Last night I watched an autobiographical documentary The House (2008) by Tanya Doyle. It was a haunting look at the decision to sell the family home that consequently forces Doyle to confront the breakdown of her parents marriage and the death of her mother. Located in a housing estate in Clondalkin, the house provides a way for Doyle, her siblings and her father to deal with their unanswered questions and attempt to gain closure - whatever that really means. I was struck by how the recollections of the past reveal the deep seeded nature of familial gender roles. This was succinctly put by one of the sisters who says to Doyle you don't have parents, you have a da and a ma; your da is your da and your ma is your ma. This documentary also brings up issues around the responsibility one feels for younger siblings, and this often drives one to step into certain roles (i.e. of lost mother). It is a poignant look at family and the past but without sweet sentimentality; it is honest, heartwrenching and raw.There is a review of the documentary in the online version of the Irish Times. It is definitely worth watching.
I was compelled to recollect the sale of my grandparents house after they passed away. For me the house was a part of them, a part of us. It was built by my great-grandfather in the 1930s after the family moved out of the old Tenderloin in San Francisco. When my father was born, he and my grandparents in the little basement room which was later turned into Grandma's painting studio. When I arrived home for Grandpa's funeral I drove straight over to the house. I remember walking into the house up the darkened back stairs. It was quiet and the stairs creaked beneath my feet. I expected to hear my grandmother call out to me. I walked through every room remembering what had taken place. I went into their bedroom and just looked at everything as if trying to memorise each last thing. How the sun filtered in past the venetian blinds. The meticulously folded corners of the chenille bedspreads. The organised old towels in the hall closet. Grandma's hand-sewn 50s house dresses hanging neatly pressed in the closet. The sound of nothing. That was what really got me, I was overwhelmed with the sound of nothing. When they finally sold the house my mother said the family that bought it had invited us to stop by to see the changes and they had extended the invitation to me when I was next home from Ireland. As we drove by a couple months later my mom mentioned it to me. I decided not to see it, I knew in my heart I could never go in there again. That house was an extension of my memories and I had already said my goodbyes.
