In literature there’s something called a ficelle. The word comes from the french term for “puppet strings,” and is essentially a character who serves as a plot device, providing information to the protagonist in order to move their story forward without ever really intervening in the narrative at all.
The ficelle is almost always a woman. Though she remains on the margins of the plot, she is essential to its execution. She delivers the crucial letter from overseas alerting death in the family. She escorts the hero to the dinner where he’ll encounter his true love. Without her, the beginning never makes it to the middle; there is no climax or denouement; there can be no happy ending or bitter tragedy.
Despite years of studying English literary jargon, I only recently happened upon the term while reading Henry James’ The Ambassadors. However, in retrospect, I’d been encountering the ficelle my entire life.
She was my mother, my friends, and in too many moments, myself. I would watch her, a spectator in her own life. All in all, her greatest strength was also her most visible shortcoming — she was too invested in the dreams of others. She had a way of weaving together miracles from the most broken of men, but often at the expense of her own.
Though this may seem foolish, it’s not her fault. The ficelle is simply a product of history. For too long, women have been historical agents without agency. They’ve been told to frame the lives of great men, but never indulge in greatness. For too long, the position of ficelle was not only adequate, but admirable. What an honor to be the First Lady, never the president. What a privilege to be the homemaker, never the breadwinner…Mary, never Jesus…Elvira, never Frank. It’s the perfect con, to be ever-present and never vocal — to die shrouded in grace and respectability without the noise or controversy of the iconoclast.
Still, when I think of the ficelle pity never comes to mind. After all, literature, the entire history of the world, has been birthed from the bosom of her casual existence. Instead, I am filled with great admiration and sorrow — for all she and the world could’ve been had she just been allowed to be a character in her own plot.
I think of you often, ficelle, and your sacrifice for the good of the story. I know the greatest way to repay you is to never become you. When I find myself on the margins of the plot I promise to disrupt it at any cost, even if it means becoming the villain. Though I can never repay you, I write in your legacy, knowing the greatest authority I have is that of the author. And when the story reaches its climax and it matters most, I promise I will not let you down. I will write you in.