Worth
When my son was born, I was determined to pay every person who babysat him well. I was referred to babysitters by several parent friends who emphasized their low fees as well as being reliable. Frankly, this seemed appalling, paying the person determining the happiness and safety of your child less than they deserved. Childcare like house cleaning like parking cars in sub-zero temperatures is hard work and paying these people well has seemed obvious to me.
photo by Douglas Lopez
There is other worth. Recently a small girl, a wonderful eight year old was walking down the street here in Chicago when she was gunned down by a shooter in a passing car trying to kill a fellow gang leader. Melissa Ortega recently emigrated to Chicago from Mexico. Her mother said the murder took away her reason for living. How much is that worth? If we pay Melissa’s mother a million dollars it will never be enough.
I had a sister murdered by a drunken driver when she was 32, a mother of a three-year old boy, a daughter, a scholar, a woman with the wit , creativity, and intelligence of a genius. She spent a week on life support but that brain had died and so had she. I remember my parents were asked by a lawyer about her future worth, a mother, a PhD candidate, a daughter, a sister, the funniest person I had ever known in my life, and the sweetest, with a razor’s edge intolerance for fools. I thought about my worth then, struggling with sobriety, leaving a trail of failed relationships, discarded jobs, seething with anger and self-hatred. I am worth nothing, I felt at the time. I should be dead.
For 37 years I have not taken a drink or a recreational drug, I have raised a wonderful son, handled an amiable divorce, and for 16 years I have been married to a wonderful man who is totally different from me yet my best friend. I have published three critically acclaimed novels, taught for twenty years, soothed the sad souls of scores of teenagers, and coached writers into acceptance and flow.
I was recently asked to write for a start-up with a person I have been honored to call a friend. So far, it’s been a bit rocky. I asked for too little money and have continued to feel like an imposter as I navigate the sea of corporate communications. Somehow, despite my feminist beliefs, my accomplishments, the clear success of nearly everything I’ve tried, I feel like a failure. I remember the criticism, the firings, the minutiae of being marginalized, and the doubters. I have been loved and cherished and yet I struggle to accept this as my due for my being a good daughter, wife, mother, sister, friend, employee, and writer.
I had lunch yesterday with a friend whom I respect and love. She was scathing in her response to my description of accepting far less money than usual because I so wanted this opportunity and, I don’t know what I’m worth. My father, like my sister, was a brilliant literary scholar. He wrote beautiful novels and people loved him so much. Unlike me, he never stopped drinking and there was the Achilles heel, the thing that made him feel shame and sadness. Also, he had an awful childhood. I will be 65 in a few months and definitely feel if not now, when? When will I gather that child up in my arms and tell her she is enough?
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach