The Mouths of Babes

"Okay, sweetie. Have a good sleep. I have to go study now."

"What's 'study'?"

"It's like learning, kiddo."

"Oh. What are you learning, mama?"

"I'm learning about the law - those are rules - and how people should be treated."

Why I am loathe to talk to her about the historical and, of course, ongoing oppression of women, I can't say (the course is about women and human rights). I think perhaps I'm afraid that I would be introducing the notion - even in opposing it - that women and girls are inferior or different too early. I'd rather wait until she's more secure in herself and in her strengths. Regardless...

"Well, everyone should be treated nicely."

"That's true. That's very true."

"Yup, even babies and even kids and even adults and even big kids."

"That's exactly right, sweetie. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, mama."

O Where, O Where Has My Little Dog Gone?

Folks,

I had my first lecture of what promises to be a VERY intensive 7 week summer course (getting a head start on my midwifery degree) last night and I'm afraid that any plans I had to spend a little more time in the bloggy world this summer than I have been lately are out the door. I have not been a good bloggy citizen of late and this is just to tell you that it's unlikely that I'll be one again until August.

I may be moved to post (à la Hel) about my course readings - I even may elaborate on the shock I received last night when I read that the way people are being held at the prison where I have volunteered is against the 30 year-old UN International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (not to mention what the heck I'm going to do about that) - but I probably won't be reading much or writing much for a while.

I'll miss you. Please e-mail me with any news you have and I'll do my best to drop by when I can.

Every yours,
Sage.

Wordless Wednesday: Story Time or "Babe, Tell Me About It"

More Wordless Wednesdays can be found here.

Grace

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

(Leonard Cohen, Beneath My Hands)

There seems to be a bloggy love fest (at least in the Canadian maritime region...okay, two blogs but still, I don't get around much) recently for the man who penned the above words. Bon's amazing post, in particular, has been with me for days as I was struck by her description of Cohen's lessons for her, in her words, of the "dignity of physicality, of sexuality...that the cerebral and the poetic need the body, too".

I was moved, even envious, of the awakening that Cohen's writing caused for her. And I've been thinking about it ever since.

My father owned and listened to Cohen's music but the meaning of his words was largely lost on me in the way that the significance of those things most familiar to you often can be. That is, until one day you find yourself singing the lyrics aloud in the car and think, "Oh god. Wait a second. Did I just sing that? With the windows down? What will the neighbours think?" (Hopefully, they'll be rocking along with you, but who knows.)

It was only when I found a collection of his poems, Selected Poems 1956-1968 (McLelland and Stewart), with the original receipt in the amount of $2.50 tucked inside the cover in my last year of high school that I realised the intensity of his focus on sex (with or without love) and love (with or without intimacy).

As an amateur poet, I envied the way in which he tied words together to express those things that seemed to me, at that age, to be slightly beyond my reach. As a young woman, I was flummoxed. I had never felt beautiful. I had never - even when I knew that boys or men were interested in me - never felt worshipped in the way that Cohen seemed to worship his subjects. I had never, ever felt...womanly.

I would certainly not describe myself as a tomboy but as a result of my active sporting life I did not really develop any curves to speak of until I was well into my twenties. As a result, I never felt that I could dress in the way that other women I knew dressed to flaunt their best features. I tried, but eventually gave up, drawing attention to my slim waist so that no one noticed that I had no breasts. Eventually, I gave up altogether. I shaved my head. I started wearing shirts that made no bones of the fact that I was flat-chested but showed off my strong arms. I rarely wore skirts and never wore dresses.

And I think I found an aesthetic that worked for me. I certainly haven't had trouble attracting men but I would still venture to say that I do not consider myself womanly. And believe me, in my neighbourhood populated by first and second-generation Canadian families, mostly of European descent, I am surrounded by women who are the epitome of womanliness. From the infants with pierced ears and bows on their head before they even have hair to hold them, to the old widows in brown dresses and black shawls to - most obviously - the young to middle-aged women in tight skirts, stilettos and an elaborate arrangement of tank tops and sweaters that are worn just so to flaunt their generous bosoms.

