Oh To Be a Susan!

I am an Alena who wasted an entire girlhood longing to be a Susan.

Susans – when I was growing up in 1950s Toronto – were enchanting creatures, with perfect pony tails that bobbed saucily when they walked.

In school at lunch time, Susans took dainty bunny bites out of Saran-Wrapped crustless egg salad triangles. At night they slept in beds with chenille bedspreads, dreaming their sweet Susan dreams under crisp top sheets that folded neatly back over their blankets. And their mothers made casseroles and understood the complexities of roast beef and lump-free gravy.

Alenas, on the other hand, had straight hair parted on one side and held back with a clip.

Alenas ate ham or salami on rye bread, cut haphazardly in two,and bundled up in wax paper. Alenas slept under massive eiderdowns that looked obscene to the casual observer. And Alena mothers thought that casseroles were pernicious concoctions made from decomposing leftovers, and that roast beef lacked brio.

The mothers of Susans were pretty. And modern. They had seductive pageboy hairdos that were spit-curled at night. They smoked cigarettes, and drank cocktails before dinner.

Alena mothers wore their hair pinned up in chignons, and drank wine with their Wiener Schnitzel (“It’s called a wiener what?”), or their goulash (“Gooo-lash!? You’re lying!”).

The parents of Susans didn’t speak a foreign language at home. They didn’t have funny accents either. And when they asked strangers perfectly straightforward simple questions in English, like “Where is the bathroom please?” no one ever replied, frowning, “I’m sorry but I don’t speak French.”

Susans were not Alenas. And Alenas definitely were not Susans.

But hang on. What am I thinking? There were no Alenas, plural, when I was growing up. There was just one. Me.

“Mary, Diane, Janice, Carol, Kathy, Susan, ALENA,” went our class roll call. Lah-di-dah-di-lah-di-THUNK.

“Ewwww, what kind of a name is THAT?” other children would often ask.

Indeed.

Alena and Vera, I knew from endless telling, were my father’s best friend’s twin daughters, killed in wartime. And since my father had once been engaged to a vamp called Vera, Alena had seemed the far less contentious choice when I came along.

Properly pronounced in Czech, it sounded quite reasonable:Ah-le-na, with the accent on the first “a” and a short “e”. But skimmed over a1950s English-only palate, it became Aleeeeena.

I hated it. Why oh why could I not have been born a Susan, I wondered wretchedly --and never more than on gummy summer evenings when neighbourhood parents would call their offspring in from twilight games of hide-and-go-seek.

“Time to come in now!”

Then, one after another in a chorus up the street:

“Mary!”

“Diane!”

“Susan!”

Just as the last grown-up had finished barking, “I MEAN IT! NOW! OR ELSE!” and that silent moment when kids assess the seriousness of parental threats had passed, my father would put his lips to some invisible megaphone and bellow, “AlenKO! Ve are vaiting!”

AlenKO. The hideous diminutive vocative. Wasn’t Aleeeeena bad enough?

It didn’t matter to me that he was a respected member of the legal department of a large corporation; or that my mother had been raised by a nanny and tootled around by a chauffeur. What mattered was that I didn’t fit in, the way Susans did.

My Susan aspirations, such an affliction in childhood, are purely vestigial now. Canadian society has become less rigid and more international: white bread – which my parents regarded as truly deviant – has been overtaken in pre-eminence by whole-wheat and chichi artisanal; bedspreads, covers, and top sheets have given way to low-maintenance duvets; mothers – and even fathers –take pride in their global recipe repertoires; and everyone agrees that if little androgynous Madison or Taylor or Hunter is to succeed in life, she/he must learn to speak a second language. It’s all so belatedly comforting.

One afternoon last summer in Prague, the magnificent Baroque capital of the Czech Republic – home to 95% of the world’s Alenas – I sat in lambent sunshine near the 10^th century Vysehrad Castle and watched a small girl suddenly escape her mother’s clutches and race after a puppy.

“Alena! Alena!” the mother shouted, in alarm.

And I finally had to admit that Alena was, on balance, a pretty swell name.

(c) Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com
alenaschram@gmail.com

This appeared in Canada's Globe & Mail newspaper, Facts & Arguments page, 10 August 2012.

AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

 

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM 
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

The Glamour is Gone

In the summer of 1971, my husband, John, was posted to the Canadian High Commission in Lagos, Nigeria, and I prepared to go with him, as foreign service spouses (read: wives) were expected to do back then.

Posting confirmation in hand, John rushed straight to the finance section of then-External Affairs and took out a posting loan to top up our meagre outfitting allowance; I grabbed the money and headed to Ogilvy's, where I used it to buy 12 sets of crystal, china, cutlery and table linens. It didn't matter that we were hopelessly in debt: We could set a beautiful table in hot, humid, post-Biafran War, Nigeria.

"How come you're buying all this stuff?" asked the bewildered young sales assistant, as she rang up my cache.

