On Ambition 🥇

In this essay: Kleenex, Queer Eye, and Emily Dickinson

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Again, sickness arrived at our door and again I was called to efface myself for a week straight, functioning not as a human woman but as person-sized Kleenex, a sentient hot water bottle, a co-regulation android. Rosalind needed me and me only, not food or water or affection from any other member of the family. Our plans for her second birthday were rained out and then fever-dreamed away. After bedtime each night I was depleted and depressed. When darkness fell I needed comfort and sustenance. Clicking through Netflix I realized, with a glimmer of hope, that I had not yet finished the new season of Queer Eye. All around me the detritus of care fermented. The dog’s hairy blanket sagged, an old mandarin peel drooped, one muddy sock threatened to stain the carpet. I ignored it all and turned up the volume on the TV. Everything else unfinished could wait—I could complete this one task: finish the season.

Historically I have watched this show with a sympathetic smugness—my own life was not in need of public intervention but I could appreciate how nice it would be, say, to get a new kitchen from Bobby. I already have a genius hair stylist and some nice clothes, even if they don’t all fit anymore. I know how to cut an avocado. But this episode shook me a little. 

The last episode of this latest season of Queer Eye is about a man named Reggie DeVore. He’s a dad with a newborn (relatable) who is also an artist (relatable) but lost his determination to pursue his career during the pandemic (no comment). He tells Karamo, who has taken him aside to chat, that the most important thing in his life is to maintain his family balance—helping his wife (a writer) and their two children— never mind about his own stalled career as the rapper BlackLight. He says something like, “maybe it’s not meant to be.” Maybe it’s time to let that dream go and just be there for his family. 

Karamo tilts his head to listen. His magnetic gaze intensifies. Languishing on the couch, I wonder how he will respond to this. Let the man quit music, I think, let him wear cargo shorts and live in a house with a painfully orange living room and take a nap on their out-of-style-sofa with the newborn baby on his chest. Isn’t that enough? 

Lately it feels like ambition means trying to do two chores in one day. Forget about my academic or authorial career. Even two related chores might be too much: can I wash the towels and put them away? Absolutely not. Can I wash my hair and style it? Nope! Not while also growing out bangs! 

The other day I caught a glimpse of myself and remarked that I am going through an “Emily Dickinson” phase. “Looks good to me,” said Jimmy, then, quick as a whip, “I’d like to put my Dickinson in that!” Ambition: to crack a good joke. Ambition: to keep the romance in a marriage. 

Hello from 1846

It is only now, two years after having a child that I finally feel I am able to work again, and by work I mean open the manuscript of the book I have been writing for eight years and stare at it in despair. By work I mean start reading again, books that are at all related to what I am writing or how I am writing it, books that make my stomach clench with jealousy because they are finished and mine is not. Last week I Googled an author who I admire and wondered how she, not that much older than me, had found the time, and by time I mean energy, and by energy I mean the gumption to get not only one but four books published.

“Why don’t I have four books,” I moaned, to Jimmy.

“You’re too busy being a righteous babe,” said Jimmy, helpfully. I rolled my eyes, thinking of my bangs, the dirty towels, the everything else. This was not why my book wasn’t finished. My book wasn’t finished for a combination of reasons related to my own difficult relationship to success, my overwhelming desire not to be criticized, to the fact that I still didn’t know exactly what I wanted to say. It wasn’t finished because I could rarely leave the rest of my life aside.

It was Emily Dickinson who said, “to live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.” She wasn’t a mother but she had a dog, a garden, and a lot of bread to bake. Her poems lived on little scraps of envelope she kept in her dress pocket, burning a hole with their urgency.

Back on the show, Karamo suggests to Reggie that his commitment to art is also a commitment to his family. It’s not just about opening for Dua Lipa, he says, it’s about modeling the behavior you want your children to emulate. By not chasing your dreams, he says, his eyes narrow and his graceful finger pointing, you’re telling your sons: don’t expect much from this world.

This is the problem with being a parent, I now see. It’s one thing to try to do everything right for your child, but it’s another thing try to do everything right for yourself, which is also something you do for your child. They, in turn, will take that energy with them into the world.

Babies and toddlers have no problem asking for what they need, even if its more than the world—their mother—can give them. Perhaps I can find inspiration in this relentlessness, and make it my ambition to not let Rosalind lose hers.

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