Divide and Rule

Today I hit some difficulty.

The older sister of my daughter’s friend at school, who I wrote about in What are we Responsible For?, has been suspended from school after retaliating against the bullies who have been tormenting her. Again, I met her at the school gates, and was hit with a set of dilemmas about the appropriateness of how I respond.

This time the issue was an old London one. And I suspect, one that bits a fair few other places too.

It is the issue of the division of blackness, the slave versus immigrant syndrom, the use of these categories which are the children of colonialism, by our children now to inflict pain and suffering on each other.

In a classroom altercation, witnessed by a teacher, and having been called an immigrant (my young friend is the daughter of West African migrants who fled civil war), she responded with what she had. Which was to say at least her people arrived of their own free will, not bound in chains (her adversory was of Jamaican decsent).

This is where we are at. And we are here because as a society/ies we have not adequately responded to the wounds of slavery and the aftermath of colonial politics which form our present, as much as they are our past. The responses we do have tend to emphasise polarity: either denying the contemporary relevence of either slavery or colonialism, or countering its wounds with a reclamation of the terms of abuse with stores of heroism. The former is a form of distorted absolution of wrong-doing that has its roots in the origins of these systems. It is unhelpful because in its denial of any continuing harm, it prevents any kind of engagement with very obvious wounds to occur.

The latter is a necessary antidote to a distorted picture. Where it fails is in addressing the complexity of systems of oppression. So it can only go so far.

I need to say here that this is not an assessment of the vast literature that exists on slavery, colonialism and their links to present day migrations, unrest, deprivation and inequality.

It is an account of a difficult encounter in which the massive complex ambiguity of all these things got brought to a tearful head right in my space today.

How do we engage difficulty? How do I engage difficulty?

I challenged my young friend on her retaliation. I have known the pain and futility she is experiencing. I know the shame.I get it. Though it’s not fresh and up in my face as it is for her right now. That too I acknowledge. But I could not support the playing out of an old divide and rule story.

Written in 2012

Why put women into opposing camps?

I’m sitting at the table in the living room. My baby son is eating slices of plum next to me. His face screws up sometimes because it is sour. I like how he holds a cardboard book in his non-eating hand. Now that is multi-tasking at its most joyful! I move towards joyful multi-tasking, the kind that arises as naturally and organically as the eating of plum and the lifting of books. So I am eating toast, buttered, drinking tea, checking email, if not quite joyfully, then at least with the intention to one day allow all my actions to arise from a place of absolute, joyful necessity. My friend has sent me a link to an article about a woman who has set up an organisation to make space for women who are making peace with the fact that they are not going to have children, whether they wanted them or not. Jody Day makes some important points. Motherhood has become a practice that can be self-contained, consuming, competitive, exclusive. Even the word ‘motherhood’. Sound like a special hat that takes over your whole head; disguising other identities.

Motherhood has become an all-consuming role during the past couple of decades – dominating women’s thoughts and conversations – possibly because the pressure on mothers to get it right is greater than ever………..Websites such as Mumsnet and Netmums feed this obsession and sense of common identity.

I get this. And I don’t come at it from an ivory tower perspective. I feel this gnawing sense of inadequacy as soon as I open myself to the ‘community’ of motherhood that exists out in the forums, and the family press or in the playgrounds where there is a smiling and ruthless cult of self-expression mediated through the prism of offspring. I did it, do it, fight it, work at it, get agitated at it. Honestly, it gets silly! I spent literally hours and hours of my life researching and hunting for a second hand version of a very popular and prestigious pram brand that I couldn’t afford new (and probably couldn’t really afford second hand either) to fit into the construction of myself that accompanied my second pregnancy. And I got a kick out of swanning about with this pram! Even now, writing this, I am thinking about how this bloody pram eats into the time and space I have on this planet and wonder what it’s all about. I’m trying to sell it now because we need the money (these things are so valuable that selling one means releasing collateral!) and someone has given me an umbrella fold run-around that is more manageable in our tiny flat. But it’s hard to let go of the thing! Hard to let go of the illusion! Look how much space it’s taken up in this blog already! I guess the point is that parenting and most especially motherhood takes up a lot of cultural and social space for people and yes, especially women who remain disproportionately invested in it as their primary source of identity.

She goes on to say,

I don’t blame mothers for their single-issue approach to life; I would probably have been the same. However, the result is that women are separating into two tribes: the mothers and the childfree, and we are struggling to find common ground. It is perhaps all the more significant because the number of women who, like me, will never have children, through choice or circumstance, is steadily growing. In the post-second world war years, just 10% of women were childless while the number of women who now reach the menopause without having children has risen to 20%.

So, if a fifth of women are child-free, why do we feel so peripheral, so shut out? Perhaps – despite decades of feminism – it’s because there’s an assumption that the only truly worthwhile job a woman can do is to raise children.

