I've always thought of myself as a feminist. Equality between men and women is something I strongly believe in. But just lately if been wondering if we haven't been barking completely up the wrong tree. We (meaning a collective we, full in the knowledge that I personally have done sod all except reap the rewards) have fought bitterly for equal rights with men and have achieved a great deal. But I begin to wonder if we've been fighting the wrong fight; the fight for equal status with men for doing the same things that men do; the right to work, for equal pay - for fairness and promotion and equality. And of course I want those things too. And have benefited from them. I've been one of the lucky ones. A free university education, a good job, good opportunities. A husband and children. I wanted to work and I did. I found a carer for my children - one of my best friends. She wanted to stay home with her children and offered to look after mine too. It worked brilliantly and I'm not complaining and I don't regret my choices. The children love her and she loves them. I wanted it all and I got it all. I've been lucky. But just lately I've been thinking more and more that the feminist movement has got the wrong end of the stick somewhat. Now we have equality at least in law if not in fact - it's illegal to sexually harass, its illegal to pay less for the same work, its illegal to promote a man just because he's a man. We have maternity rights and employment rights - just like men. Better than men, some would say. But we're still not equal. A man can achieve greatness, acclaim and fortune for doing what men do. And women also can achieve greatness, acclaim and fortune for doing what men do. But not for doing what women do. There is no social status attached to having children. We don't get paid for it. We don't get a medal or a bonus or a raise. We get poorer. I continued to work but paid for my childcare out of my taxed income. Then my friend had to pay tax on the pitiful amount I gave her. Me and the millions of women in the same situation paid millions of other women minimum wage or less to look after our children. I got paid 2 or 3 times more for writing boring reports that no-one ever read than my friend got for looking after my children. In the city where I live, well, all over the country I expect, but more so in cities because that's where the poorest in our society live, there are many government schemes designed a) to stop very young women having children and b) provide child-care schemes so those same feckless young women can leave their children and go out to work for minimum wage and stop being a burden on the state. And the best, unskilled low paid jobs they can get? Looking after other peoples children so they in turn can go to work. Is this mad or is it just me? And now the bankers and politicians are in a spin because there aren't enough children being born to replace their parents and pay our pensions.
Children in this country - the having and raising of them - is one of the lowest status activities there is. We bear children; we create new people out of thin air. It's amazing, astonishing. Men can't do it. Bankers created money out of thin air. They were feted and paid vast amounts. Governments fell at their feet. And look where it got them. A couple of blokes won the Nobel prize for discovering DNA (and I bet they never mentioned their mothers in their acceptance speeches); women create people out of DNA. Every minute of every day; give them life, nurture, care and raise them. And what happens? We're treated as second class citizens, encouraged to return to 'work' as soon as possible; have our pensions reduced if we don't. Kept out of sight in the backs of pubs and restaurants or even banned from entering. And the children; dear god, the things we do to children in this, one of the richest nations in the world.
Ancient civilizations used to revere women; worship fat, well rounded fertility goddesses. Artists would paint buxom, dimpled, statuesque, fecund (lovely word that) women. Now we aspire to skin and bone, worship at the alter of size zero. I'm sure there's a connection between media attitudes to body image and the denial of womanliness, fertility, fecundity. The lack of celebration, honour, acclaim, respect for this thing that women can do and men can't.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Happy memory
Based on a diary entry July 2006
How do you record a memory? Why even? By definition there's no need. It's a memory - I won't forget it. It wouldn't be a memory if I did. But anyway, it's a happy memory so perhaps what I really mean is that I want to share it.
A day in May.
I have 2 children, 2 boys, David and Michael. I was going to make up new names for them but I can't bring myself to deny them even by that much. Their own names, ordinary, but so carefully chosen to be just right for them. Against the fashion of the times for unusual, romantic, poetic names, Joshua's and Jakes, Ewens, Connors and Finns. Keep it simple we decided in the end. Good, old fashioned, ancient names.
David, as befits the eldest, is bossy, domineering and, to the despair of his little brother, Good At Everything. To such an extent that Michael will not even bother to compete with the god that is David.
And so it was with learning to ride a bike. He refused to contemplate it.
'I'll be able to do it when I'm 7'.
