Cinderella

In this article, (originally written in 2008 for an academic writing class,) I hope to string together three completely separate issues, seemingly unrelated to one another, and I hope to do it with a little panache.

There’s no law that says academic writing has to be, well, purely academic.

Let’s pretend we’re children, shall we? It’s story time, and we’re sitting around on a big colorful rug, being read to by a librarian or a kindergarten teacher. The story? Why, it’s a classic, “Cinderella.” The story begins as many do…

Once upon a time there was a girl named Cinderella…

Wait a minute; what the hell kind of a name is that? According to the story, “Cinderella” is more of a title given to a previously nameless random girl of noble background. (Behrens and Rosen/Perrault 591).

So, anyway, here’s a girl whose own father has forgotten all about her, because his first wife died and left him lonely, and this lazy man cannot conceive of raising his girl-child alone. He marries the first woman that comes along who will have him. This woman has two unattractive daughters, with personalities to match. They take after their mother. These three stereotypical women feel threatened, of course, by Cinderella’s beauty, so they decide it’s ok to enslave her. Does her wuss of a father step up or step in? Not on your life! He doesn’t want to lose a good thing, so he sacrifices his “beloved” daughter to have his own needs met.

This is the point in the story where, apparently, our girl gains her name, and therefore her identity. His daughter becomes a household servant. She lives “among the cinders” (592). When a “fairy-godmother” appears to her one night, and presents her with ways to fool a prince into marrying her, she is supposedly saved.

Not the most delicious life imaginable, admittedly. One might even call it a prison… and speaking of prisons…

In 1973, at the illustrious Stanford University, a psychology professor named Phillip Zimbardo became curious about how prison life affects those inside the prison walls, as well as those responsible for keeping them inside (389).

He conscripted 21 young men from the Stanford student population to participate in a now infamous experiment. His hypothesis was simple enough: if I give half of these guys power over the other half, crazy things might ensue.

The result was crazier than even he expected. Not only did the young men playing the prison guards become totally drunk with power; so did the prisoners become drunk with its lack. In the experiment, Dr Zimbardo played the warden (Zimbardo 389).

If we were to compare the story of Cinderella with the infamous Stanford Prison experiment, we could say that the stepmother is Zimbardo, who acted as the warden of the prison. She convinces her stepdaughters that they are the prison guards (as is the fairy godmother, although she is one of the more compassionate) and the father may as well be the last minute and wholly incompetent public defender, for he is certainly asleep on the job.

Cinderella, then, is the only prisoner. She has completely bought into not only her own role but also the roles of those around her (my guess is the fairy godmother cast a spell over all of them to make the whole ball gown and pumpkin thing that much more dramatic.)

All involved are thoroughly hypnotized by each other and play their parts splendidly. When the prince (bail-bondsman?) finally shows up with Cinderella’s bail – aka the glass slipper (594) – the mean prison guards go to great lengths to keep Cinderella imprisoned, including allowing the warden to chop up their feet (599) that they might fit into the slipper.

As stated before, the fairy godmother is a guard too, although her cruelty is less obvious and more insidious. She conspires with Cinderella to get her out of one prison but eventually lands her in another – married to the prince! (595). Whereas once she was only expected to give up her own happiness and freedom to pick up after everyone in her household, in her new prison she will be given a life of conditional opulence that will last only as long as she is able to reproduce for the prince and provide him an heir to the throne and make him king. But what if her stressful, thankless life, in which she was undoubtedly exposed to toxic cleaning chemicals, left her barren? What of her then? Even if the prince shows her mercy and allows her to live at all, her status will be reduced almost to what it once was – she is after all, only a woman and only good for one thing – making babies. Woe to the poor princess who cannot fulfill this royal obligation.

Not the most ideal of marriage situations after all… Happily ever after? I think not. This is where a contract might come in handy; one much like Alix Kates Shulman’s “Marriage Agreement” (303).

Shulman and her husband drew up this agreement (305) when their marriage started to go south. Shulman was overburdened with domestic duties and had no time or energy for herself. Since they both wanted to maintain harmony in their marriage and family life, they recognized that something had to be done.

In the first paragraph of the contract, they both acknowledge that making more money is a lousy excuse for getting out of housework (305). In the second, they say they both believe that each partner needs time to him or herself (305). They also state that they believe parenting should be shared equally.

If we go back into Cinderella and superimpose this agreement on that story, then immediately, Cinderella loses her name and identity, or at least might share it with the rest of the family, as they would all be doing their share of “sitting among the cinders”.

Let’s do something loving for the poor waif, shall we? Let’s recast the role of the fairy godmother with Alix Kates Shulman and introduce into this bleak and meaningless life a contract – let’s get the stepmother and Cinderella’s father in on it – and since Cinderella and her stepsisters are big girls, they can certainly contribute something to the household.

Well, kids, that’s the end of story time. Any questions?