a nanny. While writing her first and only novel, The Bell Jar, in an attempt to establish a deeper connection with her past and soul, she deliberately prodded the places of fear in herself—fear of sanity, of being like thousands of others; and fear of insanity, of being so fundamentally different there was no hope of mingling with society. She wrote in detail about mental breakdown, electroconvulsive therapy and the suffocating monotony of modern life: “To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world is the bad dream.” When the book was published in January 1963, readers were divided and Plath herself was deeply distressed by the tone of the reviews it received.

  As she ran out of steam, unable to meet the extremely high demands she had placed on herself, Plath decided that she would rather die than live in the way it had been prescribed for her by others. The creative person with unbridled passion that she was, she wanted everything or nothing at all. . . . She had tried suicide before, an overdose of sleeping pills at the age of twenty. Yet at the time she had wanted both to die at her own hands and to be rescued. This time she wanted only the former.

  It was a cold morning, February 11, 1963, one that reeked of tedium and induced a sense of isolation. After checking on her two children in their beds, and leaving milk and bread on their bedside table, she closed their door and sealed the cracks. She went into the kitchen, turned on the oven’s gas and took a dozen sleeping pills, swallowing them one by one. Then she stuck her head in the oven, and as the gas licked at her face, she fell into eternal sleep. She was only thirty years old.

  To this day, Plath’s legendary heritage is unsurpassed. In Turkey, I have met numerous female college students who admire her work so much they organize special reading nights on campuses for her. In America, there is a colorful, intriguing blog called “Playgroup with Sylvia Plath.” In Germany, I once talked to a Filipino woman who had named her daughter Ariel after her. In France, at an international women’s organization, I met a chic businesswoman who asked us all to “toast to Sylvia.”

  No other literary suicide has been talked and written about so much. No other woman writer, after her death, turned into such an icon beyond place and time.

  The Midnight Coup d’État

  One night toward the end of the summer, I hear voices in my sleep. A door opens and closes somewhere in the house, footsteps on the stairs, whispers in the dark. Thinking I’m having a nightmare, I toss and turn in bed. Then someone pokes me on the shoulder, shouting, “Hey, wake up!”

  I try to ignore the voice, hoping the moment will pass, as all moments tend to do, but there follows a second command, this time louder.

  “Get up! Wake up already!”

  I open my eyes and find Miss Ambitious Chekhovian literally right in front of my nose. She has climbed up my shoulder and crawled her way to my face, where she now stands on my chin, legs and arms akimbo. She is looking at me with a kind of triumph I find more puzzling than disturbing in my present state. Her makeup is perfect, her bun of hair is tight, as always. Even at this hour she looks prim and proper. It takes me an extra second to notice she is wearing a military uniform with a badge of rank on her shoulders. Before I get a chance to ask her why on earth she has dressed up like that, she speaks in a tone I can barely recognize.

  “There is a matter of great importance. You better get up!”

  “Well, can’t it wait till morning?” I grumble. “I was sleeping, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “No, it cannot possibly wait,” she says. “The best time for a military takeover is the wee hours of the night, when everyone is asleep and resistance is slim.”

  I sit up in bed and stare at her, stunned, like an animal caught in the headlights. “What did you say?”

  To my dazed expression she responds with a glacial look. In all these years we have known each other, I have never seen her like this before.

  “As of this moment we have declared a coup d’état,” she says. “The regime in this house has changed.”

  What on earth is she talking about? My hair standing on end, anxiety bubbling up in my throat, I try to make sense of the situation.

  “In two minutes we expect you in the living room. Don’t be late, the committee won’t like that,” says Miss Ambitious Chekhovian, and leaves.

  Still groggy from sleep, I put on a shawl, wash my face and go downstairs. A surprising scene awaits me when I step into the living room. The members of the Choir of Discordant Voices are there, all of them frowning. The tension in the room is so thick, I can almost touch it. In the corner the CD player is blasting the kind of songs I have never heard under this roof. They sound disquietingly aggressive, like anthems of a country that has waged war on all its neighbors and all the neighbors of its neighbors.

  I see Miss Highbrowed Cynic first. She is sitting inside the fruit bowl on the table, dangling her legs as she puffs away on her cigarette. I don’t usually allow the finger-women to smoke indoors, but something tells me this is not the right moment to remind her. There is an unusual flicker in her gaze, an odd furtiveness, which I can’t quite put my finger on. She is wearing a military-style jacket over her hippie dress, a wacky combination that makes me dizzy.

  Behind her, leaning against a tissue box, is Little Miss Practical, wearing a parka, black, bulky boots and commando-style trousers with a matching green hooded top. Her arms crossed over her chest, her brows furrowed, she sighs loudly. For some reason unbeknownst to me, she is staring at the wall, clearly avoiding any eye contact.

