Excerpt of Small Wonder by Barbara Kingsolver
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God's Wives Measuring Spoons
Most of the time I go right on growing tomatoes and
basil and broccoli simply because they are good, we like them, I'm
determined to figure out the right planting time for cole crops, and
broccoli attracts hordes of green looper caterpillars that throw
Lily's chickens into paroxysms of chicken joy. I do it because the
world has announced to me, loudly, that it's time to make a choice
between infinite material entitlement or a more modest, self-reliant
security, and this is a step I can take in the right direction. Most of
the time I raise up my wonderful daughters to have what I hope will be a
useful blend of smart-aleck acuity and politeness, and once in a while
we go down to help out the homeless shelter or dig a community vegetable
garden because I want my kids to understand that compassion involves not
just the heart but the hands. I write my poems, my congressmen, my
letters to the editor, and I go on believing as I do, whether it makes
any sense from the front and the back or not.
But like anyone else I am liable to be misunderstood, or scolded for
standing apart from the crowd. I'm just one of a multitude of writers
who venture outside the approved current of opinion du jour to get a
better view of the complex struggle to reconcile cultural, national, and
moral imperatives. Inevitably, some extremists will not tolerate this
kind of art or dialogue. I've been called all the predictable names
and some unpredictable ones; I've been misquoted in inflammatory ways
by hate radio and its print equivalent in an attempt to impugn my
patriotism and scare away readers. The historical mode of attack on
writers (which continues into the present) is to avoid discussion of our
actual ideas and instead declare us un-American for fabricated reasons
and pronounce direly that no one had better listen to us, they'd best
play it safe and just hate us. Inevitably, a few citizens will oblige:
Some irate souls have vowed to uncover my true identity(!). Some are
praying for my immortal soul, and two have offered to buy me a one-way
ticket out of the country. (If I used them both, where would I end up?)
I accept these gifts with the understanding that these people haven't
the faintest idea who I am. It's important and worth noting here that
the vitriolic mail almost never comes from anyone who has read me, but
only from those who've read about me. It seems a certain sector has
been led to associate my name with treason and sedition. Wow. The public
may expect a circus, and fireworks—as Mark Twain wrote in bold-faced
type on a handbill announcing one of his lectures—"in fact, the
public may be invited to expect whatever they please." But they'll
find no treason or sedition at my house, and they've rather
pathetically missed my point, which is that it's love for my homeland
that obliges me to participate in the discussion of preserving its
integrity, and to take any risk necessary on my country's behalf.
Otherwise, believe me, I'd live a safe and happy life writing
cookbooks, or better yet, just cooking. It seems bizarre that a firm
dedication to peace and the goodness of life should draw violent ire,
but it does. Think of Gandhi, of Martin Luther King Jr. I'm hardly a
drop in this river of tears and belief. Sometimes my heart catches in my
throat and I just have to stop for a second with my hand on a doorknob
or the cold metal of a key, assemble in my heart the grace of all we
have to believe in, and say my own prayer for us all—that we will find
the way through each hour of our lives that will have been worthy of the
task.
Excerpted from "God's Wives Measuring Spoons" in Small Wonder.
Copyright © 2002 by Barbara Kingsolver. HarperCollins Publishers. All
rights reserved.
