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Don't ask, don't sell | page 1, 2
Only two years past my rather late discovery of the true identity of Santa Claus (my little brother broke the news), I was still an extremely impressionable child and had believed with my whole heart that Shaklee would change our lives. When it did not, I, along with my parents, lost a part of my innocence that many people still have fully intact well into their 30s -- the part that still believes that yes, Virginia, there is a way to get rich without doing much work or spending much money. And while I remain to this day completely gullible in many areas of life, I am cynical and hardhearted when it comes to inspirational stories about the easy acquisition of filthy lucre. Also Today Home labor The family for sale But it was not until I made the transition from childless professional to full-time mother that I ever had to respond with any regularity to such stories. About a year ago, I started getting the postcards. "Join us for a basket party!" "Come discover what our toys can teach your child!" In recent months, I have been recruited to buy and/or sell pots, pans, utensils, baskets, toys, books, make-up, wall hangings, knickknacks, containers, lotion, vitamins, picture albums and the latest craze, magnets -- the kind that I am supposed to stick on myself instead of the refrigerator. Once I figured out that the nice women I was meeting at play group and church could be sizing me up in terms of my profit potential, my inner sociologist began to analyze the phenomenon. And I remembered my mother. She used Shaklee as a way to move beyond housewifery, to find the sort of work outside the home that the women's movement encouraged her toward. But the women inviting me to parties today seem to have a very different agenda. They have inverted the feminist message of the '60s and '70s, resolving to stay in the home, even when they realize that their ideal, one-income families are crumbling under the pressure of mounting debt. For them, these home businesses are often a last-ditch effort to avoid work-force participation and preserve their identity as full-time mothers. They are a self-captivated audience for these network marketing groups, and since they see that I am a stay-at-home mother too, they must assume that I am part of that audience as well. I never know how to break it to the hostesses and saleswomen giving these parties that I am not part of that audience. I usually beg off with an excuse about not being able to make the party. I ask for a catalog, and if I need to, I make it clear that while I might consider buying something, I am definitely not interested in being recruited. I do not, as that couple did with my parents years ago, engage these women in a discussion of the inherent flaws of pyramid schemes. I don't tell them about my parents' dashed hopes, and about how seldom anyone really succeeds at these things. They are no more open to my message than I am to theirs. We continue the friendship, each of us feeling that she is the Cassandra, each wishing in vain that the other could understand. As I continue to navigate this politically difficult, almost entirely female, network marketing phenomenon, I have to ask, "What happened to the men?" Twenty-three years ago, my parents recruited other couples. These days, all the party invitations we get are addressed to me, and I am instructed to RSVP to the woman of the house. As I talk to my father, a marriage counselor, about this, I am surprised to learn how often these home businesses play a central role in couples' conflicts. As men work longer hours -- to pay bills, to get ahead, to escape -- they have little time for or interest in these businesses. They may encourage their wives to participate, or perhaps they express no opinion at all, but they resist mightily when asked to pitch in, and, not surprisingly, they end up in my dad's office. When I listen to my father describe the distance and hostility between so many of these marriage partners, I begin to understand that the recruitment parties serve yet another purpose; they are meetings for members of a sorority of loneliness, who sell and recruit as a means of connecting with other souls, who gather to create a shared fantasy of collaboratively achieved health and wealth. Soon after she stopped selling Shaklee, my mom found a part-time job teaching adult basic education at the local community college, and she has had that job ever since. She found her place outside the home, a mommy-tracked place, no question, but a place that has allowed her to use her gifts, contribute financially to the household and, above all, be happy. She still uses Shaklee products and speaks fondly of her experience selling them, acknowledging that she and my dad were naive to think they could get rich, but emphasizing that she enjoyed working closely with him and with other friends. And her attitude toward the women who are involved in these home businesses today is kind, empathetic and even open-minded. She goes to the parties, buys a few things, usually gifts for weddings, birthdays and other upcoming occasions, and reports to me that she does know of a woman or two who have made a living wage selling home decorations or make-up. Perhaps it is the fact that she has found the contentment and balance that I still seek that makes her more charitable and less suspicious about these and other matters than I. In fact, maybe I cannot blame the childhood wounds wrought by Shaklee for my cynical tendencies. After all, as compared with what I observe today, my parents' tale of home-business misadventures is as sweet as it is cautionary.
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