Post Feminism meets the Clan

We are living in the so called era  of post feminism.  Growing up I never felt I had to prove something by virtue of my gender.  I knew the world was open with choices, not that I necessarily made the best ones, but the point is that I was not hampered by the idea that a woman has to work twice as hard or align herself to the frames constructed by the male psyche.  Realistically, this was probably largely due to be cultural and economic pocket.  I am aware that in large parts of this world, even today there are women who not do have the time or space to consider there position in society.  They live traditionally, but many times on the brink of a seeming miracle of survival. Their needs are to feed their families, to escape civil war, to make a life in deep poverty.  Women live daily ducking abuse, hoping that their children or siblings will stay at school, or find a school, or stay alive.  This is reality of our third worlds.

But I write personally, as I always do.  I have seen these families all my life in the rural north west province, and in the cities and towns of Africa I have made my home for months, years.  There language is not of the discourse of feminism, of the rights of women, women's equality.  But what I did see in these communities, most often than not, is just that...a community. A shoulder to lean on.   Traditionally there is a sisterhood, against the odds, a unity among women to raise children together.  This is a generalization, but the majority of mothers pulled together to form a child raising community.  A group effort.

As much as my schooling gave me independence, lack of male competition, close friendships with my school friends (I attended a wonderful all girls school) and a very late interest in the opposite sex, almost a by product of all the other exciting parts of a school girl life, it also gave me entrance into a very surreal world.

A world in which in order to 'survive', the mantra is every nuclear family unto itself.  Until I became a school mom myself, it did not permeate my skin.  But as a mother, I believe in the traditional  almost archaic cultural day to day life of men being hunters, women being gatherers (in a larger metaphorical sense of course), and the village of women, young, and old, sick and healthy, standing together in the raising and supporting of the new generation.  There is no fierce competition between us mothers, us women, the term feminism or even post feminism seems redundant in my world view.  Because the natural human unity between us is paramount.

I chatted on and on to the fellow mothers at my children school and was met with distrust.  It is dichotomous, this modern role of the mother at school.  On the one hand, we don't discuss ourselves or our careers, we are mostly extensions of our offspring.  On the other hand, there is a brutal competition to see who we all are.  Who is she?  Is she prettier, thinner, more glamorous, than I am?  (Smarter doesn't even feature primarily).  Is she going to flirt with my husband?  Is she going to make me look like a less than perfect mum?

There is a such a paranoia and isolation that it make take months to break down.  But I was surprised.  In my world, mothers stick together, we have enough other worries.  Let's not compete.  Forget your kids for a moment, much as you love them.  They will most likely be fine in life.  Even more so if they see an example of women leaning on each other, turning to each other.  So let's talk about ourselves, let our guards down, complain together, laugh together, take an interest in our lives instead of our children's, and have a a glass of wine together.  To toast the the enormously difficult job of raising children in a society where we as mothers don't seem to have the chance to ask for, or receive, a little help.  Again, general rule, there are wonderful exceptions.

night organ

he listens to the breathing of the night
he plays a song for the cathedrals of the sleeplessness
the minds of the awake, travelling towards him
in the voyages of their tears

Monday

the particles of people
fall like dust
two faces turn to pictures
floating in the wind
people become puppets
animated, distant
big eyed, carrying no emotion in their glass stained smiles.

Tapestry

From a line drawn in the sand, swept away by the desolate wind
a patch of light through the summer oak leaves
the sweet aftertaste of a pastry eaten by the Athens harbour
waiting for the ferry, just before sunrise
 to an echo of a baboon calling from the ice breathing cliff
mid winter, serene silence follows
a lost cry ringing from that deserted island
recurrent
these are my patchwork memories.

Words

These words crowd in the corner
at the end of summer
wonder struck
unable to separate sentences

If

If I could open my eyes
I would see you walking in the snow
If I could open my arms
I would see you walk into them
If I could open my hands
I would catch the sorrow of your drowning tears
If I could open my heart
I would fill yours with the sun.

Forensics

I cannot walk away
and stop the digging up
the swab of past evidence
of my life.
I cannot stop
childhood files,
I search through them looking for my facts
my height, my tendency to run away,
isolated incidents
I dig,
 the archaeology of my own breath
unclassified matches