bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 3 (1992) — Summer 1992 // Été 1992, p. 13
My father often quoted the saying, “What goes around, comes around.” At the time I thought it meant that, if your friend had chicken pox, sooner or later you were bound to get it too. As the years went by, I realized there are broader interpretations. One such interpretation challenged me a few months ago.
At a clan gathering in the guise of an Embassy Coffee Morning which I was hostessing at the Residence, discussion had turned, as it often does, to the difficulty of being a Diplomatic Spouse — family separation, lost jobs, elderly parents, adjustment trauma, and posting anecdotes. It should be pointed out that once one reaches the exalted Head of Mission status, one no longer has a home, one inhabits an Official Residence, affectionately called the O.R. Hence, I cannot say, “a coffee morning at my home.”
“Oh, Lord,” I thought, “here we go again.”
Resigned to listening to the same old complaints created by a rotational career as expounded by a crop of recent arrivals, I nearly choked on my biscuit when one of the as yet unbloodied proclaimed (apologized?) with a sidelong look in my direction that,
“Of course, it is different for the Older Wives. They never expected to have a Career. And the Ambassador’s Wife is Too Busy To Work anyway.”
It was a toss-up whether to laugh, cry or leap shrieking onto my chair. I was readying for the fray when the really sobering reality of the statement kicked my consciousness awake — the speaker considered me unequivocally one of the Older Wives. What had gone around, had come around. What’s more, they thought the battle was their invention and that nobody had ever railed against the world’s injustices before; that those who preceded them were guilty of passive acceptance. Worse, the implication was that we Older Wives had not even seen the injustice.
Surprise! Surprise! It was not the Treasury Board who decided that more family-life Foreign Service Directives were needed and it was not the Under-Secretary who forced the realization that spousal employment was an issue.
The thought that saved the Official China Pattern for C Posts cup and saucer from becoming airborne was that / had been there; they would be here. I said a mental thank you to that forbearing Older Wife who had not thrown her cup at me in my brasher days of windmill tilting. So I opted for the devil’s advocate role and settled to find out what were the new concerns of the community.
It should come as no little surprise that there were no new concerns. The conversation could have occurred during any of a hundred mornings over the last quarter century. How discouraging. I had expected more of the Liberated and Politically Correct generation of Younger Spouses; more dynamism and less passivity; more constructive activity and less waiting for something to be done for them. During an ebb in the conversation, I realized what I had unconsciously been doing and another turn of the wheel came round. No longer interested in manning the barricades, I was endeavouring to prod the younger generation into activity, to nudge them into broadening personal gripes into more generic problems and to generate some practical solutions.
Had someone done this to me twenty-five years ago? Had I been the manipulatee instead of the manipulator all these years?
The Foreign Service Community Association did not exist in those days. Instead, there was the External Affairs Officers’ Wives Association which had a loose, big sister arrangement that took all the Young Wives under the maternal wing and attempted to show us by example How It Should be Done. The name says it all. The dividing line was between those wives (and they were all wives) who, when abroad, would have an Official Representational Role to play versus those who would not.
While the employee received a smattering of information related to the job; it was accepted that accompanying dependants would be self-sufficient enough to ferret among the community for such support and information as they required when departing or returning to Canada. Self-reliance and a sense of marital and patriotic duty was a highly prized attribute in those days and smiling, stiff-lipped and silent acquiescence to the Exigencies Of The Service was expected.
There were no pre-posting briefings, re-entry workshops or résumé writing seminars. These were not the issues that concerned this segment of the Canadian Diplomatic Corps (the concept of the Foreign Service Community would come later). Instead, it was whether or not the Younger Wives would be able to meet the demands of Representation and Protocol. In the early days, anyone becoming a Canadian diplomat came from the upper class (yes, Canada had and has an upper class); but about the mid-sixties, entry was democratized and attendance at Upper Canada College was no longer a prerequisite. Even the odd Newfoundlander could get accepted into the ranks. This meant that, tsk-tsk, their wives might not have attended Havergill or Bishop Strachan and, consequently, would probably be unfamiliar with the placement of crystal stemware in a formal table setting.
The response to this Potential Situation was a series of coffees, lunches, teas and, once before a posting, a dinner with the Divisional Head. So it was that I left my young babies in the hands of an unknown baby sitter, donned my best togs and assailed the stone fences of Rockcliffe Village for my first lunch-lesson.
At the time, we were living in a third-floor walk-up off Bank Street swamped in student debt and diapers, so I will admit that the stained glass double front doors and dove-grey plush carpeting was a sharp reminder of my position. For an eon I sat between two stalwart ladies from the Soviet Embassy (remember, those were the days of Russophobia). Thank God the Protopopovs had just won the Olympic gold. Every few minutes one could say, “Protopopov” ’, and smile. At the summons to partake of the buffet luncheon (lesson no. 1, “luncheon”, not”lunch”), I carefully placed my coupe de imported champagne on the silver coaster and sought the tail end of the line. I figured that it was a safe bet I should stand behind everyone else.
With discouragement, I eyed the silver casserole holders, Wedgwood dishes and cut crystal stemware. How could I ever afford such things? Clearly, it was presumptuous to think I could ever entertain Important People in Adequate Style. Then I looked at my plate and began to laugh. Tuna casserole! Despite the sterling silver fork, it was still only tuna casserole with canned peas. I had learned my lunch-lesson alright, even though it may not have been the one intended.
Instead of fretting about the trimmings, I started listening to the conversation – family separation, lost jobs, elderly parents, adjustment trauma, and posting anecdotes.
What went around, came around. A quarter of a century later, I found myself sitting in my Official Living Room as a Senior Wife dispensing wit and wisdom on the same topics. I wonder if the Younger Spouses realize that only the quality of the tuna casserole is important?
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 3 (1992) — Summer 1992 // Été 1992, p. 13. Read the rest of this issue →
