What We Talk About When We Talk About "The Village"

As Millennials struggle to reach traditional milestones of adulthood, we romanticize & misremember a system that operated under rules we would never accept today

HEY THIS IS A SUPER FUN TIME TO BE A PARENT, AM I RIGHT OR AM I RIGHT?

Spoiler: It’s fuckin’ not.

And since Senate Republicans smugly shot down protecting the right to birth control right after we all had the honor of listening to Kicky Kicky Ball Boy, the Very Specialest Boy Ever to Grace Us with His Luminous and Wise Eminence, mouth off about what a waste of time it is for a woman to be anything but an adoring, silent wife and mother, silently raising as many babies as he wants, making bread silently from silent scratch, never asking for anything (more silence, girl! Where’s your head?) but his bimonthly (not guaranteed) glance her way and occasional remembering of her name (plus up to 75% of the children’s names!) as she watches him, silently, like a nervous border collie awaiting the next command and/or punishment, I THOUGHT WE COULD HAVE A LITTLE TALK ABOUT THAT.

Most of our culture is still clinging by its claws to the bedrock assumption that every household has a stay-at-home parent to deal with sick days, snow days, half days, Covid outbreaks, doctor’s appointments, playdates, extracurriculars from straight out of the womb, regular 9-5 business hours meaning no one has time for basic offline life logistics, least of all the people working those shifts, the crushing expectation of constant child-enrichment and engagement and no unsupervised time but don’t forget to serious limit and oversee any screen time, every single thing costing 2-3 times as much as it did three years ago when everyone also needed two incomes to make a go of it because go fuck yourself, that’s why (especially you, Joe Biden! Ha ha it’s not your fault but everyone’s gonna blame you anyway!), including child care of any type, school hours that don’t cover work hours, spring break, winter break, mid-winter break, and the looming eldritch creature called summer break (and don’t start, because I love my kid, but it’s three months with nothing but camps that cost more than cars, waiting lists, nannies and babysitters that cost more than trucks, and zero jobs, not even teachers, that take three months off every year. I used to think parents who looked forward to fall so school would start were the ones who never wanted to be parents, but I get it now, it’s brutal).

And on and on. Yet most households do not have a stay at home parent. What they have is (usually, not always) one parent who is working full-time and also constantly struggling to cover the enormous amount of labor and time that goes into raising children and maintaining a household—even if that one parent is married to someone who is working full-time as well. It’s mind-breaking shit, and there rarely seems like any way out or through.

Especially when suddenly, the news and social media and a bunch of rich white assholes who enjoy life as a perpetual child, pampered, cared for, shielded from harsh truths, and indulged in their loud but totally naive and bizarre opinions by a small army, only some of whom are paid, are screaming at us that we all need to have a bunch more kids on the chop-chop, and seem totally baffled as to why that hasn’t made the continent tilt with all women bolting toward maternity wards.

Murderface knows what’s up

Almost every parent I know has an all-access unlimited strugglebus pass to this journey. It crosses just about every demographic boundary—I assume the very wealthy can pay their way through it, but what the fuck would I know about them. And I hear so often, from so many people, online, offline, in group chats, everywhere, that it didn’t used to be this way, that it shouldn’t be this way, that we need “a village” again, that if only we had a village like our parents and grandparents did, life wouldn’t be this way.

People REALLY forget who popularized this phraseology in American discourse…

Now, I’m not gonna sit here tutting from my high, high throne of…also being totally unable to balance all this, thus failing both work and motherhood daily, and say they’re all wrong. It didn’t used to be this way. It shouldn’t be this way. It is completely unsustainable for it to stay this way, particularly if the billionaire toddlers of the world magically expect more children out of us groveling morlocks down here in the dripping hell-vaults of real life, not less.

But I think most village-less people raising children in the developed world right now are seriously misunderstanding what “the village” is/was and the price it demands, misremembering or misinterpreting our own childhood memories, or both. Or maybe just optimistically longing for a fucking break and imagining a system that never existed, at least not in a way that would actually solve the problem.

