Sympathy for Witches
I like children.
That statement would rate an appalling display of incredulity from the skeptical masses under the wing of the Director's office. I do believe the staff expects no affection to seep through the thick coat of frost around my veins. Should there exist a position above Ice Queen, I would come highly recommended for the post.
Surrounded as I am with my squealing, squirming nephews, I find babysitting a reprieve; my charges being blessedly without malice and judgment. They trust Aunty Kate. My advice on everything from Lego construction to shoe tying is welcomed and unquestioned. I am valued by these jubilant boys, even when I don't bring presents. They don't yet know my reputation in the working world.
Having spent the last half hour sliding across the kitchen floor in their feety pajamas, they are now settled into the massive couch cushions, blankets staving the winter chill. The worn quilts made fine forts earlier today. Graciously, they allowed me to select tonight's movie, though they quickly regretted the offer. The Wizard of Oz unfolds before our eyes, popcorn and stuffed animals the chosen accessories for the viewing. It had been some time since last I witnessed this marvel of cinema magic and find myself equally as enthralled as the boys when the black and white world gives way to color beyond the farmhouse door. Already, they are won over by what was initially cited as a 'stupid girlie movie.'
As the little fellows marvel at the munchkins, I fondly recall playing one in a school play. Being the tallest girl in elementary school should have netted me the plumb role of Dorothy or at least Glinda. But in consolation, the teacher assured me of my good providence; I was spared being named the witch. While my own costume was riddled in ridiculousness, the witch's green makeup was reminiscent of a science experiment gone awry. With the fall of the final curtain, everything short of bleach had been summoned for the unfortunate girl shrieking beneath the caked mess. I'd never been so grateful for having spent an hour walking on my knees and singing about death.
If the movie is any indication, clearly Mr. Baum had no sympathy for society's outcasts. One sister gets flattened by a flying house. The other goes after her family's best possession only to be melted by mop water. What court today would find the Kansas runaway innocent of both murders? Especially over a pair of gaudy shoes? The court of public opinion held sway then as much as now, as it chooses the strangest of heroes. The girl is sent home without trial while the populace celebrates her homicidal deed in cheers and song. Perhaps today's criminals should suggest applying Dorothy's tactics to their lawyers.
Tonight, among the giggles of little boys and buttery kernels, I feel for the witches.
The motivation of my life has been to go after what I want; success, respect and control in the arena of men. I found all of these to varying degrees, sacrificing more traditional 'feminine' goals in the process. Once obtained, maintenance was only possible through hardening the exterior. I hear the gibes. I know the nicknames. But I'd perfected the frigid stare, something I may well have borrowed from a few witches before me.
I see the boys cringing, not one for musicals without explosions in the background. Watching the characters enjoy spa treatments almost launches them off the couch but I still them with the promise of action. They'd never admit to a fear of the witch, but as the green wonder completes the tricky skywriting maneuvers, the shivers are detectable.
She of the black folds and brimmed, pointy hat. I of the high heels and power suits. I envy her crystal ball and broomstick, finding no modern substitute for such tools. Perhaps it's no insult to be considered a witch. After all, she was unique, memorable and in control. There's a bit to admire there. She wouldn't put up with the insults I endured this week. No, there'd be the snarling "I'll get you, my pretty." And shaking in boots would ensue.
How often am I maligned by the righteous Dr. Connor? Here I am, a woman who achieved a powerful position without resorting to mattress politics, and I am criticized at every turn. In the course of one case, he knocked my abilities as a doctor and accused me of sounding like a perpetual press release.
There have been other slights lately, but naming them while Judy Garland is singing seems like sacrilege. Deep down, I know what our problem comes down to. I have the upper hand. In the end, he can be made to answer to me. And that culpability doesn't swing both ways. He may demand accountability for my decisions, but I am in no way required to supply it. Not to him, anyway. I'm aware that he could have my job if he sought it. Capable of manipulation, he would simply have to learn to play nice. Of course, that's stretching the rigid boundaries of reality and therefore I don't worry. He prefers the field. He needs the field. And NIH needs him there. The building couldn't survive a chained-to-a-desk Connor.
I suppose if I was ever bored into a fit of deep retrospect, I could assign his team members roles among the colorful cast. But Connor's place is set. He is a more capable version of the wizard, bag of tricks overflowing with just the right solution. Need treatment? A diagnosis? A cure? Heart, brain, courage? Follow the yellow brick road, paved by NIH funding for which I fight without credit or appreciation. Go off to see the wizard. Better yet, he'll come to you.
Still, something tells me he keeps that hot air balloon ready in the back for a quick escape. And if he had his way, I'd be the puddle of witch innards under the smoking cloak. He has no fear of me. And I genuinely don't mind. Our arguments have become the most stimulating part of my routine. When lips have kissed so much ass, they sometimes feel frozen in a perpetual pucker. Mine are nearly arthritic. The loss of elasticity, it seems, is regained with our fights. He strengthens my resolve to be tough, which in turn gives muscle to my bartering with agencies and politicians. Whether he realizes it or not, Connor has become my trainer, my sparing partner. And if he ever jumps into that balloon and departs for calmer air, I'd skywrite him right back to NIH. Not that he can know this, as it would diminish my outer witch-ness. We all have our pretenses to maintain. And with Halloween coming, perhaps it's time to consider my wardrobe for the traditional costume ball. I hear pointy hats are in. And green makeup has surely come a long and less dangerous way.
Drooping child eyes register the credits beginning to scroll and they stretch their little forms. The motion draws me from my reverie and I smile. Yes, the expression has been known to surface without actually freezing hell. The movie's conclusion assures us it was all just a dream, like my illusion of peace in the workplace. Dorothy seems less guilty in black and white, so I opt to grant clemency for her dream-crimes. The witch isn't dead, after all. Her gumption, her verve lives in me.
When I tuck the Ewing boys into bed, I whisper in their sleepy ears, "There's no place like home."