  Next to the potted petunia under the window, her knees drawn up to her chest, sits Dame Dervish. A clump of her reddish hair has escaped from her turban, and is casting a shadow on her face. Upon closer inspection, I notice she is chained to the radiator with handcuffs.

  “What is going on here?” I ask, a trace of panic creeping into my voice.

  “Tonight, while you were sleeping, we had an emergency meeting,” says Miss Ambitious Chekhovian. “We reached the conclusion that it was high time for a shift in the regime. From this moment onward, I have changed my name to Milady Ambitious Chekhovian and I have taken charge of the Choir of Discordant Voices.”

  Suddenly Miss Highbrowed Cynic coughs.

  “I beg your pardon, we have taken charge,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. “That means, Miss Highbrowed Cynic and I. Together, we have performed a coup d’état.”

  This has got to be a joke, but all the finger-women look so serious and intense that it’s better not to laugh.

  “As the chairwoman of the executive committee,” Miss Highbrowed Cynic joins in, “I am pleased to announce that we will soon introduce a new constitution that, for the next thirty-five years, will make it impossible to overthrow us. After that, our children will start to reign.”

  “Hey, that is a far cry from democracy,” I object.

  But Miss Highbrowed Cynic pretends not to hear. She is extremely agitated tonight and tries to conceal it, which makes her anxiousness even more pronounced, causing her to look as if she were hig
h on amphetamines. “I am proud to announce,” she says, “that as the new government our first act has been to consolidate peace and order in the house.”

  “I don’t see any change,” I say under my breath.

  “Now that peace and order have been consolidated,” continues Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, “our second act will be to send you away from this city.”

  “What . . . Why . . . Where am I going?” I ask, dumbfounded.

  “To America,” roars Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, enjoying her newfound power. “We are going to the New World, all of us.”

  “Okay, girls, that’s enough,” I say. “I am not going anywhere until you explain to me—in clear and proper terms—why you want me to go to America.”

  They go quiet for a moment, as if they were not expecting this reaction. Do they really believe they are army generals and cannot be questioned?

  “This is not about America, it is about you. It could well have been anyplace, like Australia or Japan,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. “What matters is that you need to leave Istanbul at once.”

  Miss Highbrowed Cynic smacks her lips approvingly. “We are going to America because it just so happens that we applied for a fellowship in your name. Congratulations! You have won. Now get packed!”

  I feel a lurch in my stomach, only now realizing how serious they are.

  “We have decided that you should take this trip in order to grow as a writer,” Miss Highbrowed Cynic adds. “It will be inspiring for you to get away for a while. We are doing this for your own good.”

  “For my own good,” I repeat.

  If she heard the scorn in my voice, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. “I will be honest with you,” she says. “We have been planning this coup d’état for a while. But it was you—with your recent irrational behavior—who accelerated the process.”

  “What irrational behavior are you referring to?” I ask as calmly as I can manage.

  “Lately, your state of mind has not been well,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, her voice shaky with emotion. “All these years, we have slaved away so that you could excel as a novelist. We never took off, we never fooled around. People might think novels pop off an assembly line, but they don’t. Behind every book, there is toil. There is sweat and pain.”

  “All right,” I say. “Why do you bring this up now?”

  Milady Ambitious Chekhovian raises her chin and straightens her shoulders, like the military hero she has become. “Did we do all this for nothing? How dare you throw away the years of sweat in one fell swoop?”

  “Wait a minute, I am not throwing away anything,” I object. “Where are you getting all of this?”

  “From your behavior, of course. I have been watching you for some time. Don’t think I haven’t noticed!”

  “Noticed what?” I bellow. I am not calm anymore, and don’t try to be.

  “I can very well see that you’re considering having a baby.”

  “Oh my God, is that what this is about?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir,” she says. “You are wondering: ‘Could I become a mother? What kind of mother would I make? I’m getting older. My biological clock is ticking.’ All these harmful thoughts are bouncing around your head! I don’t see this going anywhere good. Do you think I didn’t notice the way you were looking at that baby the other day?”

  “How did I look?” I ask suspiciously.

  “With sparkling eyes . . .”

  “What is wrong with that, is it—” I try to defend myself, but Milady Ambitious Chekhovian cuts me off immediately.

  “There can be only two reasons why a woman looks with sparkling eyes at another woman’s baby: (a) she wants to be a baby again; (b) she wants to become a mother. In your case, I am afraid it’s the latter.”

  Miss Highbrowed Cynic joins in. “Obviously, if you stay around here, you will be led astray.”

  “Led astray from what?” I ask, incredulous.

  “From your literary trajectory, of course!” Miss Highbrowed Cynic and Milady Ambitious Chekhovian exclaim in unison. “From being a writer and an intellectual . . . Your path is to write and read.”