"My husband's being sent to Africa," I replied loftily, "as a diplomat."

"Oh," she exclaimed, no doubt wondering what a diplomat was, "so what're you going to do?"

Stumped, I answered, "Entertain."

"Wow! Singer or dancer?"

Loyal appendage would have been closer to the truth. I'd read the official handbook and knew my role would be strictly supportive. But I was anxious to do well. In those days, wives figured prominently in their husbands' annual appraisals, and we were in this career together.

According to the handbook, my first task was to send a note to the wife of the high commissioner, declaring our delight at having been selected for Lagos. Composing the message took me half a day and writing it ate up six of my expensive new Birks "informals." Like the calling cards issued to me, these fold-over white note-cards with my official name — Mrs. John R. Schram — prominently embossed on the front, were part of the diplomatic kit.

Once at the post, it was my duty, within three days of our arrival, to call on the high commissioner's spouse, and in full regalia: afternoon dress, nylons, high-heeled shoes. I clearly remember the green and white linen suit that clung to me like a dry-cleaning bag, the white shoes into which I had horned my little sausage feet, and the droplets of perspiration that ran off my nose and trickled down the backs of my pantyhosed thighs.  I knew how important it was to make a good first impression and, sitting nervously on the chintz couch, my teacup and saucer rat-tat-a-tat-ing loudly in my slippery, quivering hand, I just hoped I was succeeding.
 
In those days we all knew that an invitation from our high commissioner — or ambassador — and his wife was a command performance. The diplomatic handbook was quite succinct on the subject: attendance at the Official Residence (O.R.) was mandatory, except in cases of personal ill health or if the officer himself was hosting a function at home; we were there as co-hosts, not as guests; our job was to engage official visitors in conversation, not to stand around talking to our friends.

An invitation to the O.R. also meant arriving 15 minutes ahead of the first guest, and leaving 15 minutes after the last one had gone home. And if, occasionally, it looked as if one or two invitees might not show up, it meant virtually springing out of the hall closet at the last moment, appropriately attired, to fill the vacant chairs at the dinner table.

In return, we were given suitable accommodation (for which we paid a substantial rent, compared to our pathetic salary), a tiny entertainment allowance that was minutely scrutinized, and the promise of a fascinating — and glamorous, too, we hoped — life.

But all that's changed now. These expectations and responsibilities no longer exist. Ask an officer today to attend a dinner in honour of a visiting cabinet minister or a local VIP and chances are the response will be, "Thanks for the invite but I think we'll pass. Taylor's got soccer practice that night."

Suggest that he/she might consider hosting a dinner at home, and you're likely to hear, "Sorry, my spouse isn't interested. And besides, we don't have matching dishes."

Spouses, with busy and fulfilling careers of their own, no longer see themselves as unpaid handmaidens — or the male equivalent — of the now-Department of Foreign Affairs Trade and Development Canada (DFATD). And chatting up a bunch of locals at a formal dinner or attending a charity bazaar with the ambassador's wife have little appeal.

Nor should they. The days of the adoring little wife, lower lip aquiver with pride, working assiduously to support her husband, are over.

No one, we're told, is entertaining at home any longer anyway, so the expectation of lovely accommodation is gone too. Many of the graceful flats and houses in Paris and London, that we used to be put in so that we could host elegant lunches and dinners and get to know -- and influence -- people that mattered to Canada's foreign policy objectives, are about to go on the block, and the profits used to open new missions in emerging economies.  Or pay down the deficit.

Unlike our European and Asian and African and Latin American colleagues who still see value in hosting events at home, Canadian diplomats — at least in London and Paris — will soon be billeted in small apartments, and officers will be encouraged to meet officials, counterparts and contacts in expensive restaurants, the only kind that exist in these particular capitals.

Of course, it doesn't matter a hoot really where the socializing takes place, provided it serves its purpose and gives Canadian taxpayers value for money. But as Canada's former ambassador to the U.S., Allan Gotlieb, points out, inviting someone out for a meal is not the same as having them home: the personal touch is gone, along with the possibility of a more nuanced — and ultimately fruitful — relationship.

Personally, I regret the change: entertaining at home meant I got a vastly expanded world view, complete immersion in an unfamiliar culture, and even the opportunity to exert some influence. There was a sense of purpose, an esprit de corps and, dare I say it without sounding too naive, pride in what we were accomplishing. And if it meant preparing a meal for 10 or 12 after a long day at work, it was — usually, but not always — worth it.

In my opinion, the regalia, the calling cards, the candelabra and the effort that went with them provided Canada with a grown-up, international-standard backdrop to the serious business of diplomacy. But then I'm just a wistful old bag with a cupboard full of crystal, china, and cutlery. And a box of informals with my husband's name on them.

(c) Alena Schram
alenaschram@gmail.com 
  

AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, GO TO NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX); 
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM. 
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.