Over the past 14 years, the list has become one of the oldest and most respected tools used to measure company cultures and values. To make the list — especially at a time when companies have to offer major perks to compete for the best employees — is widely regarded as a badge of honor, one that companies like Bank of America, Prudential and IBM are happy to receive.

But if you ask journalist Elinor Burkett about this hallowed distinction, you’ll get a more disturbing assessment. She believes that these distinguished companies have set American women back half a century with discriminatory policies that violate the once-sacred feminist canon of equal pay for equal work.

In her book, “The Baby Boon: How Family-Friendly America Cheats the Childless,” Burkett argues that both the family-friendly platforms pushed by politicians across the spectrum and the family-friendly policies adopted by corporate America over the past decade are anti-feminist, regressive and tinged with racism. Such programs, she says, are little more than a politically correct way for affluent baby boomers to milk the system for cash and personal indulgences.

Government- and corporate-sponsored pro-family programs, says Burkett, shift the burden of parenthood off parents — most of whom, presumably, have chosen to have children — onto the shoulders of their childless friends, co-workers and peers.

When the Equal Pay Act was passed by Congress in 1963, it upended a business precept that had stood rigidly in place since women had entered the workforce: that men, because they were more likely to be supporting a household on their salaries, deserved to be paid more than women, who were probably single (why else would they be working?) and responsible only for their own expenses. The act’s passage promised women the “simplest and most basic foundation of economic justice,” writes Burkett.

Almost 40 years later, however, the pro-family programs endorsed by governments and employers now offer just the opposite: unequal pay for equal work. Employees with children get thousands of dollars a year in benefits — extra insurance and unpaid leave, scholarship aid and tax credits — that are denied to nonparents. Those of us who remain childless save untold sums for our employers, Burkett argues; yet these sums are not repaid in other benefits, like extra vacation time or greater 401K contributions.

Burkett also cites an array of less tangible inequalities. Childless employees, she says, are often asked to pitch in to finish a project when their co-workers have to leave early to pick up a sick child. Nonparents may be forced into less desirable shifts to allow parents to spend breakfast and dinner with their children, and asked to cover for parents on holidays. (For example, Burkett writes about a New York Times editor who managed to wreak havoc on the paper’s metro desk simply by handing July 4 weekend work assignments to the staffers who had not worked a holiday in two years — that is, to the newsroom’s mothers.)

While more traditional feminists laud the array of new programs and policies designed to make it easier for women to continue to work while raising children, Burkett sees a world in which women are still rewarded unequally for the choices they make — with the highest rewards going to the women who choose motherhood, the most traditional female role of all. The goal for which feminists labored in the second half of the century — the opportunity to have both a family and a career — was never supposed to be easy or to pay more, Burkett says; it was just supposed to be available.

Perhaps I am dense, but, to me, the “right” to choose both career and family means that no one can say: Look, if you want to work, you may not bear children. Or, if you want kids, you may not work. And, finally, thank goodness, women have gained that right. But having the right to opt for that choice doesn’t guarantee that it will be easy or stressless, or that you will be able to do both at once without keeling over in collapse … Rights are guarantees of opportunities, not outcomes.

Burkett doesn’t appear to be anti-child. Her quarrel lies more with the middle-class boomer women who she says expect society to fund their reproduction efforts, than with poor or working-class parents in greater need of financial support. In fact, Burkett makes the case that government and corporate policies divert benefits from the children who need the most assistance.

Admittedly, Burkett’s argument has some serious flaws. She tears into the multiple tax breaks given to parents, but never manages to break down the costs incurred by raising children, presumably the expenses that these tax breaks are intended to offset. And her sympathy for those who would create adults-only neighborhoods and restaurant dining rooms smacks of intolerance: Pro-family programs may indeed be what she refers to distastefully as “affirmative action for women,” but child-free spaces constitute active discrimination.

An even greater liability, perhaps, is Burkett’s blithe, brief dismissal of any claim that caring for children is a community responsibility. On one hand, she says she is open to a discussion on the social value of raising the next generation:

I accept the proposition that discrimination can be justified in the face of a compelling social interest … I’m prepared to entertain arguments about why there is a compelling need for us to transfer the wealth and energies of nonparents to those raising kids. But I still haven’t heard them framed in any terms that justify giving upper-middle-class parents tax credits and child-care deductions, leave from work to watch Susi dance Swan Lake, or flex-time to check on the nanny.