The power of birthdays, the experience of age. In his child's mind, no effort required, no skills to be learned, practised, developed. David was 7 and he could ride a bike. Ergo, when I'm seven, I'll be able to ride one too. No amount of reasoning could persuade him that his brother had actually had to learn how to do it too. To cling in terror and exhilaration as we pushed him along. To pick himself up time and time again til he 'got it'. No way. In Michael's world view David mastered the skill in a heartbeat, subdued the crazy machine with a contemptuous glance and pedalled off over the hill.
Seven came and seven went but the magic bike fairy never came and waved her magic wand. The bike flatly refused to co-operate, refused to be tamed; lay neglected in the back of the garage. And the years rolled by full of other trials and triumphs. And it annoyed me so much. That he was missing it - the freedom, the speed, the joy of riding a bike on a sunny day. The missed adventures, the reason we'd bought a house right next to a park, for heavens sake.
Then came a sunny day in May. Michael 10, David 13.
We all went to the park and I thought I'll just take his bike along - no pressure. [Yeah, right, you devious, persistent, stubborn, I'll get you on this bike if it kills me kind of mother. And you wonder where he gets it from].
Once in the park he couldn't resist of course. He had a few goes and we clapped and encouraged and showered him with advice so he hardly knew where to turn. Then David stepped in. I held my breath. This could go either way. Michael can spot condescension a mile off. Would he listen? Would he flounce off home in a huff? Would our afternoon walk be spoiled before it began?
But it was perfect. David took charge, we stood meekly by. He took Michael off to a grassy spot - soft landing if you fall off he explained. No teasing, no tricks or scorn, he was very patient for a change. It was very sweet to see them together, working as a team. Then he was off, sailing over the grass. It was fantastic. He was so pleased with himself. A real moment of pure joy and delight.
Perhaps motherhood is not so bad after all. They are growing up so fast and suddenly I want it to last forever.
How do you record a memory? Why even? By definition there's no need. It's a memory - I won't forget it. It wouldn't be a memory if I did. But anyway, it's a happy memory so perhaps what I really mean is that I want to share it.
A day in May.
I have 2 children, 2 boys, David and Michael. I was going to make up new names for them but I can't bring myself to deny them even by that much. Their own names, ordinary, but so carefully chosen to be just right for them. Against the fashion of the times for unusual, romantic, poetic names, Joshua's and Jakes, Ewens, Connors and Finns. Keep it simple we decided in the end. Good, old fashioned, ancient names.
David, as befits the eldest, is bossy, domineering and, to the despair of his little brother, Good At Everything. To such an extent that Michael will not even bother to compete with the god that is David.
And so it was with learning to ride a bike. He refused to contemplate it.
'I'll be able to do it when I'm 7'.
The power of birthdays, the experience of age. In his child's mind, no effort required, no skills to be learned, practised, developed. David was 7 and he could ride a bike. Ergo, when I'm seven, I'll be able to ride one too. No amount of reasoning could persuade him that his brother had actually had to learn how to do it too. To cling in terror and exhilaration as we pushed him along. To pick himself up time and time again til he 'got it'. No way. In Michael's world view David mastered the skill in a heartbeat, subdued the crazy machine with a contemptuous glance and pedalled off over the hill.
Seven came and seven went but the magic bike fairy never came and waved her magic wand. The bike flatly refused to co-operate, refused to be tamed; lay neglected in the back of the garage. And the years rolled by full of other trials and triumphs. And it annoyed me so much. That he was missing it - the freedom, the speed, the joy of riding a bike on a sunny day. The missed adventures, the reason we'd bought a house right next to a park, for heavens sake.
Then came a sunny day in May. Michael 10, David 13.
We all went to the park and I thought I'll just take his bike along - no pressure. [Yeah, right, you devious, persistent, stubborn, I'll get you on this bike if it kills me kind of mother. And you wonder where he gets it from].
Once in the park he couldn't resist of course. He had a few goes and we clapped and encouraged and showered him with advice so he hardly knew where to turn. Then David stepped in. I held my breath. This could go either way. Michael can spot condescension a mile off. Would he listen? Would he flounce off home in a huff? Would our afternoon walk be spoiled before it began?
But it was perfect. David took charge, we stood meekly by. He took Michael off to a grassy spot - soft landing if you fall off he explained. No teasing, no tricks or scorn, he was very patient for a change. It was very sweet to see them together, working as a team. Then he was off, sailing over the grass. It was fantastic. He was so pleased with himself. A real moment of pure joy and delight.
Perhaps motherhood is not so bad after all. They are growing up so fast and suddenly I want it to last forever.