First of all, and this is no kind of original thought springing from my own unique and precious brain like unto Athena (who you just KNOW was a major behavioral problem in her preschool class. Just ask Pallas), but it must be said anyway: “the village” was literally always women’s unpaid labor.

OH NO BUCKLE UP I’M GONNA TALK ABOUT GENDER! BUCKLE UP AND PLEASE KEEP YOUR HANDS AND FEET INSIDE THE VEHICLE AT ALL TIMES.

Disclaimers: I’m talking about the west, and even within the west, certain classes, because that’s where this complaint comes from, I’m talking about general trends not specific mold-breaking families who always existed in some numbers, I’m talking about AFAB people regardless of their true gender identity because culturally speaking it was only about thirty-five fucking seconds ago in just a few places we were even allowed to dig into that so most of our grandparents never got the luxury, and as the church liturgy teaches us to intone before the sermon, obviously not all men, but also not all women. LET’S ALL BE COOL I’M DOING MY BEST OKAY?

The thing is, I don’t say the village was always women as a criticism or even necessarily a complaint. It’s simply a fact. You can apply morality to it or not, but the fact won’t change just because it’s uncomfortable. Until extraordinarily recently, the “traditional” division of labor used to leave almost all the assistance dreamed of by my generation as labor to be performed, freely, cheerfully, promptly, unceasingly, and preferably invisibly, by women.

But don’t worry! As St. Mitch used to say, it still does, but it used to, too!

Whether we’re talking about grandparents and aunties and older siblings (and yes, the occasional male relative as well. Often one, who for one reason or another they weren’t allowed to discuss openly, didn’t feel at home with the traditional male side of the family) helping out with the next generation or an actual village in which unrelated people band together to share the load for everyone, it still ends up, most of the time, being a gilded metaphor for a vast network of women providing physical, mental, and emotional labor without acknowledgement or payment.

Many of us remember weekends and even whole summers at our grandparents in our own childhoods. We remember lots of help for our parents and daycare being somewhat unusual for us. Those childhoods, for Millennials on up, were both not that long ago and eons ago in terms of social evolution. For reference, women got the right to use the financial system without a male babysitter five years before I was born.

So I think, I hope, that deep down most of us recall that “grandparents” usually meant Grandma and not Grandpa, at least until the male children were old enough to fish or golf or play pool or nail things to other things or witness a sport or whatever activities Grandpa was going to be doing anyway.

And yes, yes, I know your Grandpa was super woke and wonderful and worked 200 hours a week while doing everything domestic to perfection while Grandma rested in luxury or ran about town on account of being the best man who ever lived and he tenderly nursed all the grandbabies at his own breast.

But generally speaking, for most of us, Grandpa was often still working outside the home. Particularly before people started having babies much later in life. When I was born, my grandfather was 53, and he’d been a somewhat late father himself, at least for his era. My grandmother was only 48. When my son was born, my father was 62 and my mother 64. As the younger grandchildren come, they’ve hit or are approaching 70. They’re not even comparable stages of life. At 53, in the 80s, a man could be expected to be at the height of his career. And while women often worked outside the home in every era, no matter how hard certain influencers dream otherwise, they were so discouraged or, depending on how far back our little wayback machine wants to take us, barred from fields with silly things like career trajectories and big rewards and high incomes, that the person who could make time for kinkeeping was the one who always had.

So much, much more often than not, it was Grandma that we remember taking us in so our parents could take a breath. She raised the OG children, after all. Her ability and interest in constantly nurturing others was expected, and a lot of society’s structures relied on not examining that expectation too closely. FUN FACT, STILL DO!

Much like “holiday magic” was also always women’s unpaid labor, because apart from (sometimes) getting the tree and (sometimes) assembling toys, the cooking and decorating and cleaning and gift-buying, gift-wrapping, card-sending, organizing, hostessing, inter-familial conflict-resolving, child-wrangling, and planning were and very, very often still are, the responsibility of AFAB family members.

She got a robe!

Likewise, in the multigenerational households so many of us are able to fantasize about as a better system because so few of us in our working years now have ever experienced one, it’s the daughters-in law, the aunties, the mothers, the daughters, and especially the oldest, the female cousins, the sisters and sisters-in-laws—and the female members of friends’, neighbors, colleagues’ households—who do most of the work of helping and supporting and organizing and maintaining social bonds.

