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My confirmation hearings

by David Harrisson, French

Like many of you, I spent part of the winter break watching the confirmation hearings of Samuel Alito, nominee for the U.S. Supreme Court. And as I watched Alito parry the various questions, avoiding any substantial commitment to abortion rights or affirmative action, I had one overriding emotion.

Envy.

No, I'm not jealous of Alito for his power--the fact that he'll soon be in a position to put restrictions on women's rights, or that he may cast the deciding vote in a legal challenge to university admissions practices. Rather, I'm jealous of Alito for his wife: the sweet Martha-Ann, who sat behind him during the hearings, proudly supporting him at every moment and weeping with love when he was asked if he was a bigot. My resentment toward the judge grew even greater when I read a profile of Mrs. Alito in the New York Times.

"Oh, Mavis," I sighed to my wife, "why can't you be more like Mrs. Alito? It says here in the paper that she gave up her library career in order to support her husband. What devotion! What feminine sacrifice!"

"You know I can't hear you when I'm under the sink."

Mavis was changing the pipes in the bathroom, a task that surpassed my own limited mechanical skills. As I handed her an adjustable wrench, I bent down and spoke louder.

"Mrs. Alito says that she knew she would marry her husband within 20 minutes of meeting him for the first time. Mavis, did you know that you would marry me within 20 minutes of our first date?"

"Let?s see, within 20 minutes your front tire had blown out and I was unscrewing the lug nuts on the wheel."

"You replaced them in less than 15, my little greasemonkey. But more important, did you immediately know that I was your life partner, your raison d??tre, the man who would give meaning to your existence?"

"I knew that you drove a Dodge Omni with cheap radials."

This was exactly the kind of cruel insight that made Mrs. Alito, with her suppliant eyes and modest cream-colored suit, appear even more fetching.

"Mrs. Alito spends her free time driving her daughter to swim practice," I haughtily remarked. "Mavis, why don't you drive Junior to swim practice?"

"The county closed the pool after that last tax cut. But, if it makes you feel better, I drive Junior every day to her $5.50/hour job at Dollar-Mart."

Hmmm ? driving to Dollar-Mart didn't seem that noble. Perhaps I could shame Mavis into imitating Mrs. Alito's charity work.

"Mrs. Alito raises money for her daughter's athletic program. She even sponsored a pasta party for the team. Why don?t you do that kind of fundraising for Junior's activities?

"Because I spend most of my time fundraising for our next mortgage payment, not to mention Junior's last medical bill. And don't forget our student loans' I bet that woman doesn't have such debt."

How presumptious of Mavis! I'm sure that when Mrs. Alito attended the University of Kentucky in the early 1970s, tuition was at least $200 per semester! But why squabble over the woman's financial difficulties when it was her moral character that was so exemplary?

"According to this article, Mrs. Alito teaches religious classes at her church. Dear, why don?t you teach Sunday School?"

"I?m Jewish, remember?"

Details, details! Sensing that I was getting nowhere with this line of attack, I turned to my ultimate recourse?the question that would decide for certain just what kind of spouse I had.

"Mavis, would you break down weeping if someone asked me if I was a closet bigot?"

"Honey, I think you came out of that closet when you had me build the anti-immigration fence around the house. Now, if you don't mind, could you hand me that hose coupling?"

See? How can I possibly attain the heights of success that I clearly deserve, when I am married to such a strong, independent-minded woman? But I haven't yet abandoned hope. Even if the symbolism of Mrs. Alito was lost on Mavis, I can still bring forward the example of another former librarian whose self-denial and unquestioning devotion to her husband should be a model to women everywhere.

Laura Bush.

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