The holes we leave for our daughters are for them to darn with the yarn of their own lives. Just as we did. Just as we are doing.Apparently, Carol Shields and Marjorie Anderson were having lunch one day, and although as good friends they talked about everything, they realised that there were some topics that never came up and, as writers, that intrigued them: are there still taboo topics, even among women? What are the things our mothers never told us? They put out a call for contributions and compiled the results in Dropped Threads: a collection of essays and short fiction, written by known Canadian authors, academics, professional women, and housewives. The variety of voices makes for an interesting – if uneven – reading experience, and for the most part, I'm uncertain if these pieces universally fit the brief: these are the taboo topics?
Some authors told me what I already know, but in an interesting way:
I thought that when I was old I would be confident, that somehow there would be within me an accumulation of experience, an accretion of knowledge that would form such a solid, dense core that my being an adult woman would flow from that source in some, I don't know, molecular or electromagnetic way. Instead, it feels much more as if I have made a grown-up-looking shell around a space in which the same me as I've ever been dwells, hidden from view. (Isabel Huggan, who also wrote the opening quote)And:
What continues to perplex me is that all these years of existence have taught me so little. I had hoped for wisdom, but I don't even know what wisdom is. (June Callwood)And some authors, by treating topics like infidelity or the death of a child in fictional form, failed to connect with me: had those topics been treated in a more confessional tone, I might have felt that a taboo had been confronted instead of danced around. Also, there's a piece on inequality in the workforce that's written as an email exchange between a woman and her adult children that falls absolutely flat. On the other hand, Margaret Shaw-MacKinnon wrote a piece on the spiritual dimension of giving birth that completely resonated with me – and this is the only essay that feels like something I should pass on to my own daughters, because, as Shaw-MacKinnon writes: I could not surrender to, or engage in, the spiritual intimations I so clearly felt, precisely because there was no cultural preparation for this. Yes!
I am also, by nature, interested in the metaphysical, so was open to Martha Brooks' experience of the numinous (her connection to the divine through nature) and Sharon Butala's experience of “making contact with some power, or with the 'collective unconsciousness', or, as I like to think of it, a manifestation of spirit that flows through the universe behind daily life and is available to all of us”. Butala in particular was writing about the apparently widely-known-yet-little-discussed fact that women become more psychic as they approach menopause, and is that even true? I was really interested in the historical connection between ageing women and accusations of witchcraft (and the attendant men's fears of these ageing women; who wouldn't be afraid of being bewitched by a withered hag?), but I can recognise that these bits might not be of wide interest. I'm also likely in the minority of readers who was told the titular joke from Anne Hart's “Lettuce Turnip and Pea” by my own mother (who got it from her father) – and I was charmed right from the title.
And that's really the key point: there is such a variety of experience and opinion in Dropped Threads that, while there might be something for everyone, not everything will be for everyone. And that's its great strength as well – I can recognise that Marni Jackson's piece about mothers and sons is clever and insightful even if it means little to me personally; can see that Margaret Atwood brought her great gifts to bear on her piece about not experiencing sexism within the Canadian publishing industry, even if it seemed to miss the mark for me within this collection – and there should be something for every reader here; for every woman anyway. This is the first of three such collections, and I'd be interested to read them all.
There's no reason for me to get political in goodreads reviews, so I'll share a couple more of my thoughts here. Another quote that resonated with me was:
Discussions about abortion usually take place within a political context, not a personal one. When it comes up, I freely and firmly give my opinion, or, rather, state my position. I am pro-choice, I say, and I believe unequivocally in a woman's right to choose what happens to her body. I rarely, however, add that I think abortion is a tragedy. (Lily Redmond ~ a pseudonym)
That is precisely how I feel as well -- abortions should be safe and available, but as a society, we seem to have forgotten that there's a moral dimension as well; and particularly so here in Canada where we have no legal limits on abortion at all. Want to terminate at seven, eight months? Fine. Want to terminate another unwanted daughter? No problem; it won't cost you a dime. I was shocked this week when the video was released that seemed to show Planned Parenthood executives discussing the harvesting and sale of aborted fetal organs. Whether or not that video was unfairly edited, I was disturbed by a comment exchange I saw on the facebook page of the newspaper I read. One of the most liked reactions was this, written by a woman:
Abortion doesn't bother me. Why is it illegal to sell the remnants? Planned parenthood provides a lot of free birth control, condoms, education, support etc. it's not like the women who had the abortions wanted to keep the fetus.
And, as shocking as I found that to be, she (who, it turns out, is a mother herself) dug in her heels in defending her position against two men (the first, an MD) who tried to speak as though there is a moral dimension to selling these organs:
(MD)You are talking like if the fetuses are just property . and that's freakin evil
(woman) I just find it funny that you, a male, have such a strong opinion on abortion, considering that you'll never ever EVER be in a position to need one. Balls don't lie. And they shouldn't have too much to say about what a woman does with her body.
(MD) you know, I was huge fan of women and equality rights till the women I was fighting for ''like you '' kept telling me that my thoughts didn't matter because I'm a male, and when women rights to choose turned into women rights to abuse
(2nd man) What's generally assumed is that the thought of harvesting the organs of the unborn is shocking to the soul and the conscience, but that assumes everybody possesses those two things. You don't.
(woman) I'm looking at it from a viable consumer standpoint, not medical. You will never be in a position to need an abortion because you lack ovaries and a uterus. That Y chromosome seals that deal.
(MD) you do have the right to do whatever with you own body ''donate or not '' but you don't have the right to choose what to do with your aborted baby ''fetus'' ,that's not your body or your property .
