Peter Neil Carroll Swept Away The sound of a broom knocking against the legs of kitchen chairs, what my mother did most mornings after my big sister went to school, my father off to teach eighth graders music appreciation, and I, just starting kindergarten would rush to the piano to bang away with two hands some symphonic chaos I thought would prepare me for work in later life, as it had for my father, but was interrupted by my mother’s vacuum cleaner drowning out my performance. I’d run to the window to watch other men getting their cars to go to work, as I expected to do some day. Later I held my mother’s hand as she led me to school, passing a neighbor girl, Marjorie, a few weeks younger than I and sadly ineligible for kindergarten who begged me not to go to school but stay and play with her, a distressed plea I dismissed, saying, I need to go. Do you want your husband to be stupid?—so subtle, so obvious had we imbibed our social roles, boys for the work force, girls to handle vacuums and brooms, setting the stage for early marriage, no-fault divorce.
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