“The Mom of Bold Action”
by George Saunders
from the August 30, 2021 issue of The New Yorker
I‘m embracing the fact that even though I have not enjoyed his stories as much as I used to, I’m still always excited to read whatever we get from George Saunders. I wonder if this will free me up mentally a bit, allow me to go in without worrying. I’m excited to read “The Mom of Bold Action,” and I love that right off the bat we get a nice passage introducing us to the caring mother who works to write inspirational children’s stories. How can this go wrong?
Again she found herself spending her precious morning writing time pacing her lovable sty of a kitchen making no progress at all. Why was she holding a can opener?
Hmm.
That could be something.
“The Trusty Little Opener.” Gerard the Can Opener was a dreamer. He wanted to open big things. bigger things. The biggest things! But all he ever got to open was, uh, beans? Corn? Tuna?
I hope we all like this one, and I look forward to reading your comments if you feel so inclined to share your thoughts!
I’m relieved! I liked this one a lot! Maybe I’m finding a way around my usual response to more recent Saunders or maybe this story just struck the right cord with me, but I found it riveting and I loved where it made me go.
Following the mother around while she tried to love and defend her family was pretty painful because it is pathetic and familiar as we look at a case of when it’s you and yours ethical lines “get complicated” — usually by selfishness and delusions of grandeur and fragile pride, as we can see here.
Some of Saunders’ quirks still annoyed me, slightly. For example: “Was he deliberately ignoring her? Because pre-adolescent?” That kind of construction, which is not so unique and feels so much more like I’m reading someone talking on TikTok, is a bit grating to me, even though I would like to not care. Other things really worked for me, such as the way the mom responds to everything, even the stressful things, by coming up with titles for the cutesy stories she thinks will become her bread and butter.
There are also several extended passages where I think Saunders is just firing away, completely in the zone. Here is one, for example, where the mom is considering her husband, Keith, as they drive home from the police station, having failed to figure out which of the two suspects pushed their son, Derek:
I love Saunders most of the time (couldn’t finish Lincoln in the Bardo however) and yet… I wonder how many more theme park stories or soccer mom fables he has left in him before even he starts to say… This is too George Saunders. I don’t think this story would compete much with those in Tenth of December, and it seems like a continuation of Puppy in some regards. The diction is somewhat reminiscent of Semplica Girl Diaries. That said, I still laughed and kept listening and asked myself if I have ever been guilty of the same retribution gone wrong…. So the story worked. But yeah. Very very George Saunders. Very.
I agree with Gainsford Hughs that this Saunders story is not one of his best. His stories are always a cut above most of the ones I read in the New Yorker, though, and I did enjoy it. He’s set a very high bar for himself. I finished Lincoln in the Bardo, but I didn’t really get caught up in it until I was at least 50 pages in. From there on I loved it. Maybe you should give it another shot. Stay with it; it’s worth it.
I thought it was wonderful, but then, I’m easy. I particularly liked the invention of Evil Cousin Ricky as a counterpart to the homeless guy who shoved the kid.
George is a master and I was drawn right in at the outset, thinking this could get pretty zany, but it quickly turns into something a bit too “Philosophy 101.” It’s more fragmented than usual, even for Saunders, and while the thoughts and arguments are interesting as rhetoric, they don’t feel particularly original. What is justice? What is strength/weakness? What is the role of action? Who “deserves” their fate or punishment or success or whatever?
And as something other than just thought-provoking rhetoric, as an actual story, the piece as a whole was wanting. I guess I just feel that when GS is really humming, the stories are perfectly synergistic, and this one felt a little dry, like a bunch of individual elements that don’t really cohere into a tasty sandwich. Felt like the rare sub par sub (hee hee) at an otherwise reliable deli.
I would argue that this is better than his latest efforts. So many of those are dystopian tales in which some new set of arbitrary rules or policies or language has been established and the viewer slowly acclimates to this reality. This may not break new ground in terms of issues, but the narrative propulsion continually kept it engaging and I would also argue that the issues here are familiar but vital. When the mom fantasizes about the police taking the guy in the alley for a beating, she’s sounding exactly like Trump at his rallies when he fetishizes police brutality. The question of how dispassionate one can be when one’s own child is harmed is I’d say a “classic” not so much a “familiar” issue. In the end, I am even rather moved about her becoming a “sin eater” and sparing her husband a dreadful knowledge. Perhaps we can stay vigilant against our rage and do better is what I felt Saunders seemed to be saying.
I liked this story. I appreciated it even more on second reading. So many elements working in it. I agree that it’s not one of his best, but even so, better than most of what NYer publishes. Trying to deal with basic humanity in a narratively arresting way.
This story reminded me forcefully of “Mother’s Day”, published in Feb 2016. A woman trying to come to grips with her personality and what her bitterness and anger and frustration are costing her. Lots in internal dialogue with imaginary characters (even characters who are “real” become imaginary when you import them into your mind)). Which is really arguing with herself.
In “Mother’s Day” the central female character can’t leave earth after she dies, her hands become hot, because she is so bitter with her philandering husband and his women. Admitting that some of her unhappiness was her own fault is not the answer. Here is what does it:
“This has nothing to do with him,” the girl baby said. “How do you want to be?”
It seemed she was meant to admit that she was wrong. But she wasn’t. If she was wrong about this, there was no right.
It came to her, and then was happening: it would be fixed when she stopped being Alma.
In “Mom of Bold Action” the woman has to learn to forgive. And to forgive is not a bold action, but a series of daily small actions.
Like Alma, the mom of bold action is trapped by lifelong habits:
“You are trapped in you the beam says. But she’s not.”
In this story Ricky is the analogue of Debi in Mother’s Day. Debi is more integral to that story than Ricky is to this one, I think. Still, they both function in the same way.