A Dispatch from the House of Mirrors

by Megan McNally ‘20

I know, of course, that the world has changed. But sometimes I am surprised at the ferocity with which it has not.

In 1972, Joan Didion wrote an essay titled “The Women’s Movement” about the second-wave feminists. Her take is a critical one: womens’ dreams of having careers of their own or husbands who help make the beds are foolish and insignificant. Above all, it is the “childlike” nature of their perspective which floors her: “the astral discontent with actual lives, actual men, the denial of the real generative possibility of adult sexual life, somehow touches beyond words.” When I first read this, it reminded me of something, and I could not remember what, and then I realized that it reminded me of how people talk about Wellesley.

It is the infamous “bubble.” But I don’t think people really mean a bubble, with them peering in and us peering out. Instead, I think what they’re trying to get at is a house of mirrors, the kind you go to at the carnival. All of us gazing at our own reflections, tripping back and forth and slamming against versions of ourselves again and again, giddy with laughter, unaware of what exists beyond the looking glass. As if to say, Wellesley is not “the real world” and by choosing to live outside its realm, we are somehow fooling ourselves.

The implication of this, of course, is that the real world is the man’s world—believing otherwise is just naïve. The further implication is that to be an adult is to live your life by someone else’s rules and not your own. 

What, then, constitutes a real life? One in which you see clearly, are never played the fool, are aware and responsive to all “real generative possibilities”? I don’t think such a “reality” actually exists. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that we all live in mirror houses of our own construction, that all people draw the line somewhere, willingly closing themselves off. I imagine each of us living among the interwoven shards of our own personal glass houses, whirling dizzily between the rooms like an insect in a kaleidoscope. 

Moreover, what might bother me most about the “bubble” is the assumption that we are somehow all the same, all butterflies of the same type pinned to the collector’s pasteboard, that we all see the same reflection in the mirror. That each woman’s voice echoes against the glass in the same way, no matter the woman.

I grew up in a small town, and I learned to understand how beautifully different lives can be lived within the same few miles. At Wellesley, too, I am delighted to discover how many ways there are to be a Wellesley Woman, how much I have to learn. If we live in a house of mirrors, I am honored to have the chance to gaze at your reflection.

And when the glass breaks—for glass always does—I hope I will find the words, when people ask me, to explain that this was never a cage. Of course, some glass houses are. But this has been, perhaps, more greenhouse than carnival fun house. The snow and rain outside may not touch our cheeks, but we feel the sun, we recognize the storm. So don’t assume we know nothing of the world.

from the October 2019 issue