This is where I start to get itchy and uncomfortable. Not because of the ethos of what she is saying, or the fact that she is attempting to redress this imbalance. It’s this dichotomising this. This two tribes business. Here’s what I’m questioning, :

1. Why does motherhood remain incompatiable with feminism in the mainstream imagination?

2. Why does motherhood get separated out from other kinds of life?

3. Why is it necessary to elaborate on these differences and turn them into oppositions? Why is this so prevalent with the stuff that women are concerned with? I’ll be blunt. It seems to me like a pretty effective and insidious divide and rule strategy, if you believe the hype that is, and it’s hard not to.

What do I mean by divide and rule? I mean the continual, even unconscious, process which simplistically divides highly complex social phenomenon like the motherhood, childbirth, breastfeeding, menstruation, gender itself, and oh my word the list goes on, into two distinct and opposing camps. That’s where language like ‘tribes’ is so evocative. It implies a naturalistic, timeless quailty to these constructed divisions, making them appear more visceral and natural than they are. So there is women without children vs women with; those for natural childbirth vs those who want an epidural; those who breastfeed and those who bottlefeed; those who suppress their periods with hormones and those who use mooncups. It’s a Cartesian thing again, and western culture does it I think without even realising half the time that it is re-inforcing and playing out a particular kind of cultural script that emhasises a dualistic separation. All debates and discussion subsequently get framed within the dualism. This masks complexity; it simplifies debate to the point that the debate becomes a caricature of discussion. It’s harder to imagine or acknowledge ways of being female, male, a mother, a woman, a father, a parent or whatever else, that are not confined to the two tribes debate. So you make a space for childless women. OK. That’s important. But what gets moved on by making this space? How does this genuinely challenge the tyranny of social roles in which we are ourselves complicit (trust me, the pram story is not the half of it in my own complicity….).

I don’t have the time to really get under the skin of what I’ve put on the table here. The baby has woken up and these things like caring for another being do take up energy and time. That doesn’t mean that the way we organise it is right or inevitable, or that the solution lies in rejecting one way of doing things for one which in being diametrically opposed ironically reproduces the discourse. that throws the baby out with the bathwater, if you’ll excuse the pun.

Bottom line. Untangle the oppositions. It’s a lot more complex on the ground than two tribes of anything suggests. In acknowledging that complexity and beginning to unpack how it operates, that’s where the juicy stuff that offers an alternative to the tyranny of simplistic dualisms comes into its own.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/25/child-free-women-jody-day?newsfeed=true

Written in 2012

Magpie Nests and Scaffolding

There are two practices happening outside the window of our flat on the third floor right now. Two magpies have become daily vistors to the tree in fromt of the courthouse across the road. They come to gather leaves and twigs for the nest they are building somewhere. It took its time, but spring is finally arriving in London. Even in the middle of one of the most densely built up areas of the world, and one of the oldest sites of urban human habitation, the beasts still go on at Spring. I love this. Foxes, black birds, wood pigeons, inky black rainbow tipped crows. They build and thrive in the city, along with their human cousins.

The other is scaffolding, wrapped around the facade of our 100 year old social housing block, the culmination of much pushing for the cyclical works on our building to be delivered. A lick of paint and reparing the pipes that are currently stuck to the walls with tape.

Both are about making homes and improving structures. About the accumulative power of multiple motions to construct a nest. To better the space.

At the entrance to the East, I am paying attention to my dreams again, in the crack of 2 minutes at 4 am. Or the snatched thirty seconds over the first cup of tea of the day. The school holidays rol out. Life grinds and flies one and the same, intermittent.

Written in 2012.

The Worst Mother in the World

It’s official. I’m the worst mother in the world. That’s the breaking news from the lips of my seven year old daughter, reiterated by her two year old brother who repeats everything she says as he’s learning to talk right now. Nice way to start the weekend.

What do the dreams say? That night I dreamt about an old friend who is very successful in her career, and childless. She was angry with me because I hadn’t made time for her at a reunion, but I was just too busy with my family. And I was ok with that. Like i felt bad, but also I thought she was being a bit of a diva anyway.

Written in 2012

Tender Drift

Stone drops

A chasm, cracked earth

Leading to Centre

The Spirits of the Land

Still and silent on the surface

Too much noise and pain

Though Crow kept vigil

Dedicated watch on the cables

Strung alongside the Tesco Car Park

On the Old Kent Rd

Her ancestors, tree dwellers

Had cawed the Roman cover-up

Of the Trail of Beasts

Concealing past migrations

Ancient, tender drifts

Sabre-toothed and horned

Aurochs and small god offerings

To the waters when they were Thamesis

Each layer of forgetting

Grief and future liberation

For the ones still to come

The ones not yet born.


					

Poem by the Side of the Road, On the Way Home

Coffee stop when eyelids, too heavy, tip over

The thrusting energy of the purpose of others

Runs out of juice

By the side of the road

A lean-to of corrugated iron and wood

Small dogs and children

Finding a foothold in the world

I looked for the sweetness

In the Tree of Life in the Industrial Estatel

An imagined pilgrimage to the land of my ancestors

Places I had forgotten we belonged to

So long had they been privatised, enclosed

I believed the No Entry signs.

