Headstrong Births

Mythical Maternity Ward: Zeus's Unlikely Delivery Room

The following is a transcript of the phone interview with Chrysanthe, the self-proclaimed deliverer of gods, for a role as a midwife at North Memorial Hospital. The transcript has been edited to highlight portions of the conversation.

INTERVIEWER: I'm intrigued by your resume, Chrysanthe. Particularly your last place of employment listed as…Mt. Olympus? I couldn't find any hospital or clinic by that name. Could you elaborate on your experience there?

Chrysanthe: Absolutely! Mt. Olympus was like the Ivy League of divine healthcare. I was headhunted by the owner, Zeus. Now, back then, there was much pilfering of women by the king of the gods, so I didn’t necessarily have a choice, but I thought it was going to be good work. I come from a small village outside Athens, from a modest household, so I wasn’t going to complain about being forced to work in a divine palace. It sounded promising, at least on parchment. But, as it turned out, my role wasn't quite what I expected.

INTERVIEWER: How so?

Chrysanthe: A lot of divine births were…let’s say, unconventional. Many gods simply materialized; no midwifery was needed. A bit disappointing for a professional like myself.

INTERVIEWER: Could you give an example?

Chrysanthe: Well, take Athena, for example. Back when Zeus impregnated his first wife, Mentis, it was prophesized that Mentis would bear two children. The first, a daughter who would be equal in strength in wisdom to Zeus. And the second, a son who would be more powerful than Zeus. Heaven forbid his godly ego take such a downfall and he pass the reigns of power to the next generation. Instead, Zeus decided to swallow Mentis as a bizarre solution to avoid that fate altogether.

INTERVIEWER: Wait—what? He swallowed his wife?

Chrysanthe: I know, quite the extreme measure, even for a god. Now, I've seen all sorts of strange things in my time, but when I say unto you that I never thought I’d see a male go through childbirth… 

INTERVIEWER: You're saying Zeus gave birth?

Chrysanthe: Exactly. Not long after the, ahem, ingestion, Zeus began suffering from excruciating headaches. Crying out in agony, wailing like a siren in distress. Eventually, Hermes and Hephaestus came by to see what all the fuss was about. And as clever and handy as those two are, they collectively understand little about reproduction. But it was pretty clear to me that Zeus was having contractions. He had never even had a Red Sea tide before, so this kind of pain was all new to him. It made the whole ordeal one long scream from start to finish.

INTERVIEWER: Zeus in labor? That's hard to picture.

Chrysanthe: I, too, would have been surprised. But I sensed all the little signs that Mentis had been with child before Zeus swallowed her. I pieced it together that the child must have still been alive in Zeus somehow. Which is why I whispered to Hephaestus that a Cesarean section was needed. Poor thing thought I was referring to a fancy quarter in Rome. I had to clarify: “No, take your axe and crack open Zeus’s forehead.”

INTERVIEWER: And that's how Athena was born?

Chrysanthe: Precisely. Out she popped from the cleft in Zeus’s skull. The most handsome woman I had ever seen, fully clad in arms of war.

INTERVIEWER: That’s quite a story. How did you handle such a situation?

Chrysanthe: With the same poise and grace I'd bring to any birthing room, whether adorned with celestial gold or mere earthly straw. And believe me, I've seen my share of both. Take it from someone who's mingled with the midwives of Mary—no matter how immaculate they claim the birth of Jesus was, a stable’s charm is heavily marred by dung. Anyway, the point is that you need a midwife who can navigate through the miraculous and the messy.

INTERVIEWER: Well, Chrysanthe, your experience is certainly…unparalleled. We’ll be in touch if we feel this is a good fit.

Ancient Births, Modern Battles

When I first read the birth of Athena, it struck me as oddly fitting for the goddess of wisdom and warfare to emerge directly from the mind of Zeus, especially considering Zeus devoured her mother, Metis, the embodiment of thought and reason. Moreover, Athena's birth raised intriguing questions for me about reproductive rights across different sexes.

Given today's tumultuous debates, particularly with the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the ensuing patchwork of state-specific abortion laws, Athena's story gains a new, thought-provoking dimension. The world is already buzzing with opinions on the topic, and I'm under no illusion that adding my stance will sway entrenched views. However, I will pose a hypothetical to stir your reflections: If the ability to birth wasn't exclusive to females—if all sexes could conceive and bear children—would that shift your perspective on abortion? Would our debates on reproductive rights take a different tone, or would they remain steadfast, grounded in the same principles?

This story can serve as a lens through which we can critically examine our ingrained beliefs about reproduction and autonomy. Just as the myth of Athena's birth defies convention, perhaps our approach to these deeply personal and complex issues could benefit from stepping outside traditional viewpoints.

May your thoughts be as sharp as Athena's spear.

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