| M. C. A. Hogarth ( @ 2007-10-12 22:54:00 |
| Current mood: | tired |
| Entry tags: | meta-conversations, writing |
Caregiver is Not a Caste
I am staring blearily at a word processor window with only one sentence, a synopsis for the next aphorism, something for
artfulruin,
manycolored and
ysabetwordsmith, and I am too tired to even do justice to a draft. Still, when I'm this badly off I try to come up with the aphorism for the end or the word for the title.
That's not coming either.
I feel a shadow over one shoulder and don't turn until Thirukedi's voice says, "Caregiver is not a caste."
I blink and twist to look at him. It's hard to bow when you're already seated, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Pardon?" I ask.
He nods toward the window. "That is something your readers might assume. Something incorrect."
"Have you been reading my books?" I ask, wondering how he knows about all the aliens who have people dedicated to childcare... usually downtrodden, oppressed and trapped people, sometimes even bred to do nothing but take care of children.
"It's in your mind, this concept," he says. "But we are not insects, aunerai. Everyone in a family rears children... or else how will any of the adults have time to fulfill the mandates of their ishas, the function of their caste-rank? Society can't stop while families raise the next generation."
Thinking of how right now I'd probably be dead without my niece and mother-in-law's help, and how much easier it would be if my sister and mother were more available, I say, "You keep making more sense than I do."
"Write it down," Thirukedi says. "Tell them. Caregiver is not a caste. Everyone takes care of the young and the old... and one another."
I incline my head.
Stardancer Home.