Dear Daddy…

… today as we walked to school hand in hand as usual, with Zoom by our side as usual, 8-year-old Maggie and I kept looking at each each other, and smiling. That might have been because just before we left I told her how I love her so much, and how cool it is that she is so smart but also so funny.
Barely containing her joy, as we looked at each other, she said how we were the best family ever. That I was the best mummy ever, that Dad was the best daddy ever, that her brothers are the best brothers ever, that Zoom is the best dog in the world and the cats are the best cats ever. Then she said oh I forgot one! And pointed at herself. And I am the best… she paused. Yes! I asked her, what do you call yourself? She laughed and said like I was stupid: “A child! I am the best child ever! And my brothers, they are also children, teenagers are still children! (a lot of wisdom there methinks)” So we talked of how actually one of them is going to be 20 next year so no longer a child and not even a teen! And the other will be an adult by law in August. But, I said, you will all always be my children, even when you’re 60. And she said, I hope I get to be 60. And I said well I blooming hope so! I hope all of us get to be 60! She said I hope you get to be sixty and still look like you look like now. And I laughed and I said that’s not going to happen, but I don’t care, I just hope I get as old as I possibly can to see you all grown up. And she said how she wished we would all live a long long time, the pets too. It’s going to hit her very hard when lovely Zoom dies, I do hope he’s got a lot more years in him.

So you see? Daddy? We didn’t do too badly in the end. You spent your whole life a part from one single instance criticising and admonishing and making me anxious  and telling me how everything I did was wrong, from every far away, but in the end things haven’t turned out that bad so far. Fingers crossed.

Heavy Metal

The Perfect Parent/Il genitore perfetto

Vashti Bunyan in Leeds 9 4 2010

Almost exactly five years ago today, when I went to see the lovely Vashti Bunyan perform in Leeds, I was left with a million thoughts. It was mainly what she said, the almost sadness at her having to leave her music to become a parent, mixed with a sort of resignation.

Today, as I walked back from dropping off my Maggie at school with Zoom, I had my usual random thoughts and smiled to myself.

Two main things.

The first is: we can go through life either choosing who to be, or being a reaction to something or someone.
I know I could only react when I first came across people within the alien Italian society, at age 12, and tumbled my way through being different reactions to people until very, very recently.

It is extremely hard to choose to be someone, and at the same time it is really easy, as many bloggers I follow have pointed out, and, fortunately for me, point out on a regular basis.

It is a matter of choosing who you want to be, every moment. Every time I fail, and react badly or in a way that will eventually cause me or others harm, I breathe and seem to somehow be finding my way back to choosing who I want to be.

There were few constancies in the million ways I reacted, the positive ones I hold on to and hold dear as I firmly believe they are universally good ideas:

1) Never ever use some painful truth someone told you about themselves against them, either to their face or behind their back.

2) Never have fun at anybody else’s expense.

3) Never gain anything at anybody else’s expense.

4) Never wish ANYBODY harm.

Unfortunately, my gut reactions and past traumas or slightly cracked mind or what have you meant I wasn’t always kind when I felt attacked, whether the attack was deliberate or not, quite the opposite. Because on the other hand most of the time one of my distinguishing qualities is precisely to be kind, the people around me are in deep shock when I’m not.

So, my objective in the past few months and for the years to come and till the end of my days is and always will be to choose who I want to be, rather than be a reaction to something or someone. I recommend this to anyone.
The second thought was about parenthood.

When people with new babies on the way ask for advice and even when they don’t, I always say:

1) trust yourself, and then your partner, over and above anybody else when it comes to what to do with baby

2) love him or her, love them to bits, shower them, spoil them, inundate them in constant love. They should never ever doubt that you love them.

Because, when you grow up loved without any doubt, when no matter who you feel you are is loved by your parents, or at least a sibling, SOMEONE in your life as a child, you grow up thinking that you can choose to be who you feel you are and that it’s ok. You will have reacted only to love and respect for yourself and so you will consider it natural to be loving and respectful of others. Then you can lead a healthier, more fulfilling, easier life, a better person for the rest of the world around you.

