Feminism in the Worlds of Neil Gaiman

by Tara Prescott

  In 1976, Adrienne Rich issued a challenge to redefine motherhood in Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution; thirty-six years later that definition is still a work in progress. Rich identified “two meanings of motherhood, one superimposed on the other: the potential relationship of any woman to her powers of reproduction and to children; and the institution, which aims at ensuring that that potential—and all women—shall remain under male control” (13). Patriarchy distorts the experience of mothering because it imposes a rigid definition of motherhood, Rich argues. She does not, however, limit her criticism to the proponents of patriarchy, insisting feminists have also been culpable in the denigration of motherhood. “Sisterhood” came at the expense of motherhood insists Rich, “before sisterhood, there was the knowledge—transitory, fragmented, perhaps, but original and crucial—of motherhood-and-daughterhood” (225). For many second-wave feminists of the 1960s and 1970s, the mother (if not their own mothers) became the very symbol of what they were struggling against. Marianne Hirsch asserts that in “the 1970s, the prototypical feminist voice was, to a large degree, the voice of the daughter attempting to separate from an overly connected or rejecting mother, in order to bond with her sisters in a relationship of mutual nurturance and support among women” (164).1

  Eager to escape the limited lives of their mothers or viewing them simply as agents of patriarchy (and therefore the “enemy”) to be evaded, many feminists failed to recognize the importance of mothering. Indeed, Astrid Henry observes that many second-wave critics viewed the movement as “a motherless one,” and found “something politically empowering about psychological matricide” (9). It is an exercise in self-delusion on several levels: this “motherless” movement was, as Nadine Muller points out, “built on the substantial political achievements of its forerunners, the first wave feminists and suffragettes” (125). Further, the belief that “psychological matricide” is empowering is a disturbing one; the “act” creates a rupture—a break in one’s lineage. Discontinuity distorts: identity built on self-delusion is not empowering.

  And yet, for much of the twentieth- and on into the twenty-first- century, the assertion that the daughter must break free of the mother in order to achieve “healthy” maturity has held considerable sway.2 Drawing on the work of Lacan and Kristeva, David Rudd contends that “in order for a person to take up their place in the world, distinct from the mother figure who once provided all and everything, the maternal must be set apart. In this process, the mother, associated with a time prior to the emergence of individuality, comes to represent a realm of non-being, of all that one is not” (166). Separation not only is crucial to individuation but it results in the inevitable negation of the mother. What could be more natural? A bond based upon mutual love and respect insists Rich: “the psychic interplay between mother and daughter can be destructive, but there is no reason why it is doomed to be” (245). The key is a “strong sense of self-nurture in the mother,” Rich proposes (245). Rich writes against the patriarchal depiction of mother and daughter and invites other feminists to join in the process of reclaiming motherhood. To do so is, as Andrea O’Reilly (borrowing Toni Morrison’s term) observes, to write against “the master narrative ... that this relationship, particularly in the daughter’s adolescent years is one of antagonism and animosity” (Redefining Motherhood 70). In this “patriarchal narrative of the mother-daughter relationship” the “daughter must distance and differentiate herself from the mother if she is to assume an autonomous identity as an adult” (70). Critiquing the patriarchal narrative is a vital step in heeding Rich’s challenge for a new definition of motherhood. When analyzed from a feminist mothering perspective, Coraline and MirrorMask can be read as participating in this process.

  The distinction Rich made between motherhood (as institution) and mothering (as practice), Andrea O’Reilly insists “was what enabled feminists to recognize that motherhood is not naturally, necessarily, or inevitably oppressive, a view held by many early second wave feminists” (Mother Outlaws 2). The potential for mothering, “freed from the institution of motherhood,” to be “experienced as a site of empowerment, a location of social change,” O’Reilly suggests is the key legacy of Of Woman Born (2). The difference in approach is signaled by the preference of mothering with its emphasis on action to motherhood. This shift in the concept of mothering is increasingly important for a number of third wave feminists as they explore the possibilities of feminist mothering.3

  What is feminist mothering? Despite entitling her book Feminist Mothers, Tuula Gordon concedes the difficulty of definition. She offers a tentative explanation that suggests feminist mothering is found in

  the way in which [mothers] challenge and criticise myths of motherhood; the way in which they consider it their right to work; the anti-sexist (and anti-racist) way in which they try to bring up their children; the way in which they expect the fathers of the children to participate in joint everyday lives; and the way in which many of them are politically active [149].

