Untamed: a review

One of the downsides of an advanced education in critical thinking is that it can be easy to emphasize the "critical" and overlook the "thinking." When I first became aware of Glennon Doyle, it was because she has left her husband for a woman, which was somehow newsworthy in the circle of writers I follow, and because the woman she now shares her life with is Abby Wambach, bad ass US soccer phenom.

My issue was not at all with Doyle's choice, but with the decade of history she had as a Christian mommy blogger, bragging about her amazing marriage and how she single-handedly saved it despite her husband's serial cheating. In fact, she was on a book tour cashing in on her magical role as a "Love Warrior" when she met Abby. Now she makes money off that marriage instead.

I never actually read her blog. I never learned anything about her beyond my assumptions. It was easy, since Christian mommy bloggers aren't really my thing I had no interest in reading her writing. I jumped to a whole lot of conclusions, assumptions and judgements based on maybe five Instagram posts and a gossip blog post or two. Mucho critical. Almost no thinking. 

And yet, despite my ignorance and bias, I bought Doyle's latest book, Untamed, on a whim recently. Liz Gilbert likes and loves her, it was well displayed, and I liked the cover. It doesn't take much to make me buy a book these days. Honestly, so much of my response to this book is not about the book nut about me that it should probably be two posts - a review, and a response. But ... here we are. 

This book is like a human: deeply flawed yet capable of brilliance that streaks through the sky. The problem with reading books by people who began their writing careers as bloggers is that their books read like blogs: consistent in voice, but a jumble of times, places, anecdotes and characters. Often the books are comprised of blog posts, with not quite enough editing to pull them together. This book is not a story - it is an uncoordinated collage laced with morals and aphorisms. It's a very choppy one at that: short sentences. Short paragraphs. Short chapters.

Reading this immediately after finishing Between the World and Me was like going from War and Peace to Dick and Jane. There's nothing wrong with Dick and Jane,  but ... we are all adults here. Thirty pages in I thought "I get it" - the bit on the flyleaf that caught my attention is really what there was for me to get. But I'm no quitter, and I was wrong.

As I read I was curious about my steady stream of judgement popping up in the middle of learning. Part of it is jealousy - I've never turned my writing into anything meaningful, while Doyle built an empire on (unconscious?) inauthenticity, and then pivoted to authenticity and expanded her empire.

Part of the judgement is also not understanding: I have definitely lived a lie, at times, but it was recently pointed out to me that I have always had a strong sense of "no, not this" and been willing to let go and move on. I felt like she was exaggerating. I can't reconcile being so utterly conditioned by cultural expectations that you turn to eating disorders, addiction, and a loveless, frigid marriage rather than be yourself. It just doesn't compute for me. I consider myself a relatively empathetic person, but I can't understand that. I can only chalk it up to

1. It's an American thing, and
2. I was never going to be petite enough or pretty enough or quiet enough or slow-witted enough to make people comfortable, so I gave up trying pretty early on. 

Also, I don't remember my parents ever telling me to be more ladylike or that Girls do/are X and Boys do/are Y. My sisters and I played sports, or we didn't. We created music and art and clothing, or we didn't. We read and wrote and gardened and performed, or we didn't. We rode horses and swam in lakes and rivers and played with our dog and hung out in treehouses. Or we didn't. We can all swing a hammer and drive a manual and gut a fish and dance in heels. I don't know this small, prescribed world Doyle blames for her struggles.

Yes, I felt and still feel the unyielding pressure of not being skinny/sexy/pretty enough. Yes, I feel sufficated by my need to be impressive but never EVER confident or proud. Yes, society constantly reminds me that I am both too much and not enough. But somehow, I missed the memo on being a little lady, on smiling - but not too big or too easily- and sitting on the sidelines while the boys have all the fun. 

The jealousy also comes from never experiencing the love Doyle describes between her and Abby. Or I thought I had, but now that it's long-gone I have to assume it wasn't that. When Glennon met Abby, she "became." I am 52, and I am still optimistic about becoming. It turns out that becoming is a perpetual project, that sometimes happens in bursts - going weak in the knees on a drizzly street corner, or breathing deeply the humid air outside Norman Manley International Airport. I'm still looking for the secret to keep becoming without needing the impetus a man or an adventure. 

I suppose my smaller dose of conformity is also why I don't identify much with Doyle's parenting chapters. I did my best; sometimes my best was awesome and sometimes it was truly shitty, but everyday it was that day's best. I gave up on perfect really early, I never did try to match the soccer moms. I couldn't stand the PTA. I just ... couldn't. 

I struggle with the whiteness and the richness and the multiple other privileges Doyle has but doesn't acknowledge, and at the same time I take a lot from her stories. The kind of fairy tale love Doyle describes is also a privilege, one that women who grow up being told we are too big (in all directions), or that "someday someone will see how beautiful you are on the inside" don't expect. We aren't conditioned to see it, so we miss it if it does happen. 

The chapter on unlearning racism and whiteness 100% correlates to the process I'm currently in, except, of course, that no one is inviting me to put on seminars for thousands of people. And frankly, I don't think white women should be making money teaching anti-racism when skilled, qualified, and knowledgeable Black women are available. But, I still appreciated knowing I'm not alone in my anti-racism learning.

Doyle's writing is light and easy. The sparks of learning are powerful - they drew tears and relief from me. On balance, I do recommend this book for women. The nuggets of truth in it are valuable enough to make excavating them worthwhile, and it's a quick, encouraging read. Just manage your expectations. Maybe I'll re-read it now that some of my harsher judgements have been silenced.

Damn this is one long rambly post.