I’ve spent a lot of time on this point without a whole lot of joking or yelling because it’s most often AFAB folk I hear longing for relief and community and just a little fucking help—and the sheer intensity of that longing creates a TRAGIC misunderstanding of what actually happens in a village.

This “traditional” village we all think we want does not give Mama a break. It is built, stone by stone, on a deep and pervasive assumption that she doesn’t need or want one.

When people imagine this village, they imagine someone being there to lovingly and respectfully take on some of their burdens now and then, which would give them space to live and rest and breathe and think for ONE GODDAMNED SECOND. Maybe even do something for themselves for a change! And then they can return rejuvenated and sane and go back to every day life just worrying about themselves and their immediate concerns.

But that’s not how a village works at all. You only get help because you gave it and will continue to give it. And the more help you get the more you owe. Yep, Granny is there to help with the new baby. And Mama will be on deck for her grandchildren, too. Just like she was for her siblings or her cousins or her neighbors’ children or whatever random fucking baby waddled by. There is no break, not just during childrearing years, but ever. It’s a system that requires a constant cycle of favors, and anyone who doesn’t pay in isn’t going to get much out because the village will hate them like fire and boy howdy if you think social media cancel culture is bad allow me to introduce you to kitchen table gossip because HOLD ONTO YOUR FUCKING HAT. Oh, you don’t have a hat? Maybe you shouldn’t have read that book instead of taking care of the hatmaker’s sick twins twenty years ago, hm? Or, you know, frowned when that hardworking haberdasher said you were pretty just because you were nine. Now you don’t get a hat, and neither do your grandchildren, because the village has INFINITE GIGS OF RANDOM ACCESS GRUDGE MEMORY.

Now get back to folding dumplings. The kitchen table comment section has disabled replies.

So welcome to the village! Your exhaustion isn’t just the twenty-odd years of your own child’s life anymore; you only get help with your own waddler if you’ve helped with everyone else’s from just about the minute you could , and will continue helping with everyone else’s for the rest of your life UNTIL YOU DIE OF A MASSIVE STROKE WHILE MENDING A BLANKET WITH A BABY IN YOUR LAP. (And yes, you guessed it—that is truly and actually how my great-grandmother died. Because after raising six kids and an almost mathematically infinite number of grandchildren and great grandchildren and a few neighborhood kids who had no one else while running a chicken farm for forty years, she was still minding the newest baby up until the millisecond her body gave out.)

And don’t think men were or are just totally outside this system, because they most certainly are not, even in the most “traditional” structures. They might not (mostly, generally) have had to manage the favor-economy themselves or worry too much about holidays or take on the majority of domestic tasks, and certainly in many cultures men had more time to themselves and the privilege to enjoy it, but in any given village, the men were still fixing shit and helping Bob build a shed and networking for money or advancement or both, or coaching or running for office or being part of the Lions’ Club or whatever Grand Order of the Water Buffalo society was available in their era and location.

But the majority of what my generation is crying out for help with isn’t building sheds. It’s the work traditionally done by women that women no longer have the time to do alone. A generation of AFAB people who were raised to forge a full life for themselves just like men…and no one really ever mentioned that the male version of that life tacitly included a spouse who would take care of everything at home. Someone also forgot to spend literally any time whatsoever talking to AMAB folk about other modes of life and work and love and connection they might explore in this brave new world we really, really, hoped would be a bit less shitty than the frightened old one.