Friday, 20 November 2009
What will it take?
What will it take to make you see?
I feel you just want sex, you don't want me.
A hand reaches out across the bed.
Can't you feel me shrink, roll over, pretend to sleep?
Can't you see that demanding more makes me want it less?
Sleazy gifts of satin and lace? Naughty toys? They're just for boys, they leave me cold.
What does it take to turn me on?
Well.....................
When was the last time you made me smile?
When was the last time you smiled at me?
When was the last time you lingered in a room, just because I was in it?
When was the last time you touched me for no reason at all?
To be greeted with 'Your dinner is ready' rather than 'When will dinner be ready?' would make my day. To be greeted at all even.
When I make lunch, I make yours too. When you make lunch it's just for you.
You live your life, I live mine. In the hurly burly of babies and boys, schoolwork, work-work, homework, housework, there's you and there's me. What happened to we?
Just be nice. How hard could it be? A hug that's just a hug. Not foreplay.
Just be there once in a while. To chat, to pass me a clothes peg or a knife. To listen to a snippet from the paper, gossip about the neighbours, laugh at crap on TV. To tease the boys, tell them how we met, what fun we had when we were young, the places we've been, the things we've seen.
Come out of that office, that retreat. Come live in our world with your boys and me. Let me see you laugh and see you smile, the colour of your eyes, the smell of your skin. The way you slouch in blue jeans. Wear blue jeans, not those old man trousers you've started to wear. Put on some music, play it loud, let me dance.
Stop worrying about the sex. The sex is fine. It's the rest that's wrong.
Why can't you see what it's like to be me?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, that just poured itself onto the page one Sunday afternoon but then I got to thinking- always a bad idea where I'm concerned.
What is it like to be you then? what's it like being married to a bad tempered, grumpy old woman who's always 'too tired'; always making excuses? Do you wish things were different? My friends think I'm mad when I groan about the incessant demands but I can't help thinking that it's not me you want, I'm just convenient, available (Haha, you wish). Or. Maybe it's the only way you can think of to show me you love me?
Yeah, Right.
I feel you just want sex, you don't want me.
A hand reaches out across the bed.
Can't you feel me shrink, roll over, pretend to sleep?
Can't you see that demanding more makes me want it less?
Sleazy gifts of satin and lace? Naughty toys? They're just for boys, they leave me cold.
What does it take to turn me on?
Well.....................
When was the last time you made me smile?
When was the last time you smiled at me?
When was the last time you lingered in a room, just because I was in it?
When was the last time you touched me for no reason at all?
To be greeted with 'Your dinner is ready' rather than 'When will dinner be ready?' would make my day. To be greeted at all even.
When I make lunch, I make yours too. When you make lunch it's just for you.
You live your life, I live mine. In the hurly burly of babies and boys, schoolwork, work-work, homework, housework, there's you and there's me. What happened to we?
Just be nice. How hard could it be? A hug that's just a hug. Not foreplay.
Just be there once in a while. To chat, to pass me a clothes peg or a knife. To listen to a snippet from the paper, gossip about the neighbours, laugh at crap on TV. To tease the boys, tell them how we met, what fun we had when we were young, the places we've been, the things we've seen.
Come out of that office, that retreat. Come live in our world with your boys and me. Let me see you laugh and see you smile, the colour of your eyes, the smell of your skin. The way you slouch in blue jeans. Wear blue jeans, not those old man trousers you've started to wear. Put on some music, play it loud, let me dance.
Stop worrying about the sex. The sex is fine. It's the rest that's wrong.
Why can't you see what it's like to be me?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, that just poured itself onto the page one Sunday afternoon but then I got to thinking- always a bad idea where I'm concerned.
What is it like to be you then? what's it like being married to a bad tempered, grumpy old woman who's always 'too tired'; always making excuses? Do you wish things were different? My friends think I'm mad when I groan about the incessant demands but I can't help thinking that it's not me you want, I'm just convenient, available (Haha, you wish). Or. Maybe it's the only way you can think of to show me you love me?
Yeah, Right.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Mother in law
She adores my children, they adore her, their Grandma. She is unstinting of her time; babysitting, child minding, housework, gardening, never forgets a birthday or Christmas. Our debt of gratitude is huge.
She is also the most bigotted racist person I have ever had to give house room to.