  Slight modifications to Gordon’s model are required to apply it to Gaiman’s texts, but Coraline and MirrorMask, with their pairings of good/evil mothers, clearly “challenge and criticise myths of motherhood.” Mrs. Jones and Joanne Campbell work without apology, encourage their daughters to be self-sufficient, and rely on the fathers’ involvement in the family dynamic. To borrow Gordon’s words, the characters “challenge traditional practices of gender socialization and perform anti-sexist child-rearing practices so as to raise empowered daughters.” Gaiman creates examples of feminist mothering in both Coraline and MirrorMask but we need to look beyond the “false” mother in order to find it (11).

  It is easy to recognize the flaws of the other mother and Dark Queen: focused on their own needs and desires they wield power with no concern for the impact of their actions on others. It is tempting to construe these characters as examples of feminine agency gone terribly wrong—the “too-powerful (phallic) mother” that Parsons, Sawers, and McInally identify (371). But a closer examination of the other mother and Dark Queen suggests that the problem is not power itself but its distortion; on several levels, the pair actually represent the ideal patriarchal model of motherhood. Fiona Joy Green offers the following definition of the ideal mother found in “mainstream media, advertising, and entertainment”:

  She is a heterosexual woman who stays at home with her children while her husband ... works in the labor force to support them financially. Because of her “innate” ability to parent and her “unconditional love” for her husband and children, the idealized mother selflessly adopts their wants, needs, and happiness as her own [127].

  Given that the Dark Queen has no mate and the other father is simply the other mother’s tool, they clearly stray from the “ideal” family dynamic. Adding to the discrepancy is the fact that neither of these mothers puts the needs of the daughters before her own. The actions of the Dark Queen and other mother are driven by their own agendas. Nonetheless, I would argue that the core of the ideal—that a mother’s love should be all encompassing, that the nurture and protection of the child is her primary mandate—is at the center of these two troubling characters. Gaiman’s Dark Queen and other mother, in their own ways, love their “daughters.” The problem is not the absence of maternal affection but the direction it takes.

  Helena’s first encounter with the Queen of the Darklands is anticlimactic to say the least. Transported by the Queen’s guards in a net like “a web of darkness,” Helena tumbles out onto the floor to find the Queen looking down from her throne (MirrorMask 47). Cue the dramatic dialogue! Instead, the Gaiman’s Dark Queen states: “I don’t know what kind of time you call this ... I’ve been worried sick about you” (48). An unexpected, but highly maternal, response; the kind any mother might make. An extraordinary situation is domesticated but what follows challenges that label. Helena “pleaded with her to let me go, and to stop her clouds and birds from hurting the world ... ‘I’m not your daughter,’ I
told her. She looked me up and down, as if she was coming to a decision. ‘You’ll do,’ was all she said” (48). The Queen has been destroying the world in her quest to recover her lost daughter. It is a willingness on her part to sacrifice everything in the name of maternal love. The quick shift from the daughter to a daughter suggests that even the child can be sacrificed in the Dark Queen’s version of mother-love.

  Unlike the Dark Queen, with her willingness to destroy the world in pursuit of her daughter, the other mother builds a world to lure Coraline. As the other father explains, she made “the house, the grounds, and the people in the house. She made it and she waited” (71).4 In further contrast to the Dark Queen, the other mother does not have a “day” job; her entire being centers on her role as mother. She comes closer to the ideal by offering Coraline what she does not find at home: delicious food (29), a room that “was an awful lot more interesting than her own bedroom” (30), and undivided attention (33). Coraline’s “needs and happiness” seem to be fulfilled by these alternative parents—specifically the mother—in a way that her own parents do not and indeed cannot. The other mother’s domestic skills shine in this first encounter. She is the epitome of the perfect homemaker. And yet, while Coraline is enticed by this other family, she is also cautious, rejecting the maternal gesture of the other mother stroking her “hair with her long white fingers” (44). As appealing as it is to be the center of attention—the center of the other mother’s world—Coraline opts for reality, unwittingly triggering a more aggressive plan on the part of the other mother.

