Info

The Interdisciplinary Work of Lyss England

Posts tagged #mother

Check out my conversation with Katie Hoogandam!

Image may contain: 1 person, closeup and outdoor

We talk about:
– her writing, including her chapbook, “Mothertongue” (to get a copy, email Katie at khoogendam@gmail.com or pick it up at The Black Cat Cafe or Let’s Talk Books
– Katie’s old radio show on Northumberland 89.7
– her play, “Plan X“, which is featured in Spirit of the Hills Festival of the Arts 2019!
– motherhood, sexuality, staying well

and more!

Featured Tunes by:
Northern Hearts
David Newland
Breathe Owl Breathe
Modest Mouse

Advertisements

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about unpaid labour and care work.

My experience with care work started when my mother was dying and I felt compelled- by myself, by my family, and by society in general, to prioritize my young life around caring for her. I used to go with her to chemo appointments, I’d sit with her in her bed and sing to her while she suffered, and I tried to pick up some of the things she’d done before she got sick. With help from my aunts and uncles, my dad and I became a care team. But I was only fourteen, and I didn’t have the capacity to balance that work with forming an identity outside of that. It was all consuming. I stopped playing music and doing theatre. I did well enough in school, but didn’t care to immerse myself fully in anything academically, even though I may have been inclined to. I held down a part time job and did well at it, but it wasn’t my focus. My whole life became care work.

When I fell desperately in love at only eighteen, I did what I had learned to do best: I cared for him. I worked hard to build a life where I’d be able to contribute enough financially and emotionally to support him while he lived his dreams of being a professional musician. I went to school and volunteered with a feminist organization and provided a lot of financial and emotional support for survivors of gender-based violence through fundraising and community outreach. When my friends were struggling with the stress of school or relationships or parents, I was the first one to drop everything I was doing to be there for them. When my partner wanted to move to a small, rural town where he’d grown up, I agreed. After all, I liked the idea of living in a small, artsy town. I liked the idea of building a life where we could raise a family, engage with our hobbies, and maintain humble but generally fulfilling careers.

When we moved, I quickly realized that my single undergraduate degree wasn’t going to get me far in the field I had dreamt of working in. It turns out, social work is a lot more about following government guidelines than actually actively caring for people. In this community, I fought my way into a grassroots charity organization where I attempted to use my creativity and advocacy experience in a way that met their mandate. I attempted this work for years, and when paid opportunities came up, they were never for me. I worked with a few counselling and direct support agencies for minimum wage with no benefits or support, but it wasn’t sustainable physically, emotionally, or financially. I managed a multi-million dollar company for a couple dollars over minimum wage for a few years until I requested some reasonable disability-related accommodations the company refused to meet. So I started working with another multi-million dollar company where I was paid less than what I’d been promised in the interview and was sexually harassed to the point where I no longer felt comfortable making the forty minute commute to be paid $16 an hour.

During this time, I volunteered in my community theatre company and volunteered at a radio station pushing boundaries with a show that addressed topics relating to discrimination, empowerment, recovery, and care. I initiated an annual rally against gender-based violence in my community. I advocated for equality at a municipal level and became a go-to outreach support person for women in my community. And all of this went unpaid.

As I make the transition to motherhood, which has, naturally, been an arduous process, I’m reflecting a lot on my priorities, on where I’m placing my energy, on where I’m at in my life and what this transition means for me in terms of my future. I’m realizing that my failed career paths come down to the fact that, in a world of Bell Let’s Talk days, the society I live in isn’t one that prioritizes active care.

We want to say, “I’m always here to talk with you”, but we rarely know how to practice the kind of active care or advocacy that is required to make a change in a person’s life, and when we do, that work isn’t sustainable under the rule of capitalism. That kind of work doesn’t lead to job opportunities, it doesn’t lead to being able to pay our rent or buy our groceries. It’s no surprise that mental health is poor for almost everyone or that we live in a culture that is deeply traumatized as a baseline. We’re all just trying to make it month to month, day by day.

As a pregnant, disabled woman, I’m in a position where my career won’t be prioritized the same way for quite some time. While I grow this human, while I give birth and attempt to heal my body, while I feed and raise my son, I know from my past experience mothering (because, let’s face it, I’ve been mothering since I was fourteen years old) and from the experiences of mothers around me: this will be all-consuming. So how do I meet the demands of capitalism as a woman who has dedicated her life to unpaid care work so far when I push that boundary further?