But Burkett herself fails to initiate that discussion: She produces no zero-population-growth arguments, makes no call for a declining birthrate.

There is, however, a lot about “Baby Boon” that rings true. Burkett is an experienced reporter and a compelling writer, and she has done her homework. She makes her case persuasively and unrelentingly — not just on behalf of the childless, but also for the families living in poverty for whom programs like HOPE scholarships are sadly irrelevant.

Burkett provides statistic after statistic to suggest that America is ready for a backlash against parenthood: the one in four women born between 1956 and 1973 who will never give birth; the 19 percent of married couples who have chosen not to have a child — a figure that has doubled in the past decade, she notes.

She tracks the politicization of “family values,” and maps the bipartisan machinations that led to the Family Medical Leave Act (the creation of which united liberals eager to support women in the workforce with conservatives hoping to keep moms at their children’s sides). She questions the sense of entitlement that middle-class parents seem to have developed; and she asks uncomfortable questions about whether unpaid-leave policies, tax credits and tuition deductions — which primarily benefit more affluent families — are merely intended to pay white, educated Americans to reproduce.

And she lays down a call for change: She suggests that if we are seriously concerned about the status of underprivileged children, we should shift “pro-family” aid to benefit the low-income populations that need it most. She calls for “a national conversation about what claim middle-class and upper-middle-class parents have on the childless.”

Burkett’s is a conversation that many people may not be willing to continue. She makes some very good points, and in many cases I agree with her. But that doesn’t mean I will be chatting up her case at cocktail parties anytime soon. Just try bringing up these ideas around parents — you’re likely to get some cold stares and uncomfortable pauses, as well as some good old-fashioned, in-your-face hostility. Appearing anti-child became a cardinal sin during what Burkett calls the “procreation-obsessed ’90s,” and I’ve got plenty of parental friends whom I’d prefer not to alienate over a public-policy debate.

Burkett’s willingness to speak up in public, at the of risk being called a child-hating shrew, may be her book’s most revolutionary tenet. But her expectation that her ideas may be translated into a revolution in policy is unlikely to be realized — not only because of the multitudes who disagree with her, but also because of people like me: the observers for whom the political has not yet become personal, who agree in private but stay mute to keep the peace.

“Seeing Through Places” attempts to trace lines such as these between past
and present, between the physical geography of her youth and her adult
emotional maps. And many of the essays do offer evocative slices of an
era gone by and raise valid questions about our complex relationships to
the physical world around us. Gordon reflects interestingly, for example,
on her failure to conjure a mental image of her childhood church:

Why is it that I have much clearer memories of Immaculate
Conception Church and of Father L.’s office than I have of our parish
church? I know that it was torn down some time before my father’s death,
that is, before I was seven, but I have memories only of some objects that
adorned it — ironwork, holy water fonts, bowls screwed to the wall with a
cross their only ornament — and the poor box, with its slot and iron
lettering FOR THE POOR … There should be a catalogue of forgetting,
simply a list of names which carry with them no images.

But the volume’s underlying premise — that places as much as people shape
our lives — is a hard sell. Was it the rigid lines of Gordon’s grandmother’s
house that created a young writer who allowed herself to be browbeaten by
an interview subject — or was it the series of fierce authority figures
who had populated her early life? Exactly what effect did the city of
Rome have on the fearful young woman, and what landscape or
architecture was it that changed her into the confident, disciplined adult
who sits down at dawn each morning to sip coffee and write in her Cape Cod
vacation house? Part of the problem is that while Gordon’s adolescence
is vividly drawn, her adulthood seems less clearly outlined; consequently,
it remains a bit of a mystery how the environment of her youth created the
adult we only glimpse.

Still, if Gordon fails to answer all her own questions, she does at least
inspire you to ask similar ones — as I read, I found myself mentally
pacing the hallway of my own childhood home, trying to draw the lines of
my own history. And in fact, Gordon seems to recognize her own failure to
clearly tie these landscapes to her own emotional geographies. After
filling her map with monasteries, cloisters and cathedrals, she ends the
book with what sounds like a confession: “How can I say anything,” she
writes, “except, ‘Now I am here.’”