I just cannot compare to these. And if I'm completely honest with myself, I cannot finish that sentence with, "Nor do I want to." Intellectually? No, a thousand times no. Viscerally? Emotionally? I would love to spend just one day being able to pull that off and feel confident enough to not look ridiculous in it.

Tied up in all of this as well is my - I think reasonable - rejections of conventional notions of gender and the way in which women have been objectified. I'm not saying that you have to dress the way that I do to reject those notions, only that I do. For whatever reason, rightly or wrongly, I do.

But then I look at my daughter and I recognise that I intentionally encourage what I consider to be gender-neutral play or attire. While I don't actively discourage traditionally "feminine" behaviour, I certainly wouldn't say that I encourage it, either. And I believe that this requires a little more introspection on my part.

I understand that my position stems from some deeply-ingrained belief that women face prejudice when they actively set themselves apart from men. And yet if you asked me straight up whether that should mean that women should make themselves as much like men as possible, I would decry that position fiercely. So why, then, can I not find it in myself to encourage her interest in "girly" things and pass on the message that being girly and being strong are not mutually exclusive?

This weekend, while preparing dinner and listening to Jeff Buckley's gorgeous album, Grace, I realised that Mme L had been quiet for a long while, so I moved into the living room to look for her. I found her here...with Hallelujah playing in the background.


She will find her own way.

Alter Ego Follow Up

Remember those people?

Yeah, um, those people?

Well this, apparently, is their kid. In a teenybopper magazine spread, circa 1983 (what's with all the crazy reflection?).


Mme L is pictured wearing a Mad Hatter Dress (estimated retail price $1750) and her hair has been styled by Tousled Designs (Big Smoke, ON).

*****************

Remember those people?

Yeah, um, those people?

Well, I'm afraid that they bought a house. Yes, they. Not us.

Witness, for example, The Kitchen:

I don't know who will be more shocked, Joe and I when we come to the realisation that this really is our new home, or those people when they see what all our shitty furniture looks like in their swanky new place.

Untitled I and II

We, humans seem designed for closeness.
Intimacy.

I became convinced of this
In the wee hours tonight
When I held you in your delirium,
Your small head nesting perfectly
Under my collarbone,
My neck arching
Over your crown.

Even more convinced because
Seven years ago
I cited the way
Your father and I slipped in
And filled each other's
Unexpected spaces.
And though I know that there are likely others -
Our cohesion is not unique -
The simple beauty is that
It was with the two of you that I took notice.

(May 12, 2008)

the unexpected spaces we fill
the way my forehead slips
within the curve between your brow
and the slope of your nose

each head bowed in gentle adoration
of the other. and water
drips between the fingers
of clasped hands

-perhaps a prayer-

(January 20, 2001)

Oh, Yes We Did...

Sadly, the shot of Joe lying down on the couch was an odd size that would have required special printing and framing, so we had to go with a different one, but this is how it turned out.



They're hung in the "music room", which is adjacent to the room where the photos were taken. Thankfully, our agent has a sense of humour.

Couch Therapy for Stage Fright

So this new degree brings many changes. One of them being that we need to move. It's not a bad move for us. We should make a good profit on our house, which will allow us to pay off some outstanding debts and still put a downpayment on a good house with a real basement apartment so that we have the stability of that income while I'm in school.

The housing market in The Big Smoke is hothothot, especially in our neighbourhood. Even though other parts of the country are being labeled a "buyer's market", ours certainly still belongs to the seller.

Regardless, we have been advised to "stage" and "fluff" the house to within an inch of its life. A process I hate because as a buyer, I look at houses like that and think, "Yeah, but how could anyone actually live here?" It feels like the big lie which everyone just accepts is part of the dance. Still, we've spent the last few weeks removing a good 2/3 of our crap out of the house to give people a relatively neutral canvas to explore.

I've bitched and griped and moaned about it ad nauseam. Poor long-suffering Joe. This was, after all, my idea.

Last night, in the depths of house-staging despair*, I asked Joe if he would consent to photograph me - staged - in our staged living room. He not only agreed, but he got involved, too. Our plan is to post staged photographs of us sitting in our staged living room in yet another staged room of our staged house.

Did I just totally blow your mind?

Wait 'til you see these:





This is what passes for stress relief in our family.