And it’s never just the childminding, then or now. It’s remembering who’s sick and who’s dying and who’s bereaved and who’s destitute making an appropriate pain-casserole (or other culturally-relevant misery-carbohydrate) for all of them. It’s petsitting and tutoring and skill-sharing and fixing every item necessary for life and advocating for local issues and raising money for them. It’s knowing every birthday, anniversary, holiday, christening, retirement (for Grandpa only), graduation, birth, death, and never forgetting to acknowledge them the way each villager individually prefers it so no one gets insulted and withholds hats. It’s remembering that when you were broke, Helen gave you half her chickens’ eggs for months so now that Helen is about to lose her house you gotta do something for her or the whole fabric of society is meaningless and also the next time you’re drowning the village will watch from shore and whisper Helen to your slowly-sinking carcass. It’s giving a vast galaxy of rides to a vast galaxy of people: to and from hospitals, airports, relatives, funerals, games, events, schools, voting booths, churches, banks, the corner shop. It’s opening your home and wallet, often indefinitely, not just to your blood family should any of them get injured or ill or lose a job or flee from abuse or be accused of a crime or do that super gross inconvenient thing where humans grow old and need radical care and some needed it from birth, but to anyone in that network of lifelong trades, favors, labor, and support who has been there for you at any point in your life, and then, honestly, probably a few people who didn’t because they did help your spouse or your spouse’s friend or your spouse’s friend’s child. Or maybe everyone knows that person is just one of the few in every generation everywhere who was born a full-on chaos goblin who can’t handle life on any level and now it’s your turn.

Because it’s always someone’s turn.

Now, do we do a lot of those things even in our highly-individualistic society? And are AFAB partners, GENERALLY SPEAKING, still the ones expected to handle all that kinkeeping and emotional labor but also a full-time job that pays well enough to live in this silly-ass world? Yes. Of course. And of course men are taking part in this sphere more than ever, but statistics concerning second shifts and domestic labor are still insanely lopsided.

But as life gets more and more complicated, we just let more and more of those old responsibilities slide, or focus them on biological family alone, or simply refuse to spend our precious free moments grinding for everyone else on the promise of our going around coming around at some point. Or just never have kids at all. But in a village, there’s no such thing as childfree. You’re not exempt—you were signed up for this system of social debt management at birth and someone took care of your shrieking colicky mucus-ful baby butt, didn’t they? If you don’t have kids of your own, you have so much more time to help with Helen’s, right?

Fuckin’ Helen.

I just don’t think working adults these days want to do all that—because it doesn’t mean any real reduction in workload. Most of the time freed up by a village’s support ends up being spent in supporting the village, because everyone pretty much needs some kind of help all the time. And the mental load of remembering and modeling the needs of that huge network of people (even a small family has a large web of connections) sit on the brain stem with the approximate weight of the fucking sun.

And it actually increases the workload in terms of years spent in the clownshow plate-spinning depthless hellpit of child-herding. We like the idea that until we have kids, our time is our own. We like the idea that once the kids are moved out, our time will be our own again. As a culture, we like those ideas A LOT. Even older generations do—Boomer grandparents statistically spend much less time with their grandchildren than their parents did. We want a village to help us—and HOLY SCREAMING FUCKBLOCKS SO DO I—but I see very few people pining to spend their entire lives helping the village. Because you can just…do that, you know? Anyone can. You can start doing favors for your neighbors and I can almost guarantee they will start looking for ways to pay that back or forward.

And we’re all just so tired by the end of the day.

But once you get that cycle going, another problem arises. Another one that is CRAZY EASY to forget if you’ve never actually lived in a multi-generational household or a tight-knit small town. And it’s this.

Every single one of the people who help you in any way, from your father’s brother’s nephew’s cousin’s son’s former roommate all the way down to Helen with her shitty blackmail eggs, now gets a say in how you run your life.

They get to have an opinion on every aspect of how you raise your kids, and also their opinions on the general quality of those kids’s deepest natures, which they will not be shy about sharing. They do not and will not conform to each and every parent’s hyper-specific guidelines for gentle parenting, baby-led weaning, screen-time limits, balanced whole-grains diet, avoiding allergens and pollutants, accepting the identities of those children even if they don’t understand them, or even not actually hitting children in the face for sneaking snacks. They’re going to do what they think is right, what’s easiest in the moment because they’re watching someone else’s kids tomorrow and that list of rules is even longer. And more likely than not, as soon as you can be trusted not to immediately chainsaw yourself in half the second an adult back is turned, they’re going to turf you out on your own with zero supervision apart from other kids who’ll ask if you want to see their dad’s super cool chainsaw before lunch.