Gregory Maguire’s new book retells Cinderella’s story from the perspective of one of the stepsisters, in much the same way his first novel, “Wicked,” reworked “The Wizard of Oz” to give the witch’s point of view. In “Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister,” Cinderella is a manipulative, self-pitying child who hates her new family, fears the outside world and holes up at home until a visiting French prince’s search for a bride offers a chance at escape.

Clever but painfully plain Iris — ostensibly the stepsister in question — arrives in 17th century Haarlem during Holland’s tulip mania, with her stolid, mute sister, Ruth, and their mother, Margarethe, after their father’s murder sends them fleeing from their English home. The starving threesome eventually take refuge in the home of tulip importer Cornelius van den Meer; Margarethe is to work there as housekeeper while Iris serves as companion to van den Meer’s lovely young daughter, Clara.

Clara, however, turns out to be petulant, ill-mannered and spoiled rotten, as well as too timid to leave her house. After van den Meer’s wife dies and he marries Margarethe, Clara creates a refuge for herself in the kitchen, taking on more of the household
chores. When Iris gets a chance to apprentice herself to a local artist, Clara urges her stepsister to let her take control of the girls’ shared duties:

“I don’t care if you’re happy or not, not really. But if
you’re gone from the house, I’m the more secure in my kitchen. The more
needed, the more private. Call me Cinderling,” says Clara, standing
straighter behind her mask of ashes. “Call me Ashgirl, Cinderella, I don’t
care. I am safe in the kitchen.”

Maguire’s more complicated version of the fairy tale takes its time in
telling; by the time readers get to the climactic grand ball, they’ve gone
through a surplus of set-ups and foreshadowings, metaphorical gestures and
red herrings. To drive home his politically correct reversal of the Grimms’ preference
for earthly beauty, Maguire weighs down the text with ponderous symbolic
flourishes: a town caught up in pursuit of the fragile but lovely
tulips that plummets into bankruptcy; a painter whose studio, filled with
radiant religious works, distracts visitors from a back room stocked with
portraits of demons and imps; and a convoluted, curious tale of kidnapping and physical
transformation.

Maguires own transformative work is less successful, however. Unlike the heroine
in “Wicked” who emerged as a far more complex and likable character than
in L. Frank Baum’s original, the figures in “Stepsister” seem simply to be
different stereotypes: the outshined, smart but plain heroine; the
bitter old woman clinging dearly to survival. (And, oddly, Maguire’s rewrite only goes so far: Cinderella herself still gets a version of happily ever after.)

J.K. Rowling’s wildly successful “Harry Potter” books prove that fairy
tales can provide fine literary fodder. But Rowling surprises us with her
complex personalities and fanciful story lines; Maguire’s latest, on the
other hand, offers only stock characters and heavy-handed
devices. In the end, “Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister” is just a bit short on magic.

Prine collaborates here with alt-country artists like Iris DeMent and Lucinda Williams, as well as hitmakers like Trisha Yearwood and Patty Loveless. All these pairings ought to work: Prine is a consummate professional, and he’s picked some of the best voices around. But not all the vocal marriages are equal partnerships. Harris’ clear, soft tones, for instance, are capable of smoothing out Prine’s voice, scratchy as old vinyl. But Patty Loveless’ rich alto — capable of belting out hits like “Trouble With the Truth” — is withheld and wasted on “Back Street Affair,” while Irish crooner Dolores Keane, who joins Prine for two tracks, sounds too creamy and cultured to pull off lines like “In a smoky bar/In the back seat of your car.”

Among the disc’s highlights are the four duets with DeMent, whose sessions with Prine kicked off the “In Spite of Ourselves” project three years ago. These include the quirky title track, Prine’s only original song on the album, and the tender “We Could,” which is quite possibly the happiest song DeMent has ever sung. The album’s strongest piece is a clever medley with Lucinda Williams that joins “Wedding Bells” — an ex-husband’s lament about his wife’s remarriage — with “Darling, Let’s Turn Back the Years,” a onetime lover’s woebegone wish to right past wrongs. “Down the aisle with someone else you’re walking,” Prine sings, to which Lucinda Williams replies, “Let’s pretend that time has stopped/And I didn’t go away.” The verses could be the blissful conclusion to a long love story, but the two singers turn the song into a delusional tease. In the end, Prine is left alone repeating, “Those wedding bells will never ring for me.”

