Grandma Bernadine

Yesterday, I wrote about my dad’s mother, Grandma Vera.  Today I am about to write about my mom’s mother.  I don’t even know her name, partly because I never actually knew her. 

The content of this post is depressing, but it’s the truth.  I will move on to happier topics ASAP, I promise!

My Grandmother Bernadine (I just found her name through a strategic Google search) was not a happy person.  Her family had emigrated to the US from France, via Canada.  Her most noteworthy recollection from her own childhood was of her own mother attempting to sell her to strangers.  I suspect that’s not exactly what happened, but I’ll get into that another time.  She married my grandfather, who had been abandoned by his own parents and raised by his grandparents.

My grandfather was an alcoholic.  So was Bernadine.  Bernadine spent a lot of time drunk, passed out on the couch.  She also spent a lot of time standing in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and repeatedly banging her fist against her thigh.  Other times she was prone to various types of drama, although I’m sure I never heard about most of it.  What I did hear is that she once drowned a cat in the toilet in a drunken rage.  I am sorry to even include that, but it’s the sad truth.  Bernadine and her husband fought…a lot.  A gun was fired in the house on at least one occasion.  Some of the fights managed to spill out into the front yard.

At one point Bernadine managed to get into the car that was parked in the driveway and locked the doors.  My grandfather climbed on top of the car and banged on it with his fists.  This is the kind of chaos, humiliation, and fear my mother grew up with.

After many years of marriage, raising four children, and witnessing the arrival of a number of grandchildren, Bernadine killed herself.  I have no idea what finally sent her over the edge.  I’ve always been too afraid to ask many questions about her.  Apparently she died the year I was born.  What I do know is that I grew up with her ghost, so to speak.  I was born to a woman whose own mother had just killed (or was just about to kill) herself.  She, in subtle and indirect ways, has been a huge part of my life.

Crazy Women in my Family…or Were They Just Feminists?

I can’t write about life without writing about mental health…and I can’t write about mental health without writing about my parents…and their parents…

Although I had three grandmothers, the two crazy ones (of course!) were blood-related.  I’ll talk about my step-grandma last because she was normal and by the time I get to her, the mood will need some lightening up.

I’ll start by telling you what little I know about my paternal grandmother, “Grandma Vera.”  By the time I was old enough to develop any memories of her, she was a small, feeble woman and her boobs hung down past her waist (sorry, I’m just sharing what I remember!).  Since she had trouble getting around, my brother and I would stay with her on the weekends to help out.  I was in elementary school at the time.  She didn’t like us sleeping in the same room, but we did anyway.

The way it was explained to us was that she used to be a teacher in a juvenile detention home and suspected only the worst from children.  At some point, I asked my parents what Grandma Vera was like when she was younger.  Apparently, when she was younger she weighed somewhere between 300 and 400 lbs.  I was later quite relieved to realize that’s why her boobs were so long (she shrunk, but her skin didn’t).  For years, I had been afraid that’s what my boobs would like like when I got old.

Grandma Vera drove around in a flashy pink convertible and didn’t allow her children to call her “mom”; instead, they had to address her by her first name.  She was not known for being nurturing.  She didn’t seem to care for children, although she had 6 of them.  Life must have sucked before birth control…and career options.  God knows she didn’t go into teaching because she loved children.  It must have been her only option.

My dad recalls, with some resentment, how Vera pampered his sisters, but not the boys in the family.  The boys barely had enough clothes between them to get dressed in the morning.  My father went through high school with a single pair of jeans and a missing front tooth while his sisters wore dresses and took piano lessons.  This hurt my father, but he never seemed to hold it against her.  He was always there for her in her final years.

One cool thing I remember about my grandma…she taught me to read before I learned in school.  I remember how exciting it was to learn to read.

Facebook and Politics: Drill, Baby, Drill

I noticed a political dispute on facebook.  A woman had posted an article by Eve Ensler called Drill, Drill, Drill.  The Vagina Monologues was one of the many sources of inspiration for my blog triligy (Cindy, Dating, Cindy, Working, and Cindy, Living).  A man posted a response to the article that was…negative.  It wasn’t even clear what he was disagreeing with specifically…he was just offended by the article as a whole.  The woman ended up deleting his comment and then later wondering if she should have.

The man posted another response that was somewhat apologetic, even though he wasn’t totally clear about why his first response had been deleted.  Another woman posted a lengthy response that included the following:

We both read the same essay, but walked away with two very different ideas of what it was saying.  Yes, open discussion is a wonderful thing.  However, you may not have realized how your words would be interpreted given the fact that you are male.  On one level, yes, it is about Palin, McCain, Republicans, and Christians in general.  I know it’s hard to set politics and religion aside, but I hope you are interested in hearing about why your response was hurtful.

 

The essay is about the objectification of – and violence against – women, minorities, and anyone or anything else that can be treated as a commodity (including animals and the environment).  This objectification is a painful daily reality for women and members of certain ethnic groups.  Women and girls are molested, raped, prostituted, kidnapped, and/or sold into sexual slavery every day.  This is a horrifying reality. 