  In her second encounter with the other mother, Coraline discovers she is not the first child the other mother has pursued. Locked in the mirror until she is “ready to be a loving daughter,” Coraline meets three ghost children who warn her that the other mother “stole our hearts, and she stole our souls, and she took our lives away, and she left us here, and she forgot about us in the dark” (79, 84). Much like the Dark Queen, the other mother has the ability to shift her focus to a new child when the “old” one no longer fulfills her needs; however, the other mother takes it a step further and feeds on the children she professes to love. The concept of the child is more compelling for these mothers than the reality of the individual child. This point is apparent when the models of behavior imposed by the Dark Queen and other mother are considered. For Helena, “life as a princess was divided into periods: I’d wake, I’d eat, I’d play with my toys, I’d study a large book called 17,011 Things a Princess Must Know ... I’d sleep” (53). It is a regimented routine designed to create the perfect princess: compliant and well-mannered. The other mother envisions a similarly structured day for Coraline: “this afternoon we could do a little embroidery together, or some watercolor painting. Then dinner, and then, if you have been good, you may play with the rats a little before bed. And I shall read you a story and tuck you in, and kiss you good night” (78). While Coraline is not being groomed to be royalty, she is being shaped into a proper young lady who is also compliant and well-mannered.

  As controlling as the pair are, their surrogate “daughters” concede that they are also loving. Helena’s new bedroom has “two eyeholes in it, so that the Queen could watch ... from her throne room” (52). The surveillance by the Queen is oddly reassuring: “I was pleased she watched me. It made me feel loved” (52). The line between repression and reassurance is blurred for Helena. Her parents’ attention is also something Coraline craves but she too discovers that it can be detrimental when taken to the extreme. The other mother’s “voice did not just come from her mouth. It came from the mist and the fog, and the house, and the sky. She said, ‘You know that I love you’” (106). It is an all-encompassing love, a consuming kind of love—a point the cat hints at earlier in the book. In response to Coraline’s query “why does she want me?” he surmises “she wants something to love.... She might want something to eat as well” (65). And yet, Coraline cannot deny that it is love: “it was true: the other mother loved her. But she loved Coraline as a miser loves money or a dragon loves its gold ... she was a possession, nothing more” (106). The love that these would-be mothers offer is distorted and distorting. It can only be gratified if the daughter relinquishes any claim to autonomy or individuality. Helena drives home this point in her confrontation with the Dark Queen: “you have to let [your daughter] grow up” she asserts. The Dark Queen initially appears to understand: “You mean ... let her choose her own clothes. Her own food. Make her own mistakes. Love her, but don’t try to possess her?”—but rejects the idea—“Absolutely out of the question” (66). Relinquishing control of the daughter is not an option that the Dark Queen or other mother is willing to consider. It is this need for absolute control, more so than the ability to spew out darkness or see through button eyes, which makes these characters so unnatural.

  The task of deciphering what makes the “bad” mothers bad is quite straightforward but determining what makes the “good” mothers good is a little more challenging. Are Mrs. Jones and Joanne Campbell “good” in their own right or simply by default? Based upon traditional depictions of motherhood, neither woman fits the model of a “good” mother as it is summarized by Elizabeth Podnieks and Andrea O’Reilly: “writers draw on age-old dichotomies to position the mother who is seen to be selfless, sacrificial, and domestic as angel/Madonna (‘good’), the mother who is judged to be selfish for seeking autonomy beyond her children as whore/Magdalene (‘bad’)” (4). Gaiman plays with this dichotomy and, in the process, challenges rather than reinforces it. In effect, he reverses the pattern Adrienne Rich identifies as confronting many young women who “split themselves between two mothers: one, usually the biological one, who represents the culture of domesticity, of male-centeredness, of conventional expectations and another, perhaps a woman artist or teacher, who becomes the countervailing future” (247). The other mother in this paradigm is the engaging and invigorating symbol of a more fulfilled life. Rather than a desire to escape the stifling domestic mother, Coraline (briefly) turns away from the “choice of a vigorous work life” Rich links with the countervailing figure (247). In contrast, both the princess and Helena strive to escape the control of the mother who refuses to allow them to grow up.