  I am more amazed by their show of solidarity than by the things they are spouting. When did these two become such chums?

  I turn to Miss Highbrowed Cynic, managing a smile. “I thought you weren’t against motherhood. You said it made no difference. You said, one way or another, we are always miserable.”

  “Exactly,” she says, nodding. “I have now decided that it is better to be a miserable writer than a miserable writer, housewife, spouse and mother.”

  My head starts to spin. What about Little Miss Practical, I wonder. She’s been unusually silent. Noticing my inquisitive gaze, she guiltily plays with the zipper of her parka.

  “What is your take on this?” I ask. “I thought you were on the side of liberal democracy and free market economy.”

  “True, a junta isn’t my cup of tea,” she admits. “But I’m down for it, under the extenuating circumstances.”

  “What extenuating circumstances?”

  “Well, at first I wasn’t thrilled with the coup. But then I saw the benefits. Life in America is far more stable and orderly. My needs will be better met. How pragmatic is that!”

  “That is called opportunism, not pragmatism,” I say.

  “There is no need to get upset,” says Miss Highbrowed Cynic. “If we take the time to read Habermas’s theory of communicative action, we will see that we all can coexist. Since system rationality and action rationality are not the same thing, as autonomous finger-women agents we can relate to one another through communicative reasoning and develop mutual understandings.”

  “Yo, I don’t know what she is talking about but I couldn’t agree more,” says Little Miss Practical.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I always thought the members of the Choir of Discordant Voices were, well, discordant, but apparently the military takeover has brought them together.

  It is then that I look at Dame Dervish, who is still sitting on the floor with a brooding expression and concern-filled eyes. She is the only one not wearing a military outfit.

  “What about her?” I whisper.

  This question makes my tormentors uneasy. After an awkward pause, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian offers an answer. “Unfortunately, Dame Dervish did not approve of our midnight coup d’état. Despite our best efforts, we could not change her mind. She told us she would not fight us or stand in our way, but she would not, under any circumstances, support us.”

  “And why is she handcuffed?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s her fault, really. She tried to stage a peaceful protest, parking herself like a turbaned Gandhi under our feet, and left us with no other option than to arrest her.”

  “She is a political prisoner now,” adds Miss Highbrowed Cynic.

  I cannot believe my ears. My finger-women have gone wild, and I don’t know how to control them—if I ever did, that is. I want to talk to Dame Dervish privately, but I’ll have to wait for an appropriate moment.

  A mantle of silence canopies the room: the militarists among us pacing the floor, the handcuffed pacifist sitting on the floor and me staring at the floor. Finally, Little Miss Practical approaches me with an envelope.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Your plane ticket. You’re leaving tomorrow. It might be a good idea to start packing. I made a list of the things you need to take with you.”

  “So soon? But where am I going, what fellowship did I win? I don’t know anything!”

  The answer comes from Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. “Ninety minutes from Boston, there is a beautiful college called Mount Holyoke. That is where you are going. It is an all-girls campus!”

  Miss Highbrowed Cynic joins in with pride: “You won a fellowship given to a limited number of women artists, writers and academics from around the world. It is a lively intellectual hub, you’ll see.”

  After tha
t, I cannot go back to sleep. My instinct is to take off to the end of the world as soon as it is morning, but how far could I run from those voices within? My courage melting like hot wax, I sit there, tense and wary, watching the sun rise. In that husky light, everything around me seems to quickly evaporate—the night, the names, the places. . . .

  In that instant I know, in my bones and soul, that the summer has come to an end. Not gradually and imperceptibly, but in a single moment, in a quantum jump.

  Perhaps all summers are like that. They go on and on, uneventful and lazy, and just when you have gotten used to the sluggish rhythm, they end abruptly, leaving you totally unprepared for the cold autumn.

  All I know is a new season is under way.

  PART THREE

  Brain Versus Body

  Where the Fairies Hang Out

  An hour later, when the three women in uniform leave the room to pack their suitcases, I go to rescue their detainee. Feeling like some hero in a war movie, Saving Private Dame Dervish, I sneak toward the captive, careful not to make any noise. With the help of a pair of tweezers, I unlock her handcuffs. She rubs her wrists, giving me a tired smile.

  “Thank you, dear,” she murmurs.

  Finished with Operation Freedom, we steal out of the house. I’m walking and she, having crawled into my bag, pokes her head out once in a while to have a look around. The minute we make it to the street, I begin to complain.

  “I cannot believe they are doing this to me. Have they lost their minds? This time they’ve crossed the line.”

  Dame Dervish listens with raised eyebrows, saying nothing.

  “And now they want me to go to the States. Just like that, out of the blue,” I continue. “You know what? Maybe you and I should take up arms, organize an underground resistance and topple them. They’d be so freaked out.”