Prine ends the album the same way. Despite the passionate declarations of the penultimate “In Spite of Ourselves,” there’s just a chorus of men to back him up on the final track, an old Tex Ritter song. “Dear John,” they sing mockingly on the refrain, “I sent your saddle home.”

We spent the rest of the day together, splashing through the rain for fresh
air and staring at the horizon — the only thing in sight not moving — to
keep our digestive tracts working in a single direction. At the storm’s
worst point, Robert hauled me around to the prow of the boat, where we
leaned out past the railing and dipped back and forth into the waves to
compensate for the ferry’s sickening motion.

I was planning to spend a week working my way down the islands; Robert was
going straight to Santorini. Before I left him at the railway station in
Patras, he scribbled in my guidebook the name of a restaurant in
Santorini. “I’ll be working there, so that’s the best place to find me,” he
said.

I hugged him before I picked up my backpack. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll
see you in Santorini in a week.”

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -
-

Three and a half weeks later I landed on Santorini. I hadn’t meant to be so
late, but each Peloponnese village I stayed in begat another stop in
another town, until eventually I was moving even more slowly than the
Australians whose paths I crossed. Finally, after an incense-laden Greek
Easter on the sprawling island of Naxos, I headed south to Santorini.

The ferry arrived in late afternoon, in streaming sunlight. As
we neared the island, the town of Thmra burst white over the caldera,
splintering over the black cliffs that cupped the island’s harbors. I made
my way into town, drenched by the heat — cold winds had cut through all my
days on Naxos — and stumbling in what I hoped was the direction of the
hostel. At the sound of footsteps behind me, I turned my head wearily; I
did a double take when I recognized the face.

“Robert?” I asked, not sure he’d remember me. Robert looked up and dragged
his lips into a long dry smile. “Aha,” he said, “I was wondering
if you were going to show up.”

He looked at me appraisingly. “You look terrible,” he concluded. “Do you
have a place to stay?” I admitted that I was looking for one. “I’ll take
you,” he said, and headed off at a brisk pace. I wiped some sticky strands
of hair off my forehead and followed.

After five minutes of turning through a series of white stuccoed alleyways, he
stopped and wheeled around. “Here you go,” he said. “I have to head over to
work now; I can take you out later, but it won’t be until midnight. If
you’ll be awake for it,” he added.

I nodded eagerly; I was planning a long nap. “OK, then,” he said, “I’ll
meet you down the road at the Kyra Thira; it’s down there a few blocks on
the right.” He pointed down the lane. I nodded again, too exhausted to chat
more. “Well, see you tonight then,” he said, and walked off.

A few minutes after midnight I stumbled into the pub, blinking in the smoky
room. A mural arched up over the walls, decked with portraits of Dizzy
Gillespie and Billie Holiday; Robert sat at the bar, the only non-Greek in
the room and the only person under the age of 50. I tapped his arm and he
turned around sharply, then softened his shoulders and stood up.

“Have a good evening?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“What would you like to drink? Niko, this is Rachel. Do you like sangria?
Two sangrias,” he said, and ushered me into a booth at the window. We
sipped our drinks quietly; vaguely uncomfortable at the silence, I gazed
outside at tourists staggering by in search of their hotels.

“It’s quiet now,” Robert volunteered finally. “It was busy over Easter, but
all the Greeks have gone home. In a few weeks the Europeans will start
coming, and it will be very crowded.” He pronounced the sentence
deliberately, rolling the word “very” with some distaste.

“Why did you come back here if you don’t like the crowds?” I asked.

He paused. “I lived here for three years — summers here, winters in Italy.
Then I fell in love with a woman and moved to Canada with her. When I left
Canada …” He shrugged. “I hate England. I stopped in Italy to visit some
friends, then I came here.”

