Musings About a Clubfoot (2)
"Ma mère, Dieu et Sylvie Vartan", the novel : we now know more about the author's feelings.
The first article from Go, Legs, Go! revealed the major omission in the recent film Ma mère, Dieu et Sylvie Vartan: the protagonist’s feelings. 'But the character being explored here is the mother of the disabled little boy, after all!' I am rightly told in response. I stand by my point: when addressing the subject of healing a clubfoot, the person most directly affected deserves more attention than he was given.
The novel that inspired this feature film, published in 2021, somewhat reconciled me with this frantic mother and the notion of “miracle”, and provided modest answers to my questions. What went on in Roland Perez’s head, in his legs, in his journey toward walking?
Dreams, Patience, and Secret Attempts
We learn that the three surgeries the baby underwent before being returned to his parents achieved nothing. How hard it is to imagine—a tiny human just hours old placed under the scalpel rather than at his mother’s breast, for zero result. He would be left with 'a large scar running the entire length of his calf' and, 'at the end, like a small lifeless animal, a sketch of a foot, without a heel and all shriveled up.'
And yet, as if it were a matter of existential necessity, Roland knows he will walk like everyone else. His mother promised him, of course, but throughout the story, we feel the child’s curiosity, delight in being stimulated by the outside world, and desire to travel. While waiting for the remedy that will let him see the world from higher up, he drags himself across the apartment floor. Roland lives on the ground and happily wanders 'between the legs' of his loved ones.
When I was alone, I would dream. I imagined the time when I would be like everyone else. I saw myself walking, running with lots of friends, living out amazing adventures. I was tired of depending on others, of being carried around like dead weight. The treatment would work, I knew it, and soon I would be free.
I never felt different, never once did I see pity or sorrow in my family’s eyes. All their love—so immense—lifted me up and erased any trace of sadness or frustration. I walked in my mind, quite simply.
He walks in his mind. It's true—that’s what remains when one is a prisoner of their own body: the freedom to dream.
One question keeps nagging at me: how does Roland manage to wait? He impresses me. He worries me, too. Believing in divine miracles can be harmful, not only because they rarely come to pass, but also because thinking about them can keep you from living in the present. And yet, he’s already secretly stepping into the reality of life. Alone in the apartment, he stands on his only functioning leg (what an effort!) in the hallway, which he calls 'the path to glory.' But what a wait…
Docility and Frustrations
What a wait, for our Roland is truly obedient! Probably out of fear of doing something irreparable, he never puts weight on his 'sick foot'—not even secretly, not even fleetingly! He was told it could worsen his deformity and could affect his hip. That’s exactly what happened to me: my foot gradually deformed from improper positioning. What would have happened if I hadn’t been encouraged to walk? If I hadn’t wanted to walk myself? Did the doctors already know, from my first steps, that my foot would become deformed? Is it a case of harm done for a greater good—a painful but necessary compromise?
The Perez family’s path—somewhere between deference to and distrust of medicine—reminds me of my own family’s, and likely that of millions of others. The dozens of specialists consulted deflect responsibility onto one another, onto the family, onto life itself: they should have consulted earlier, there’s nothing more to be done, the foot is now formed and cannot be changed, the child will limp and need special orthotics and shoes. One of them, stingy with details, proposes a new surgical operation. Esther refuses after seeing that some of his patients walk with a limp. How can one know whom to believe? Hats off to the parents who make decisions alone, guided by nothing but their conscience in the dark.
Esther wants it all or nothing. She seems unreasonable, and yet, how can one blame her, in front of a cold system that reveals nothing and seems content with very little? She reminds me of one of the rare moments when I felt anger toward a doctor. At the very beginning of my adolescence, this man—whose specialty I don’t remember—watched me move, undress, dress, tie my shoelaces, and questioned me. After informing us that nothing in his opinion could be done, he sent my mother and me on our way. Tears welled up in my eyes because I lacked explanations. Because this doctor lacked ambition and courage. His report would later state that I was completely autonomous (because I could button my shirt, imagine that!) and that he was not worried about my future. In hindsight, I suppose he simply wasn’t competent in the area I was expecting him to be: walking.
Similarly, how can one blame a little boy, who lives a sheltered childhood, for believing firmly in the miracle predicted by his mother, for accepting his condition made of love and security (he even calls the social worker who wants to send him to school a 'traitor'!), when the white coats make him feel more humiliation than relief?
Shame and Little Lies
Roland was ultimately treated illegally by a bonesetter, although Esther’s choice to resort to this, it seems to me, stemmed less from obscurantism than from a desire to exhaust all available options. Not once does the adult he has become mention the physical pain he endured to heal. Yet, the treatment was intense:
For 18 months, he used a leather brace during the day, a leather brace at night, a splint keeping his leg stiff, attached to the braces according to precise instructions—all worn while lying down (it’s painful!);
Two months of rehabilitation (that’s painful too!);
One year of walking with 'horrible brown high-top shoes,' 'undifferentiated, meaning identical for right and left' (that’s heavy!).
While he mentions the 'thrill of transgression' he felt during his first steps at the age of seven, the author expresses, beyond his fear of leaving the family home, the psychological violence of this ordeal. Enduring 'a year of mockery and swallowed shame,' with his peers mocking his 'clunky shoes,' Roland would rather have his old foot back. It takes courage to cross the in-between, the gulf between the person the world has always known and who we have become. To accept a new image, having once again done things differently from others. Sometimes, this courage comes through little lies that silence the curious: '— Do you limp? — No, it’s because my shoe hurts me.' We redirect our resentment onto whatever we can. A large part of my own shame after the operation that straightened my foot came from those Converse-style sneakers—fake Converse!—that we had cut to fit my cast. Even with a supposedly brand-new foot, I still had to be different with ugly shoes… (Don’t worry, at nearly 35 years old, I’m still superficial: I only buy brand-name shoes.)
Once again, the role of the parents is crucial. They must balance the constraints imposed on their child and know when to ease up. Esther eventually buys her son Clarks shoes before the end of the treatment, to replace the orthopedic shoes he cannot stand. It didn’t seem to harm him later on.
Initially put off by the irrational psychology of this eccentric mother, I eventually came to understand her, so deeply does the author’s writing convey the love and hope that define her. She is a resilient person who deludes herself about everything, convinces herself of what she knows to be false, and therefore sees the glass as half full. So much so that, as the pages went by, I too thought, 'Yes, it’s a miracle!' It’s a miracle that Esther stumbled upon the healer’s name, a miracle that she decided to follow through, a miracle that the treatment worked, while the advocates of science had given up.
This short novel reads easily and often brings a smile. It offers nuances that the film rushes past too quickly to make clear. I highly recommend reading it.
However, the author doesn’t tell us everything. Would he have wanted a prosthetic device to attend school from a young age? (I imagine the question is moot.) What do his right foot and leg look like today? How does he walk? How does he feel now? Is he, in the end, like everyone else? Perhaps these questions—and answers—are too intimate to share.
Roland Perez offers us a clue, in the form of a riddle:
I made a vow never to forget those who cannot walk, those who are forever condemned to remain on the ground. Could Esther have saved them too?