* Please note: I am well and fully aware that there are far worse things in life to be concerned about than staging your house. Unfortunately, my stress response has not been briefed on this fact and so I have a ridiculously disproportionate response to what is a really mildly stressful event.

Sigh.

Returning home yesterday after drowning my post-work, post-illness sorrows in beer and bourbon sours, I found Joe in what appeared to be a somewhat agitated state.

"Hey! I just got home! Just now!" He exclaimed.

I thought, 'He's acting strange.' But passed it off as drunken paranoia and proceeded to regale him with tales from a rare evening out. As we readied ourselves for bed, he professed numerous bouts of sudden thirst and seemed irritated when I followed him into the kitchen for water.

Finally, he said straight out, "Why don't you go to bed? I'm thirsty again, I can't figure out why, but I need some water and I'll be right up." Rather than going to bed (I don't take orders very well) I hung out at the top of the stairs and continued to talk to him from that vantage point until he emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne and two flutes.

"You're making this very hard for me", he said.

"What's going on?"

When he reached into his bag to pull out a large white envelope, I knew.

I'm in, folks.

In four years, I'll be catching babies.

Thank you for all of your hopes and best wishes. I hope to come by virtually and visit y'all real soon.

My Real Problem

I wrote yesterday's post rather hastily, as I was sitting there fuming in my cubicle at work. But I can't let that post be my only comment on the topic, in large part because I feel like the case in hand is sort of a red herring. You'll have to forgive me, as this is likely to be more incoherent rant than reasoned argument, but I have to get it out before my wee little brain explodes from the temperature in here.

You see, the current case in the news is not at all about the plight of pregnant inmates. The real issue - which is no less important...perhaps even more so - is the treatment of women who raise allegations of abuse against their partners. What is horrifying about this case is that is, if not common, certainly not rare either. The only reason that the case is getting the attention that it is is that the woman in question is due to give birth and may very well go into labour while in prison.

What concerns me about the attention it's getting is that, just as is so often the case, attention is being drawn to it not because this is a horrible way to treat a woman, but because she's about to have a baby. As it is with so many issues, the woman's value is limited until you bring another life into the picture. So often, as women, we are valued as mothers or potential mothers first, and as individuals second. Our only collateral being our wombs.

This case is no different. Had Noellee not been carrying a child, or been 3 or 4 months pregnant and not due to give birth any day now, her case likely wouldn't have made the news. She would have stayed in prison until her partner's court date and likely been released once she had testified.

I'll admit that I snuck a peak or two at the comments on the news article yesterday. What drives me crazy about them is that people are judging her for having brought in the police to have her boyfriend charged and then not showing up in court. I don't think that it takes a whole lot of brains to figure out why someone might call 911 and then clam up once the threat of harm seemed a little more distant.

Consider, for example, that many men charged in cases of domestic violence - if ever given a prison term - end up leaving prison after serving one month or less. From Statistics Canada: "In terms of the length of prison sentences, more than one-half of prison terms ordered in spousal violence convictions were one month or less in duration for all offences, with the exception of major assault. In these cases, one-third of prison terms were one month or less."

Put yourself in that position. You've called 911 during an incident only to find out that you are required to testify in court. If you do, your partner might be put in jail for a month and then, shortly after your baby is born, when you're barely able to keep your head above water under the best circumstances, he's out of prison and not exceptionally pleased with you. Or, you can let it pass, hope that things fizzle out and you can get away from him without also raising his ire by adding a criminal record to the list of supposed ills you've done him.

I wonder why she may have wanted to skip it?

To hear people who can't even fathom the situation she's in, let alone being 19 and nearly 40 weeks pregnant with her alleged abuser's child, try to judge her for her actions just about makes me sick to my stomach.

And if this is the way that people judge a young woman who has not been charged or convicted of a criminal offense, or had the gall to hope that she might slip into a country like Canada to get away from whatever sends her fleeing her homeland, imagine what they would think of the general population of the prisons in this country and their right to have the best possible care when it comes to giving birth.

As I met another of you beautiful bloggy people yesterday for lunch, she and I joked about the task of saving the world. There's clearly an element of hyperbole there, but I do honestly - sometimes, in my dark moments - feel like I need to be doing something about this. And now.