We downed a few more sangrias before the bar closed, then walked softly
through the alleys, wandering back to the hostel. An old man came toward
us, tapping the cobblestones with a cane, stopping occasionally to rap on a
few wooden doors. I turned and stared, fascinated, and watched him knock at
the door of the Kyra Thira. He exchanged a few words with Niko, and walked
on. I turned back and looked quizzically at Robert.

“They used to keep the bars open all night here,” he said. “But there are
more and more tourists now. Some of the locals complained, so now everyone
closes at 2.” He gestured in the direction of the tapping cane. “He goes
through town to make sure everyone is closed.”

“Now,” he said. We were at the hostel, standing before the heavy wooden
doors. “Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“Nothing really.”

“Why don’t I take you to Oma?”

“Sure, if you’ve got the time,” I said hesitantly.

“Good. I’ll come for you at 10.” He kissed me quickly on both cheeks,
European style, and held me for a moment, then let go. “Buona notte,” he
said quietly.

“Sleep well,” I replied, then turned into the building.

By 10 the next morning he was standing outside the hostel, leaning back
against one of the whitewashed arches. As I stepped onto the street, squinting in
the morning sunlight, he held up a white bakery bag. “It’s a traditional
Santorini pastry,” he said. I reached in and pulled out one of the sweets,
popping it in my mouth. It was light and honeyed, with a sweet filling
of nuts and molasses. I licked powdered sugar off my fingers as we headed
down to the bus station.

A rich black crescent in the sea, Santorini emerged centuries ago when a
volcano’s eruption left only fragments of its caldera habitable. The
outer, eastern edge of the island slides gradually through farmland to the
island’s glittering black sand beaches; the inner circle drops off
dramatically above the tossing waters to the west.

Oma sits at the northernmost end of the crescent, a whimsical village of
twisting lanes and brightly colored stucco. The hotels tumble down the
cliffs in tiers, clinging to the rock like barnacles; each room looks out
on an amoeba-shaped terrace cut with curved whitewash grids.

At the far end of town, a steep path twines down between a cluster of empty
cave houses cut directly into the soft pumice; most were abandoned after a
1956 earthquake sent the town’s bohemian elite scurrying back to the
mainland. At the base of the path, scattered fishermen worked on their nets
and eased weathered skiffs in and out of the old port, barking affably to each other. Jellyfish lolled in the shallow water around the fishing boats. Freshly caught squid hung from railings outside the port’s three
restaurants. Robert scowled at the construction crew working at the far end
of the small harbor.

“Giorgos says they’re going to extend the road all the way down here. Bring
in all the tourists,” he sniffed, unappreciatively. There were few of us
outsiders down there.

After a while we headed back up into town. Since there was no sign of a
bus, we started walking along the road. The town disappeared in minutes,
leaving us surrounded by wildflowers, fields and scattered buildings. “Just
a moment,” he said after we’d walked a mile or so, and dashed off into a
field. When he returned, he had his hand behind his back. “Here,” he said,
and unceremoniously placed a purple blossom in my fingers.

“Thank you,” I said, but he was already two paces ahead of me. We heard a
roar behind us and started dashing toward the next bus stop. As the bus
pulled to a stop, we crowded on board. Robert looked down at the flower,
wound tightly between my fingers. I looked back up at him. “Thank you,” I
repeated. He smiled.

By 1 that night, I was back in the Kyra Thira. Robert served up glasses
of vodka alongside stories of local politics and love affairs, laying out
the island’s recent history. After the pub closed, we staggered through the
streets out to the caldera.

The wind had picked up, and I wrapped my blouse tight over my thin
sundress. Robert turned to me with a giddy grin. “Well,” he said, hunching
his shoulders, “I guess there’s nothing to do but go home.” He wheeled and
headed down the hill, waiting at the corner for me to follow him.

Robert’s bedroom faced the east, looking downhill to where the backside of
the island slid into the Mediterranean. We were still up at 5 o’clock,
when the morning light started to creep across his porch and through the
slats on the shuttered doors. Robert grabbed the single pillow back from me
and buried his head beneath it. After tossing a few more times, however, he
pushed himself out of bed and strode to the back door.

“Come here,” he whispered. I joined him on the porch, still naked,
shivering in the cold. He pulled me in front of him, wrapping his arms
around me. “Beautiful, no?”