They came over today to help in the garden, despite all my efforts to put them off. Thick skinned doesn't begin the cover the way she can ignore my efforts to turn down her generous offers of assistance.
She brought us a home baked cake apologising that it had sunk a little. I suggested that the flour might be to blame - I sometimes have trouble with bread flour not rising and had read that low gluten content in winter wheat could cause bread to flop. She wondered where the flour came from - bound to be 'foreign' flour that was rubbish. I suggested that most flour was imported - England is not exactly awash in wheat fields after all. She actually looked appalled and then relieved when I said I thought most of our flour came from Canada. "Oh, Canada? That's alright. It couldn't be China or India could it?. I couldn't eat it if it came from there".
Speechless.
She has in the past actually said that she couldn't eat indian or chinese food because 'those people' will have have touched it.
Invited themselves to lunch and Grandad (sweetie) was browsing through a library book on 20th century Britain. He read out a snippet about concentration camps set up in Africa by the British during the Boer war - thousands of women and children died of malnutrition and disease. Without the slightest hint of irony she said "and now we're overrun with immigrants coming over here". And a nice little comment about Muslims / terrorists - interchangeable terms in her view.
Speechless again.
She isn't even ashamed or embarrassed about saying these things. It hasn't even crossed her mind that I disagree with her views let alone find them extremely offensive.
I've told her many times that my family are Irish immigrants - I was born in Dublin but she doesn't even see the connection - I'm white after all so that's different.
I've pointed out that the British occupied India for 300 years before we (we? nothing to do with me, I'm Irish and have plenty to be guilty about without this) graciously allowed them to have their own country back. That's different and no excuse for 'them' coming over here and taking all our jobs. Like. What jobs exactly? All our ambitions to become taxi drivers, work 18 hour days in corner shops or textile sweat shops or open restaurants where we can be abused and insulted by drunken (english) louts til 4am in the morning thwarted by this tide of immigrants 'overrunning' the country?? Give me strength!
Her own niece is married to an African Caribbean man - how can she say these things and get away with it? Why don't I have the guts to tell her that I do not share her views and find them offensive? That would be because of my complete inability to deal with confrontation (of which more another time) and her utter bone deep stupidity and inability to begin to understand what I'm talking about. She simply cannot see it.
She has no books in her house. They gather dust and make a mess. Her husband, a quiet, intelligent, gentle soul, cannot have books except for one or two at a time from the library. Her highest accolade about a hotel / house / country is that it is very clean -"Oooh you'ld like Italy J___, it's ever so clean, I wasn't expecting it (unspoken - a country full of not very white foreigners) to be so clean".
After they had left I had some cake. Her dark brown chocolate cake. I'm a bad person. Bad.
She is also the most bigotted racist person I have ever had to give house room to.
They came over today to help in the garden, despite all my efforts to put them off. Thick skinned doesn't begin the cover the way she can ignore my efforts to turn down her generous offers of assistance.
She brought us a home baked cake apologising that it had sunk a little. I suggested that the flour might be to blame - I sometimes have trouble with bread flour not rising and had read that low gluten content in winter wheat could cause bread to flop. She wondered where the flour came from - bound to be 'foreign' flour that was rubbish. I suggested that most flour was imported - England is not exactly awash in wheat fields after all. She actually looked appalled and then relieved when I said I thought most of our flour came from Canada. "Oh, Canada? That's alright. It couldn't be China or India could it?. I couldn't eat it if it came from there".
Speechless.
She has in the past actually said that she couldn't eat indian or chinese food because 'those people' will have have touched it.
Invited themselves to lunch and Grandad (sweetie) was browsing through a library book on 20th century Britain. He read out a snippet about concentration camps set up in Africa by the British during the Boer war - thousands of women and children died of malnutrition and disease. Without the slightest hint of irony she said "and now we're overrun with immigrants coming over here". And a nice little comment about Muslims / terrorists - interchangeable terms in her view.
Speechless again.
She isn't even ashamed or embarrassed about saying these things. It hasn't even crossed her mind that I disagree with her views let alone find them extremely offensive.
I've told her many times that my family are Irish immigrants - I was born in Dublin but she doesn't even see the connection - I'm white after all so that's different.