  For Mrs. Jones and Joanne Campbell the independence of their respective daughters is desirable. As working mothers, they require a degree of self-sufficiency on the part of the girls; Coraline and Helena are encouraged to think and act for themselves at crucial points in the texts. In stark contrast to the other mother and the Dark Queen, the real mothers are relegated to the periphery for much of the narratives but their “presence” is highlighted in pivotal moments. Presented from the perspective of Coraline, her mother is perpetually distracted by her work and unable to comprehend her daughter’s desires. The evidence used to indict Mrs. Jones: she fails to entertain a bored Coraline (6); she is distracted by her work, requiring Coraline to remind her to shop for school clothes (17); once on said shopping trip she ignores Coraline’s request for “Day-glo green gloves” in favor of the school uniform (23–4); she fails to ensure there is food in the house (24); and, worst of all, she leaves Coraline to tend to her own cut knee (139). It is an open-and-shut case; verdict: Mrs. Jones is a neglectful (ergo, a bad) mother.

  Joanne Campbell’s “failings” as a mother are nowhere near as extensive: she argues with her daughter, falls ill, and does not reassure Helena who “wanted her to hug me tell me everything was okay and she’d be out of the hospital tomorrow” (7). The mother does not comfort her daughter because she cannot: it is the night before her surgery, Helena will learn. Her absence is not her fault, thought the trauma felt by Helena is nonetheless real, but Mrs. Jones’s is by choice. She puts her work before her child. Beyond the knee-jerk reaction, however, Gaiman’s depiction of motherhood is more complex; while her work is a key part of Mrs. Jones’s character, she is nonetheless maternal. She offers suggestions for Coraline to occupy herself (6); she stops that (contentious) work in order to satisfy Coraline�
��s curiosity about the door (8); she encourages Coraline’s explorations but with boundaries (6, 13); and, in a moment of crisis, it is her voice that empowers Coraline (134). Clearly, Mrs. Jones is a non-traditional mother. She is not a domestic figure by any stretch of the imagination, but she is not a truly neglectful mother. Even in Coraline’s eyes (or through, since Coraline’s perspective dominates), her mother fulfills the expectations of a “good” mother: “Her mother made her come back inside for dinner and for lunch. And Coraline had to make sure she dressed up warm before she went out, for it was a very cold summer that year” (6). The note of complaint—“made,” “had to”—is quite revealing. Coraline vacillates between chaffing under her mother’s attention and craving more of it. This “ambivalence and anxiety ... existing between mothers and daughters,” is fairly typical of matrilineal narratives contends Yi-Lin Yu, author of Mother She Wrote: Matrilineal Narratives in Contemporary Women’s Writing (25).5 In fact, it is the “working out of their conflict and dissension that reconnects mothers and daughters” (Yu 25). Gaiman opts for this realistic approach rather than an idealized vision of the mother-daughter relationship. He does, however, “remove” the mother from the picture for a considerable portion of each text.

  Literary mothers are often the “casualties” of authors. The missing mother has become a common motif. Given the influences of Gothic and Romantic literature on Gaiman’s works, Susan Peck Macdonald’s assessment of the absence of mothers in early Victorian novels is applicable to both MirrorMask and Coraline. She contends that it derives “not from the impotence or unimportance of mothers but from the almost excessive power of motherhood; the good, supportive mother is potentially so powerful a figure as to prevent her daughter’s trials from occurring, to shield her form the process of maturation and thus to disrupt the focus and equilibrium of the novel” (58). On a practical level, the plot requires the absence of the “good” mother—too much support and nurturing leaves little room for the character of the daughter to develop or dramatic incidents to unfold. Macdonald concludes, “if she is dead or absent, the good mother can remain ideal without her presence disrupting or preventing the necessary drama of the novel” (58–59). Macdonald does not define this ideal, but she does use the terms “strong” and “supportive” several times. Based upon these criteria, both Joanne Campbell and Mrs. Jones can be read as the “good” mother. The moments when they “re-enter” the narratives are highly significant to their daughters’ outcomes.