We stood there, my back pressed against his stomach, watching the sun slide
up over the horizon. The night before, while he was at work, I’d stood out
on the caldera watching the sun set on the sea’s western edge. Now, without
a moment of sleep in between, I was watching it come up on the other side
of the world. For one moment, I felt a sense of total completion.

I turned around and looked up into Robert’s face. The corners of his eyes
crinkled as he squinted out above my forehead, and I reached up and traced
the scar on his cheekbone.

“You know, I have to leave at the end of this week,” I murmured. “I know,”
he replied, still gazing out above me. I turned around, leaned against him
and watched the sun press up against the sky.

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -
-

One week later I was on Crete, hiking through the Samaria Gorge. I hated
the gorge. I hated Crete. I missed Robert. The original plan had been to
move on from Crete to Rhodes, and from Rhodes to Turkey, but it all seemed
wrong now, and all I wanted was to go back to Santorini. At the same time,
I felt a vague twinge of feminist guilt: The girl my mother had raised
wasn’t going to give up her voyage for a man.

Was she?

I persevered. I spent a week hating Crete, contemplating
domestic bliss on Santorini. I sat in a waterfront cafe, listening to a
tape of old Al Stewart songs:

Well morning comes and you’re still with her,
And the bus and the tourists are gone.
You’ve thrown away your choice and lost your ticket,
So you have to stay on.

I thought about calling Robert, but I couldn’t figure out how to go about
it. He didn’t have a phone in his empty house, for one thing. There was a
telephone at the restaurant, I knew, but Greece being Greece, trying to
find the phone number would have taken as much time and money as hopping a
morning ferry back to the island. It was an all-or-nothing gamble, and
nothing was going to make the decision easier.

By noon the next day I was pacing on Robert’s front porch. It was, I
reminded myself, perfectly reasonable to expect that another woman was just
waking up in his bed. I’d been insistent about my departure and had given no
warning of my return. It was even more probable that he’d be at work; his
lunch shifts were scheduled to pick up as soon as the tourist traffic did.

Finally I faced the door. I put one hand on the top of my pack, ready to
sling it over my shoulder and bolt in the face of humiliation. I rang the
bell. The door opened and Robert stood there, looking exhausted and frayed
at the edges. The wrinkles around his eyes curved upward at the sight of
me, and he opened the door wider to let me in.

“Well,” he said, grinning, “I guess we’re going to have to buy another pillow.”

Three hours after my arrival, I had unpacked and gotten a job waiting
tables at a nearby restaurant. By dinnertime I sat on Robert’s back porch,
eating tomatoes and feta, watching the dimming fields and listening to the
bells of the donkeys returning home. The air was turning chilly, but I
couldn’t leave the view to get a sweater. A sense of utter bliss melted me,
and I wondered if I’d found paradise.

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -
-

Of course, the story doesn’t end there. Waitressing proved to be far more
frustrating than I’d imagined, and constant tangles with the restaurant’s
Serbian bartender got me quickly dismissed.

Meanwhile, it turned out that the daily 13-hour shifts that make up island
life in tourist season provided somewhat less than auspicious conditions in
which to begin a relationship. Santorini’s sun-drenched beaches might as
well have been a continent away. To us, the midday sun was just a reminder
that we were late to work. Each day, Robert and I would wake up at noon and
hurry to our restaurants. Each night, fading on our feet, we’d meet at the
Kyra Thira for one hurried sangria before closing time. Back at home, we’d
nurse our exhaustion with bottles of Cretan red wine. When we finally
passed out, we’d cling desperately to fitful sleep, starved for more of
each other and ourselves.

Finally, a couple of weeks after my arrival, I found myself on the back
porch at 3 a.m., sipping vodka alone, with Robert passed out inside the
bedroom, his last cigarette smoldering
stalely on the tile floor. I left the next morning and sailed northeast for
Samos. Crying my way through the entire ferry ride, I hugged myself inside
my sleeping bag as the sea winds whistled over the deck. As the boat plowed
through the night I walked up to the prow. I stood in the same spot in
which Robert and I had weathered the Adriatic crossing.

I stared into the darkness ahead of me and tried to convince myself that
the tears on my face were nothing more than sea spray. Three days later I
was on a boat for Turkey. I never saw Robert again.