I've pointed out that the British occupied India for 300 years before we (we? nothing to do with me, I'm Irish and have plenty to be guilty about without this) graciously allowed them to have their own country back. That's different and no excuse for 'them' coming over here and taking all our jobs. Like. What jobs exactly? All our ambitions to become taxi drivers, work 18 hour days in corner shops or textile sweat shops or open restaurants where we can be abused and insulted by drunken (english) louts til 4am in the morning thwarted by this tide of immigrants 'overrunning' the country?? Give me strength!
Her own niece is married to an African Caribbean man - how can she say these things and get away with it? Why don't I have the guts to tell her that I do not share her views and find them offensive? That would be because of my complete inability to deal with confrontation (of which more another time) and her utter bone deep stupidity and inability to begin to understand what I'm talking about. She simply cannot see it.
She has no books in her house. They gather dust and make a mess. Her husband, a quiet, intelligent, gentle soul, cannot have books except for one or two at a time from the library. Her highest accolade about a hotel / house / country is that it is very clean -"Oooh you'ld like Italy J___, it's ever so clean, I wasn't expecting it (unspoken - a country full of not very white foreigners) to be so clean".
After they had left I had some cake. Her dark brown chocolate cake. I'm a bad person. Bad.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
13 minutes
13 minutes while the bread rolls are in the oven. 13 minutes peace and quiet - no-one looking over my shoulder. 13 minutes privacy to think my own thoughts. My mother told my sister that she never really bonded with me when I was a baby. A few months ago this was but I still think about it frequently. I feel hurt, shocked. But also a feeling of 'well that explains a lot'. I mean, I was fairly sure she loved me as much as she loves any of us -when you have so many children, it can't be that easy. But I thought she loved us all the same - lightly, distantly, concientiously if not over affectionately. But perhaps she loves the others more than me. Perhaps she has a favorite. A special one, one who makes her eyes light up, her heart sing, brings a smile to her face when she thinks of him or her. Probably her, there are more hers than hims in our family. I remember having a day out with her, just the two of us. That was very rare, obviously when you have such a large family. It must have been a Sunday or I was off school for some reason for there just to be the two of us. We went on the bus to Elland. I was about 11 or 12. There was some kind of fair or fete going on. I don't know how she even knew about it, she was pretty well trapped at home most of the time. I especially remember there was a raffle for a doll in a crib, dressed in christening clothes. I fell in love with it though I was never much into dolls and we bought a ticket. We didn't win it though but I still remember that feeling of intense longing, of wanting it so much. She made my clothes - well, she made most of all our clothes, we were that poor. But she was a really good dressmaker, we had some really nice stuff. I simply don't remember her treating me any differently to any of the others, which is why I'm so...so what? I can't describe it - it's a bit like being embarrassed or humiliated - the feeling you get when you assume you'll be invited to a party all your friends are going to and then find out you're not - crushed - that would do it. I'm crushed. I just took for granted that my mother loved me and maybe she didn't and I feel bereft. And I don't know what I've missed - or if I'm less of a person because I haven't had that complete unconditional love of another person. The way I love my sons, that I would lay down my life for without a seconds hesitation. I'd better make sure they never have to doubt that for a single second. Time's up.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
How hard can it be?
How hard can it be, honestly? Sausage and mash is not a complicated dish but for someone who can rebuild a computer with his bare hands, you don't half make a meal of it. First put sausages in oven; then start peeling potatoes, then put water on to boil and then put potatoes in. Sausages now ready; 15 minutes left for potatoes. When potatoes almost done, start thinking about veg. Put water on to boil...well, no need to go on. For gods sake, 20 seconds forethought would have told you that linear meal preparation is not a very effective way of getting dinner on the table.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
The first day
This is just for me. Not expecting anyone to read it. Feel I need a private space for my private thoughts. Have, over the years kept diaries, notebooks and so on but would be appalled if anyone found and read them. Mainly because they are juvenile, ranting, ephemeral and not meant to be read. It helps sometimes just to write verything down to get things in perspective.
I'm a middle aged woman, living in England. I'm married, 2 children both boys. Since I turned 50 I've noticed that I'm practically invisible to people on the street. Young people don't make way for me when they see me coming - I have to step off the kerb or deviate from my path to get round them. I say something in a meeting and it's as if I haven't spoken. I find it very annoying.
I'm a middle aged woman, living in England. I'm married, 2 children both boys. Since I turned 50 I've noticed that I'm practically invisible to people on the street. Young people don't make way for me when they see me coming - I have to step off the kerb or deviate from my path to get round them. I say something in a meeting and it's as if I haven't spoken. I find it very annoying.
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