Till, with a sigh, slipped over the fence

Glad they lost their fortunes

So I would be required to seek mine

You see, beyond the Bitter Almond hedge and the droning voice of the history teacher

The dismal moan of their mono culture

Was a vast galaxy, textured and rich

The amaraic script of those Sarakole Nomads

Interwoven with reverence of the Oak

They were there all along, black and beautiful

Ivory faced with thin brown hands

A gift of the Sun

The Rain

The Mist

The Sand

Golden rimmed mirror reflecting back – who am I if not all of them?

Whole. Complete. And divine.

A Small Bird

Don’t allow it to die

The tender shoot of a new life

Don’t allow them to stagnate

The pools of water in the black containers

Deep portals to other worlds

Don’t let the clumsy arrogance of a self clinging to existence

Block the gateway to Beauty

That small bird with the vivid eyes

Who hovered at the Tree

When you woke up

To say good morning to the world

Worry Less

Light bouncing off the white water tank

My sore and sleep deprived heart

A soul that knows its line of enquiry

A little jerk to confirm

Take me deeper in

Let me lie with the birds in my ear

Let me sink into the void and wait for further instructions

You rush too much

They say

Worry less

Be OK

A Fairytale From the Earth

Once upon a time the land had become restless and uneasy.  The Grandfathers had been neglected and, seeking peace, nourishment and reconciliation from their descendants but finding no connection, had taken away all the homes on the land in order to reach them.  While they wandered, they would be looking, and while they were looking there was a chance they would find them and all would be put back in its rightful place.  And so it was.

A grand daughter had been homeless for years, wandering, from the ocean to the gold ,to the river that winds like a snake, to the place where the hills jut out under a hot sun in the naval of the land.  One day she found herself again by the ocean where she had begun.  She came to a little house where a wise woman with white hair lived.  The wise woman looked at her shells and told the granddaughter that a great movement was underway.  The grand daughter was needed to do her part to put right all the mess that had been made.  It would be a long and difficult journey and she would need to make many offerings, going deep into the earth to recover the connection that had been lost and find her way home again.  The wise woman told her that the only way to heal the land would be for the grand daughter to die and be reborn. 

They made a long journey, flying in iron birds and riding iron horses to the place where the mountains met the stream and the Great Mother had whispered into the memory of the land a greeting into a tree with long red roots to invite the grand daughter back into the earth she had forgotten.  The Monkey King came with his people to see them safely through the gate. 

The Great Mother chose the Keepers of the Land carefully so they would recognise the wise woman and the grand daughter when they came.  A great feast was prepared.  The keepers of the land made a fire and stood guard as the grand daughter lay down in the grave she had prepared, ready to die so she could be reborn.

The wind blew.  Creatures who lived in the earth crawled and connected.  She sank deeper, inhaling grains of sand and dust.  As she descended, the keepers of the land and the wise woman sang songs so she would not get lost.   The spirits that had gathered came forward to be seen and known, their stories told.  The old man who had been buried at the top of the hill came first, followed by those who had died in the wars.  The Earth was heavy and cool; it enveloped her, comforted, as she surrendered into the loamy scent. 

When the Death Arrow landed, it pierced her side so all of the sadness poured out, and the Great Mother laughed and laughed as she rocked her child back Home.  A great rage rose then, coursing through like hot blood.  All the subjugation of the entire world, all the women who had been made to submit through violence.  She shook and shook and shook and a great sound wrenched out and vibrated around the entire cosmos. 

Then the Three Grandmothers came, so she could weep.

Only when she was emptied.  Only when she was emptied the Grandfather’s took their place.  She called out to the one who held back to witness and speak out the story that had kept him hidden and shamed.  You are our ancestor too.  And so it was.  Taking all the burdens of all the sons she placed the bundle in his hands and said, take care of this one.  We have been waiting for you to find us the Grandfathers said, waiting for you to remember our names so we could do our work.  Make homes that are sweet and strong and true. An end to the wandering.  And it was good. 

A great crowd had gathered around the tree, spirits of all the lineages, of the wise woman and the keepers of the land and the old old ones. The gathered so they could take their places in constellation around this buried girl.  They gathered to welcome her home so she could be born again. 

And the fire came and ate the clothes and everything was still again and empty.

It is enough that you have been born whispered the wind and the river when she came at dawn, a foetus slipping out into the birthing pool.   The blue light. The hard ground.  The soft cloth wrapped around her.  

Warm hands.  Sweet stories and a great love spreading out into the world.  The Monkey King knew she had returned and sent a great greeting party to welcome her back.  They jumped through the grass and stared and cheered and laughed.

The Life Arrow pointed the way out, calling the black dog to come in the dreamtime.  Flying over the cusp of the hill at the centre of the Earth.  Flying Home. To keep doing the work.  And keep doing the work. The Garndmothers and Grandfathers smiled.  And so it was.