This is, in fact, how a lot of abuse and adult-on-child bullying happened in the parts of we middle-aged folks’ childhoods we don’t get quite so nostalgic about. Yeah, sure, we were free-range. And a lot of us got hurt. A lot of us experienced things we never should have at ages that would be shocking now. And some of us just didn’t make it out of childhood. When I was 13, we moved to a small college town just after a bunch of high school kids on their own and fucking around like we all did, pushed a middler schooler they’d bullied relentlessly in front of a train. It was easier for parents and grandparents to let us run wild, but sometimes the wild was exactly what we found.

And sometimes being supervised was worse. If Gam-Gam believed sparing the rod doth spoil the child, you got that rod. If your neighbor didn’t believe in depression or ADHD or autism, you didn’t have any of those things the second you stepped foot in her house. If your aunt and uncle thought you were weak and soft, they made sure you knew it. And if your neighbor hated the kind of person you were, you still had to go over there when Mom had to work or pick up somebody from the hospital, and maybe, just maybe, it made you hide who you were for the rest of your life.

But wait! The village also gets a say in your job, your choice of spouse, your haircut, your hobbies, your pets, how many glasses of wine you have with dinner, every single choice you make in life. Depending on the type of village, they may or may not be able to compel you to choose differently, but they will 100% DEFINITELY opine at length about all of it like an HOA on planet-strength steroids.

We like the idea that we get to decide how to raise our children, whether to have them or not at all. We like the idea that we get to decide our own lives and associations with little to no input from anyone else. As a culture, we like those ideas A LOT. There’s no going no-contact with a toxic relative in a village, no deciding not to care for elderly parents just because they abused you, no surrounding yourself with only positive energy. Your village is your village. You can leave it, but people are people everywhere, and joining a new village is a VERY uphill climb.

I don’t think many of us would give up the individualism and self-actualization we prize so deeply in order to work from cradle to grave dog-paddling in the exact impossible-to-balance sea of troubles we can’t manage for a limited span and just for ourselves right now. Even rural American culture has become more insular and anti-social, less group-minded and more isolated. I don’t think that many of us would take free babysitting in exchange for a whole group of people getting STRAIGHT UP IN OUR BUSINESS about everything and losing all control over our children’s direct influences and formative experiences. I know I’m not letting Dipshit McRacist-Homophobe Esq who has a picture of Mrs. Trunchbull taped in her dream journal take care of my kid no matter how free she is—and she ABSOLUTELY feels the same way about letting a loud feminist queer lefty agnostic with rainbow hair and tattoos like me within five feet of her little soldiers for Christ.

We say we want a village, and we do—in the sense that we want to feel connected and less lonely as humans. That sense of community is certainly a huge gap that’s only being filled with worse and worse nightmares as the years go on. But we seem to want a village where everything else about how modern families prefer to live and pursue their own happiness stays the same, and that’s just never existed anywhere. There is no cultural framework where help flows toward working parents but not from them. Where we are beholden to no one but entitled to support. Where we only have to associate with people we choose to at our leisure. Where there’s always someone to pick up slack for us and manage whatever we find unmanageable.

That’s not a village, it’s a wife. Which is why conservatives, faced with the same difficulties, don’t call out for a village, they start changing laws so women can be controlled again. And that brings us right back around to the beginning. Yeah, it’s great to have someone to do all that and ask for nothing for themselves, but a whole lot of us (not all!) are trying SUPER HARD not to expect fully-realized sentient human beings to spend their whole precious finite lives that way anymore.

We may or may not actually want a village. I have a strong suspicion many of my peers in the mines of middle age right now would run screaming from the actual realities of one. We just want a little reprieve, a little help we don’t have to pay a mortgage for, and it feels impossible without returning to a way of life that necessarily curtails free will QUITE A BIT (citation: all of history forever).

We will have to find a new way. Fill in the social blanks that got forgotten along the way to modernity. We’ll have to build our own systems and hope they last (they don’t, ask any village where a teenager has ever drawn breath). We’ll have to do all the unromantic, tedious, slow, grinding work of fighting for better and hoping that favor comes around before we die (it probably won’t).

And you know, maybe if we weren’t all so fucking tired, we’d be able to imagine what that new way might be.

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY, EVERYONE!