I read A Woman is No Man by Etaf Rum a few weeks ago now, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. It focuses on the experiences of a group of women within one Palestinian-American immigrant family, and describes a lived experience that is so different than my own. But I also found it oddly relatable, and it took me a while to figure out why.

Thematically, this book centers mostly on the impact of generational shame and resentment. Fareeda, the matriarch of the family in this book, spends her entire life learning how to keep herself and her family alive within a culture that places little to no value on her life. She has to learn to play a very dangerous game, which requires her to take huge risks in order to assert any kind of control over her own life.

And then Fareeda comes to America, and she is bombarded by images of women who are flagrantly defying the “rules” she has lived her entire life by. While, in the novel, Fareeda seems aware that the consequences her own family inflicts on women for engaging in such “rebellious” behavior do not necessarily apply to the rest of the world, what she sees “out there” somehow makes her even more insistent on keeping her own children locked inside the confines the cultural prison she herself has so much resentment towards.

Throughout a lot of this book, I couldn’t figure out why a mother would behave as Fareeda did. While Fareeda knows, firsthand, the emotional and physical consequences of being a young bride, and veritable slave to her husband, she still insists on the same, traditional path for her daughters. While she, herself, seems to crave freedom, the very idea of allowing her daughters to chase it horrifies her.

But then again, even having a child is terrifying. I often look at my own kids, and feel completely overwhelmed by just how much of what they will do, experience and react to is out of my control. There are endless choices they can and will make and, because my own kids live in a very different world than I grew up in, I have a difficult time anticipating the impact these choices will have on them. While it is logical, and perhaps even obvious, that allowing your children to experience making these kinds of choices on their own will likely provide them with the best shot at success in whatever “new world” they inhabit, it can be difficult for a parent–who oftentimes sees their child as an extension of their own self, or heart, or reputation, to cope with such uncertainty and potential loss. So, sometimes, even when we know it’s wrong, we try our best to control the uncontrollable–to force our kids to take the same paths we did, even make the same mistakes we did, because at least we know what the outcome of that path will be.

I think there is also an important lesson here about how resentment, and failing to face our own trauma, or intergenerational pain, can impact the ways in which we interact with others.

When I first started noodling on this idea, the best examples I could come up with involved men. When I was in college, the Greek system was a pretty significant force on campus. While not all of the fraternities behaved in this way, there were a few that engaged in a pretty stereotypical, and archaic brand of hazing. The older brothers, many of whom had been humiliated, or even physically harmed by their predecessors, viewed this abuse as a “right of passage,” or a means by which they earned their place in the brotherhood. As an adult, I have spoken to several former fraternity members who felt borderline traumatized by their experiences in these organizations. Yet, at the same time, they participated in inflicting the exact same trauma on the class below them. Why? I’m not totally sure, and neither are they, but I think it has at least something to do with an an oftentimes unconscious brand of resentment, and the feeling that it would be “unfair” to allow the next generation to get by so easily.

There is also a truth to the fact that people who suffer together, tend to form stronger bonds. I am sure that many fraternity members believe that their actions were justified in the name of “brotherhood”: that by causing their pledges to suffer together, they were actually providing them with the gift of true and lasting friendship–which, oddly enough, is oftentimes true.

I know that a lot of this sounds overly dramatic, and I don’t mean it to be a blanket condemnation of the Greek system in general. In fact, I myself was in a sorority, and remember it fondly as one of the best decisions I made in college. However, I was also able to form sufficient “bonds” with my sisters, and the only hazing I experienced was the suggestion that I participate in a drinking game, during which I could absolutely drink water or soda if I preferred.

And while my first thread of connection between Fareeda’s story and my own lived experience had to do with men, this specific memory inspired me to consider whether the same process might be at play in various female social circles, as well as in the version of modern American motherhood that I myself have experienced.

Because, as we all know, women can be judgmental. We see someone wearing something, or prioritizing something, or even posting something, and we make a judgement call about it, whisper to our friends about it, or even comment on it outright. As I’ve written before, in some ways this kind of gossip is beneficial, and serves an evolutionary purpose, because it helps us understand where the boundaries of acceptable behavior are, and makes it easier for us to fit in and maintain a broader web of relationships.

And at the same time that we judge each other so harshly, we, as women, also tend to value our intimate relationships above all else. We crave connection, friendship, and love, and many many studies have shown that women who invest more in their relationships, and who participate in more deep friendships, report higher levels of both health and happiness.

So, there appears to be some kind of connection, both in this book, and in my own life, between suffering–particularly intergenerational suffering–and the creation of intimate bonds. Between judgement and connection. And even though I’m still not totally sure what it is, I know for a fact that I have participated in it.

My most powerful memories of early motherhood are colored, or overshadowed by, the intense feelings of overwhelm, exhaustion and isolation that seemed to follow me around for months. I remember wishing so badly that I had help, or company, or a combination of the two. Then, one day, I was at the park, and saw another young mom I vaguely knew, talking on her phone while the nanny changed her baby’s diaper. This seemingly innocuous interaction happened years ago, and yet I still remember that my immediate reaction was one of judgment, and condemnation. How dare she outsource something that she should be able to do on her own? How selfish of her to make idle chit chat while someone else cared for her young child. How easy she must have it. How much time she must waste on frivolous activities.

I don’t think I even recognized at the time, that all of the things I was judging her for were the exact same things I so desperately wanted for myself. I craved connection, I was desperate for help, and I probably would have really enjoyed striking up a conversation with both the mother, and the nanny, both of whom were living an experience quite similar to my own. But instead I judged her from afar, justified my own suffering as “the right way,” and used the experience as a talking point when connecting with other lonely, worn-out new moms at playgroup later that week.

I know better now. And I try better now, but old habits are hard to break, and even harder to understand. So I read books like this one, and keep them in the back of my head, and continue to ask myself why?

Do we perpetuate cycles of suffering because we think that suffering together will bring us together? Do we think that judging outsiders will solidify our connection to the “inside” group? Do we force cultural norms or traditions that may be hurtful or oppressive on both our peers and progeny as a means of keeping them close, or out of fear that they might find a better way and, as a result, leave us behind?

Or is it more about resentment? And the fact that resentment, even towards those we love dearly, helps us validate the suffering we experienced in the past. Do we see our children, or our pledges, or other women in our own peer groups finding a new way around the suffering we experienced, and suddenly realize that it might not have been quite as inevitable, or as much “the only way,” as we once thought it was?

Either way, it all definitely has me thinking about the ways I will, and won’t, allow fear, and precedent, and unresolved resentments, guide the way I parent my daughter, and the way I ultimately will have to let her go.

Below, I have linked this beautifully thought-provoking book, as well as a few of my other female-focused novels. As always, I appreciate you reading, following along, and sharing your hearts with me, and if you’d like to hear more of my thoughts on motherhood, great books, and life in general, you can follow me on Pinterest (The Paper Dart) or Instagram (@thepaperdart). Have a great one!

The Books (Contains Affiliate Links)