When I was a little girl,
I lived in a house with a big garden
that gently sloped into a ravine.
Across the water, lived a willow tree
and when my brother and I
followed the stream against the current,
it lead to an open field full of
huge rocks- islands to our childminds
and we swore the water there was magic.

When mom got sick,
I used to walk up stream to
sit, skinny legs folded up against my chest,
smoke cigarettes, let the stream that
has held me my entire life
hold me then

I questioned a lot then, but never that the water
was magic.

And when she died,
I planted a tree beside her grave
one with purple flowers
like the ones in her garden
like the ones on the kitchen table
passed down from her mother to her
the ones that died when she did

because I’ve never been great with houseplants
but I know a few things about putting down roots.

When I grew up to experience
the first bookend loss,
I drove to Lake Ontario
just like she would have done
and scoured the shore
for a jar full of lake glass
and with my own hope for comfort,
the kind I’ve always felt
rooted in water,
I almost forgot to listen
to the messages she sent through the lake-

Something about collecting and purging
what fills her without any control of her own.

So when the second bookend loss came,
it was waterless winter ice
and it’s taken until spring to thaw
and I can’t help but think that maybe

if I stop

listen

connect

my body

I
motherless child
I
childless mother

might find that I can
simultaneously be
mother-child
to the elements that have held me my whole life
and maybe by feeling held,
I can hold her too.

I’ve been listening to poetry
For hours trying to find
Something that feels as familiar
As you did the first time you
Introduced me to the static
Of this world that mid summer
Burning
Crimson
Red hot
Rose petal
True love
My mother
You were like a Friday evening
And I was Saturday morning
You looked at me like I was
The best choice you had ever made
So when I celebrate you on
This day I am tied to
With the roots of your arteries
On this harvest moon
I’ll hold you at the helm
Of the care that you gave me
While I hear the echo of your
Heeled shoes through the sound
Of the still static.

Losing you is a lot to hold.

Sometimes, it feels like I’m losing you all over again. While I mourned for the mother I had as a child, as I grow into an adult, I am realizing that there is a whole other aspect to this loss. I have never mourned for the person I never had the privilege of knowing. My adult self never knew your adult self. My perception of you as a person, through the eyes of a little girl, could not have possibly been accurate or well-rounded, and as I grow, and I see my friends with their children, I know that this is true.

Playing such a heavy role in your care while you were sick skewed my perception even further. I was young enough that I don’t even remember you. I don’t remember how your voice sounds (that drives me crazy). I don’t know if you would have condoned many of the choices I’ve made over the past nine years- I don’t even know if you would have liked the person I’ve grown into.

As I’ve watched many of my friends make choices about boundaries in their adult lives with their parents- and as I’ve made my own choices about the boundaries I have with my living parent- I find myself mourning the loss of that choice. The choice to have a relationship with you.

As I watch my friends have children, and as I think about it abstractly, I mourn the fact that you will never meet any one-day child of mine, you will never be there to support me while I go through the process of bringing a human being into the world or raising them. One thing I remember about you, is that you loved being a mother. I think that I will one day too. I wish we could have shared that.

I wish we could have shared a lot of things.

I wish you could have met my partner. I wish you could have seen me graduate- and told me that I should just go straight to grad school instead of putting it off. I wish you could help me pick out clothes for work (my idea of professional attire isn’t exactly the most well-rounded). I wish you could help me paint my apartment, and try out that new lunch spot with me, and warn me about that friend who you KNEW wouldn’t be worth my energy in the end. I wish you were there to answer all my questions about how long to cook chicken breasts or how to shave my legs without razor burn.

But I didn’t have you around then, and I still don’t now. I have raised myself since I was fourteen years old, and while I felt lost for a long time, I’m found now. I found myself, no one did it for me. I did the work. I cared for myself. I nurtured myself. Not gracefully, but successfully none the less. I have been my own mother.

But I also know that would break your heart, because another thing I remember about you is that you never wanted me to feel lost of alone or that I had to mother myself. So sometimes, when I miss you the most, I wrap myself in the quilt the hospital gave you and I breathe in a decade’s worth of missing the you I’ll never get to know.