Parachute Pants

Oh where to begin?

I have been extremely busy over the last couple of weeks so I will try to catch you up on what has been going on.

Firstly to say that on the 13 February my little darling turned 2! It was a happy birthday spent with family. We took her to the Dead Zoo exhibition at Collins Barracks and later had a family dinner for her, which she loved.

Secondly I was going to post (but never finished the post) on my anger surrounding the Prime Time investigative report on the practice of symphysiotomies in Ireland. I have written to my three TDs to demand that the issue of an independent review is opened by the HSE. Apparently over 1500 women were maimed, sliced and diced and left with incontinence between 1950 and 1983. The rest of the western world had abandoned this practice in the early 20th century. Its use here, encouraged by the religious orders who ran the hospitals (oh surprise surprise the Catholic church was involved?) was revived so that women could not be limited in the amount of children they could have as c -sections were limited to three at those times. The stories on Prime Time were particularly horrific and the one that really affected me what the woman who never talked about it, but 40 years later recalled how when they sawed open her pelvis they perforated her baby's head in the process. The injustice of it all makes my blood boil. Childbirth is the most vulnerable time in a woman's life and to have these decisions made about your body WITHOUT your consent is absolutely insane. Furthermore these women deserve to have their voices heard and they deserve answers as to why when the rest of the medical community had tossed out this practice as BARBARIC this was being inflicted on them.

Finally, I have been having issues with my c- section scar recently. I was bitterly disappointed when I realised yesterday that I have a keloid scar. I thought that every woman who had a caesarian suffered from this type of disfiguration! My scar has been very irritated lately and I am finding it nearly impossible to sit comfortably with jeans (or anything else) on. So I have resorted to wearing parachute pants. Yes granny underwear that goes up to my navel. I am hoping that it does not get worse as my uterus expands with this pregnancy but I am certain it will.

The House

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.

Marcelina's Legacy

I was looking at my daughter this morning and I was thinking how much my grandmother, Marcelina would have loved her. Marcelina was born the fourth of six children to poor Italian immigrants. The early years were tough for her family, my great-grandfather John was a bootlegger in Texas during the prohibition. He would disappear for weeks at a time, leaving her mother Ida to fend for herself. My grandmother remembered one time the FBI searched the house and found his stash. They saw how poor the family was and took pity on Ita telling her next time they would came there would be consequences. The family then moved to San Francisco and then to Burlingame. My great-grandfather opened up the first bar in San Mateo County after the prohibition. He was a bit of a chancer and had some gambling problems. My grandmother had  to bring him home from a poker game one night, where earlier that night he had lost two properties in Hillsborough (now one of the richest suburbs in the Bay Area). She left school at age 15 to work in the family bar. She met my grandfather who was stationed at Fort Point during WWII. It was love at first sight and they were happily married for an amazing 61 years.

Over the years my grandmother honed and perfected her domestic skills. She was the original domestic goddess before Nigella Lawson took her first breath. She was the Martha Stewart of the 50s and 60s. She made all their clothing (adults and children) and when they wore out the clothes she made rag rugs. She was an amazing gardener and as my dad once said she could plant a stick into concrete and under her watchful eye it would turn into something amazing. She made ravioli, spio and crab cioppino like it was going out of style. But most of all she was a wonderful artist.

She specialized in landscape paintings. She and my grandfather spent their lives traveling to all 50 states. Everywhere she went she took pictures of farm houses, New England lighthouses, mountains, deserts and then would return to her studio to paint. I remember as a child, I would beg her to let me into the studio where I would touch (and taste!) the paints, run my hands over her brushes and just marvel at the colours and smells to be found there. We spent a lot of time together and I became obsessed with art. I became aware that my grandmother had real talent, but I could never understand why she didn't go to art school. I asked her one day and she dismissed it saying that she couldn't afford to, she had to leave school at a young age to work and that in those days women didn't have careers as artists. I think that was my first realization of the gender inequalities that exist in the art world. I became determined to learn more and I credit this with one of the main reasons that I decided to pursue degrees in Women's Studies and Art History.  

Before she died I had the privilege to spend 6 weeks taking full time care of my grandparents. We spent those weeks arguing, laughing, cooking and for the first time I really really got to know my grandmother. I mean beyond the familial relationship. I helped to bathe her and dress her. I was there when she unleashed her Italian temper and heated arguments ensued. Before I finished my time with them she gave me a quilt that she had started back in the 50s. It consisted of hexagonal fabric scraps that she had saved from nearly every item of clothing she ever made. She told me she wanted me to finish it and give it to my first child (I wasn't even in a relationship at the time). When I became pregnant I knew that if nothing else during the pregnancy I had to finish the quilt like I promised her. I tried to channel her spirit to guide me. I am fairly crafty (I like to pretend I am) but I never have the patience to see a project through (my achilles heel). I began by embroidering on four rectangular pieces of fabric. Each block came to symbolise something about personal. One features two dachshunds to represent our dogs, Oscar and Lulu. On another I embroidered dancing fruits and veggies (we love food in this family!). The third featured a redwood tree and banana slug to represent California and the fourth featured the words handmade for you by mother. Next I had to shape my grandmother's quilt. It was a 'free form' and I was in a quandary about how to proceed. I decided the easiest way was to make several rectangles that I could then attach to the blocks to form a giant rectangle. I finished the quilt with only a few weeks to go, relieved that I had made good on my promise to her.

When my grandmother died in 2003, I was devastated. I don't think I can accurately describe all that she was to me. By finishing the quilt I had a piece of her that I could pass along to my daughter. So now she has that quilt and Marcelina as her middle name.

What a Jerk

So someone sent me on this link to an opinion article by some bozo named  Newton Emerson in yesterday's Irish Times. At first I thought it was a joke, but then I realised that this guy is just an a$$hole. Not only does he blame the recession on women - in such a cavalier fashion that I thought it was a joke but I think he wants to send Ireland back to the 1970s when the marriage bar was in place! He certainly appears to support the Irish Constitution (1937) in which Article 42.1 states that for the greater good of the country, women's place is in the home. So he basically says women should leave their jobs so men can gain employment. What he doesn't take into account is a) women generally have higher levels of education and b) what types of jobs are these ones he is proposing to take away? How many women are job sharing ? work part time? and what are the inequalities between men and women in terms of pay? Historically women have had lower paying jobs... this is still the norm.

here is the link... you need to check this out and tell me what you think.

www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/opinion/2009/0226/1224241828468.html