The Hygiene Theory
Aug 31 2010


My mother’s mother was a devout believer
in germs.
She was a modern woman
of the early 1900’s,
who was confirmed at an early age
in boiling, dousing, scrubbing,
brought a missionary zeal
to dusting,
gave praise at the temple of hygiene
for indoor plumbing
Louis Pasteur.

She was immaculate
with her children as well.
And with the fervour of the recently converted
renounced cuddling
refrained from touch
went stiff, when hugged.
Kept her kisses
a prudent distance
from susceptible skin.

Which gets contagious, I’m afraid;
a generation starved of touch
tends to do the same.
So my family was never much
for public displays of affection
physical reassurance
easy expressions of love.
The sins of the mother,
if I may paraphrase.

But something miraculous
overtook my brothers,
who hold their children close,
are deeply engaged
in the minor calamities
of 6 year olds.
I have no family of my own;
but as I approach old age
I may just be learning to let go
as well.

I still believe in germs
have faith in science,
but unlike my fundamentalist grandmother
I am a shameless back-slider,
not nearly pious enough.

She died far too young;
her faith could not save her.
I barely remember grandma Esther
who may have rarely picked me up,
who never let her only daughter
really feel
her love.




I think I struggled with the title of this one more than anything else. I quite like my choice; but I’m afraid most readers may not get the irony. Because the actual “hygiene theory” is an explanation for the epidemic of allergies and auto-immune diseases in the western world. Why was there more asthma in West Germany than the heavily polluted East? Why is inflammatory bowel disease uncommon in Africa, where people harbour all kinds of intestinal parasites? The theory is that chronic exposure to microbes (bacteria, parasites) down-regulates our immune system. So living in the relatively sterile environments of modern 1st world cities, our immune systems rev-up, get hair trigger and hungry for action. The irony here is that my grandmother might have been better off letting her children muck about in the dirt. Of course, it’s easy to judge from the 21st century. In the pre-antibiotic era (and, I fear, perhaps the coming post-antibiotic era), when a simple fever could take a life, those invisible “germs” were an eminently legitimate source of fear.

This is one of the rare poems that’s personal and true. I’ve always felt I would have turned out differently if I had been touched and hugged more, if my family had been more emotionally open and expressive. A few days ago, my mother confided in me that she regrets she wasn’t physical enough with us. But more than her regret, she also gave this explanation …and a lot of things suddenly made sense. The part about my brothers is also true. It’s as if they learned from their own upbringing what not to do, and went about with deliberate intent to do the exact opposite. So they are both very involved and very touchy-feely fathers, and I’m very proud of them for that. As for me, I suppose it’s my dog who gets to be the contented beneficiary of all my repressed affection. (Happily, she’s the least neurotic and best adjusted pooch I know!)

I'm quite pleased with the way I handled the religious metaphor that runs through this poem. There is a tendency to have too much fun with something like that, and over-do it. So I think I managed to impose just the right amount of restraint. I generally dislike confessional poems. I usually find them self-indulgent, more an imposition on the reader than something shared. (Not to mention that I’m far more into privacy than sharing!) So I'm hoping this one has a light enough touch and a congenial enough voice that even the most disinterested reader would find it worthwhile. And aside from that, I suspect a lot of readers may identify with the emotional repression alluded to here.