 

We (most women) are sick of being objectified.  We’re sick of cat calls, we’re sick of being afraid to walk alone at night, and we’re sick of being afraid to walk too close to vehicles with tinted windows for fear we will be abducted, raped, and tossed into a dumpster afterwards. 

 

We’re sick of living in a “boys will be boys” society (and world) where men get away with things like rape and sexual solicitation and the women are left with little or no recourse…or are put in jail (prostitutes).  In other countries, girls are disowned by their families if they are raped.  They are no longer “valuable” to the family and are discarded like trash.  In yet other countries, women carry the burden of wearing burqas in public…so as not to “tempt” men into lusting after them while they are outside their homes.

 

We’re sick of paying the price for men’s bad behavior.  Men have to go to war to develop Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  We barely have to leave our homes.  Do you know how many of my friends were raped before they were 10 years old by family members?    One of my friends was raped when she was 6 years old by a male family member.  Another friend, who was adopted from outside the US at age 5…and grew up in Michigan, by the way, was used by the father as a sex slave until she was a teenager.  She had brown skin and was treated as less than human by her entire (white) adoptive family.

 

So, now we are living in an era where we (women) are minimally protected from predatory sexual behavior AND our right to control our bodies (specifically, our uterus) is in danger.  As women and mothers, we are offended when the earth’s resources are exploited for commercial gain.  Our hearts break when animals are killed for sport.  We do not promote violence; after all, it’s our children who will be killed…and it is us who will be raped.  What happens to women during war?  We are raped en masse.  We are either raped in our communities or we are transported to “rape camps” to be raped ad nauseam.

 

Last but not least, this essay was written by Eve Ensler, who created the The Vagina Monologues, which has been translated into 45 different languages and performed in over 119 countries.   We, women from all over the planet, take the plight of our vaginas and uteri very seriously.  The psychological damage cause by the ways in which our bodies are violated is immeasurable.  I suspect your intent was not to dismiss our collective experience.  Men have been dismissing our value and basic rights as human beings pretty much since the beginning of time.  Forgive us if we sometimes come across as being too sensitive.

 

I sincerely appreciate your attempt to make things right.  The world would be a better place if we could sort through complex and sensitive issues…together…as human beings.  Not as men vs. women, old people vs. young people, Christians vs. non-Christians, or Democrats vs. Republicans.  I suspect we ultimately want the same things out of life.

What Does Feminism Mean to Women in Their Twenties?

I just realized my three blogs could have been on the subject of sex, religion, and politics.  Instead I blog about relationships, work, and life in general (this blog).  My intention is not to ignite controversy, but there is something I have been struggling with, particularly over the last few days.  Do young women fully understand the significance of the contributions made by feminists over the past few generations?

Is Roe v. Wade just an abstract concept to young women?  I’m not concerned about whether or not you think abortion is wrong.  I am talking about the right women currently have to control their reproductive tracts. 

Unfortunately, we live in a society – and world – that is dominated by androcentrism.  In other words, the world is dominated by a “male” perspective.  The vast majority of people in positions of power are men.  The vast majority of legislators are men.  Men still make more money than women, even for the same jobs requiring the same level of education.

The vast majority of murderers, domestic abusers, rapists, pedophiles and perpetrators of incest are men.  And our laws tolerate this behavior.  For example, about 6% of rapists ever spend a day in jail.  Meanwhile, 1 in 6 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime.

As of today, September 4, 2008, I have the right to control my reproductive tract…most of the time.  I could be the victim of rape at any time, which causes me to hesitate before saying I have control of my vagina, because I really don’t.  I have control over it unless a man rapes me.  My “consolation prize” is that I have the right to decide whether or not to carry a resulting pregnancy to term.  I can’t control whether I contract HIV or another STD from that encounter.  Not much of a consolation prize, huh?

If Roe v. Wade is ever overturned, I will no longer have rights over my reproductive tract.  Rapists will get the extra satisfaction of knowing that they can force pregnancy and child-bearing on women of their choosing…if they’re “lucky.”  Considering the fact that a large proportion of rapes (and murders) are committed by men women know, this could ultimately become a vehicle for the even-more-successful domination of women (as if the current spousal abuse and rape rates aren’t already high enough as it is).

Ever heard of human rights?  Feminism is the radical notion that women are people. 

Do young women realize that overturning Roe v. Wade would also open the door to the possibility of outlawing contraception of any kind?  If Roe v. Wade is overturned, the debate will then shift to the question of precisely when life begins.  Some folks, at one end of the spectrum, believe that preventing pregnancy is wrong.  What if consensus is reached that life begins prior to conception?  Does that sound outrageous?  When I was in my twenties, the possibility of Roe v. Wade ever being overturned, let alone in my lifetime, was outrageous to me.  Now?  I’m scared.