(woman) Why not? It was created by her body, she should be able to choose what she wants done with it. It can't say mama, or soil a diaper. It's dead tissue.
Somehow, we have forgotten the tragedy: if a fetus is developed enough to have harvestable organs, perhaps that's not just medical waste. Am I honestly in the minority in finding this to be an ugly exchange?
And that brings me to my second political observation: While reading this collection, I couldn't help but think that, repeatedly, these women were making my case for why someone like Caitlyn Jenner will never be fully a "woman". So much of what goes into our development into women comes from how we were treated as girls -- much of it related to the privilege and burden of possessing uteruses -- and no matter how much Jenner was always a woman on the inside (which I am 100% willing to accept), she will never be fully the same as I am. She just won't. And this also underscores something that the woman above was arguing about -- does Jenner now have a voice in the abortion debate? Or is it strictly limited to those who have "ovaries and uteruses" because "balls don't lie" (whatever that means)? And what about lesbians (who seem to have the loudest and angriest voices in feminist issues), or the celibate, or the post-menopausal, or the infertile: should any woman who is incapable of accidentally becoming pregnant be shut out of discussing abortions? (And I do want to be clear about meaning "accidental" pregnancy because I think that all reasonable people ought to agree on the necessity for abortions in the case of violence.) Or do we all -- including men -- deserve a voice in shaping the sort of society we want to live in? I believe we all do -- keeping in mind that I am actually pro-choice.
*****
And now for something completely different. If I were asked, this would be my own contribution to Dropped Threads; what I would want my daughters to know; something that they might not hear anywhere else.
I was not an unlovely girl,
and with my wild red curls, I always attracted a certain amount of
attention from the guys. Actually, I have been followed and called
after from moving vehicles more times than I can count, but as I
generally felt safe from unwanted physical contact, I was always
pretty ambivalent about it – I didn't necessarily find the
attention flattering, but it did confirm to me that, like I said, I
was not an unlovely girl.
Now, when I was a young
mother – I'm thinking I must have been 27 or 28 because Kennedy
would have been 2; I'm pretty sure Mallory wasn't born yet when this
happened – I had a dream. I want to make it clear that I never
remember my dreams, but this was no ordinary experience. In it, at
some point, I became trapped in a warehouse with a group of young
men. There were stacks of wooden crates creating a high-walled maze,
and I still remember my panic as I turned corner after
corner, desperately seeking the exit. Eventually, I came to an open
area just as one of the men entered from a crate-walled corridor
opposite me, and when I went to turn back, there was another man
behind me. I was completely cornered.
Next, and I remember this
is as clearly as anything that ever happened to me in waking life, I
sighed and put my hands on my hips, and said, “Well, fuck me.”
That's not an expression that I ever use in real life, but I knew
exactly what I meant by it: You got me. I guess I'm going to get
attacked or raped or whatever, so let's get this over with. But it had a second meaning as well.
Just then, I heard a third
man's voice say, “Yeah, not exactly”, and he appeared from yet
another corridor, leading Kennedy by the hand. She looked so
heart-breakingly innocent and beautiful, wearing a laced-edged dress
and sucking on her fingers, not a bit afraid of the strange man
beside her, and in an instant I went from complacent about my fate to
terrified: they didn't want me, they wanted my daughter.
And that's when I woke up.
That was the most frightening nightmare I've ever had – my heart was pounding and I was probably
crying, and the absolute worst part was that I was so ashamed of my
dream that I needed to quickly force myself to calm down; horrified at the thought that Dave might wake up and ask me what was wrong.
The next day, I knew that
the dream was a transformative event: I didn't need to be a Psych
major to understand what it meant – my days of being the not
unlovely girl who attracted so much attention were over; it was time
to become the matron, the crone, and pass on the mantle of
nubility to the next generation. No wonder seeing Kennedy being led
by the hand by a strange man was so very terrifying: I was witnessing
the death of who I was and recognising that my daughter, just out of
her baby years, was taking my place (and I'm sure this is all in
Freud somewhere). I understood the dream, but it still felt
shameful, and I never told it to anyone – for all I know,
this is a common epiphany that we women have labelled taboo to talk about.
That would be my story, and
here's an odd coda: Last week, Mallory was getting a massage from Aunt Rudy downtown, and as I had an hour to kill while I was waiting for
her, I decided to walk around to do some errands. First, I walked to
the library to return a book, and as I was going in the rear
entrance, I had to sidestep a woman who was stretching out with her
backpack in the sunshine – I didn't know if she was homeless or
simply relaxing in the fine weather, and just wanting to get on with my wanderings, I
decided to leave her in peace and exit through the front of the
library. There were a couple of "street" men talking on the sidewalk out
front, and as I passed them, one said, “Hey sister, you're looking
good today. Yeah, I like that hair, looking good.” I was so
close to them that I couldn't not acknowledge what was
obviously intended as friendliness, so I made eye contact with them both, smiled and said, “Thanks”,
and kept walking, musing that it's been a long time since I was out
walking and attracted that kind of attention (I speak to people every
day when I'm out walking my dog, but it's not that kind of
attention). And I'm happy to have an opportunity to make this point:
I'm long done with needing that kind of attention from strangers in order to define who I am, and after the
initial shock of my dream, accepted it as good and proper that my
star was dimming as my daughter's began to burn; I embrace my role as the matron, the crone; I've earned my wrinkles and stretch marks. (Yet, sometimes it's still nice to hear that my hair looks good, threaded through with white though it may now be.)
