Don’t Go Ask Alice

I am so deeply saddened by Rebecca Walker’s recent expose on her childhood as Alice Walker’s allegedly neglected daughter and the ways in which it scarred her. The two have been publicly nipping at one another for years, but this seems like the nail in the coffin of their doomed relationship.
I’m sad, first and foremost, for Rebecca–a third wave icon and clearly reflective and evolving leader of the movement. Whether everything she alleges (that her mother never went to her school functions, didn’t spend time with her or money on her necessities etc.) is true or not, it is the emotional truth of what she experienced.
But I’m sad, on a larger scale, that she would (1) equate feminism with this experience and (2) not see the gray areas in between her mother’s relationship to mothering and her own.
In terms of the former, she acts like our feminist legacy is explicitly anti-mothering. She writes: “Feminism has betrayed an entire generation of women into childlessness. It is devastating.” This is so NOT my experience in the world or at home, where I was raised by a prototypical feminist mother (though not a famous one). Many, many of the second-wavers that I know and love are passionate about being mothers, while they recognize that there are dangers in it and many issues that arise from its all-consuming nature. Any biological confusion that women have is not a direct product of feminism; it’s a complicated biproduct of the time we are living in, feminist successes included.
In terms of the latter, Rebecca seems to have swung the pendulum so violently in the other direction that she won’t even acknowledge the ways in which mothering is problematic for independent women in a sexist world. She writes, “I am my own woman and I have discovered what really matters – a happy family. “I, for one, am freaked out to be a mom (though I know I want to), not because I think it is impossible not to lose myself, but because I think it is easy to. I want to find a middle ground between helicopter parent and can’t be bothered, between stay-at-home and workaholic, between mother as identity and mother as irrelevant role.
Isn’t that what so many of us are striving for? Isn’t that what Amy Richards’ new book is about? Why isn’t this acknowledged in Rebecca’s vicious take down of her own mother?
Your thoughts?