People who either through abuse, or neglect, or simple selfishness, have grown up experimenting with who to be, will often grow up to be reactions, and have to struggle far more when older to choose to be something good, something happy, which would otherwise seem like such an obvious choice of who to be.

God this is a convoluted way to express a simple pair of thoughts. But I had to put it out there.

If you ever need to choose just one way to be, always, read this, by a fellow blogger who is always inspiring me heaps, just Be Kind.

a-z challenge: k

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Quasi esattamente cinque anni fa, quando sono andata a sentire la bella Vashti Bunyan in Leeds, ero venuta via con un milione di pensieri. Era soprattutto ciò che aveva detto, la quasi tristezza per la sua scelta di abbandonare la sua musica per diventare genitore, mista a una specie di rassegnazione.

Comunque, mentre tornavo a piedi con Zoom oggi dopo aver lasciato Maggie a scuola avevo i miei soliti pensieri sparsi e sorridevo a me stessa.

Due cose principali.

La prima e’: possiamo attraversare la vita scegliendo chi siamo, oppure essendo una reazione a qualcosa o qualcuno.

Ho dovuto reagire quando ho incontrato l’aliena società italiana, all’età di 12 anni, e mi sono sbattuta qua e la’ attraverso diversi modi di reagire alle persone fino a molto, molto recentemente.

E’ estremamente difficile scegliere di essere qualcuno, eppure allo stesso tempo è davvero facile, come molti blogger che seguo ripetono regolarmente. E’ questione di scegliere chi vuoi essere, ogni momento.

Ogni volta che fallisco, e reagisco male o in un modo che causerà danno a me stessa o a qualcun altro prima o poi, respiro e in qualche modo sto riuscendo a tornare a scegliere chi voglio essere. C’era qualche costanza nei mille modi in cui reagivo, quelle positive me le tengo care in quanto le trovo universalmente necessarie e vere:

1) Mai usare una verità dolorosa che qualcuno ti ha detto di se’ stessi contro di loro, ne’ in faccia ne’ alle loro spalle.

2) Mai divertirsi alle spese di qualcun altro.

3) Mai guadagnare niente alle spese di qualcun altro.

4) Mai augurare a NESSUNO del male.

Sfortunatamente, le mie reazioni istintive e traumi passati o la mia mente vagamente lacerata o quel che ti pare hanno significato che non ero sempre gentile/buona quando mi sentivo attaccata, che l’attacco fosse deliberato o meno, anzi il contrario. Siccome d’altro canto la maggior parte del tempo una delle mie qualità più distintive e’ proprio quella di essere gentile/buona, le persone intorno a me sono profondamente scioccate quando non lo sono.

Il mio obiettivo nei mesi passati e per gli anni a venire e fino alla fine dei miei giorni e’ e sarà sempre di scegliere chi voglio essere, piuttosto che essere una reazione a qualcosa o qualcuno. Raccomando questo a chiunque.

Il secondo pensiero riguardava l’essere genitori. Quando persone con bebè nuovi o in arrivo chiedono consiglio ma anche quando non lo fanno io dico sempre:

1) fidati di te stessa, e del/la tua partner, sopra e al di sopra di chiunque altro quando devi decidere cosa fare col tuo bebè.

2) amalo o amala, amali alla follia, inondali, viziali, versagli addosso infinite quantità di amore. Non dovrebbero mai dubitare che li ami.

Quando cresci amato senza alcun dubbio, quando non importa chi tu sia viene amato dai tuoi genitori, o almeno un fratello o una sorella, QUALCUNO nella tua vita da bambino, cresci pensando che puoi scegliere di essere chi ti senti di essere e che ciò e’ ok. Avrai reagito solo ad amore e rispetto e quindi reputerai naturale amare e rispettare gli altri. E potrai vivere una vita più salutare, più soddisfacente, più facile, oltre che diventare una persona migliore per il resto del mondo che ti circonda.

Le persone che per via di abuso, o abbandono, o semplice egoismo, sono crescite sperimentando con chi essere, spesso cresceranno come reazioni. Faranno quindi molta fatica più in la’ se dovranno scegliere di essere qualcosa di buono, qualcosa di felice, qualcosa che altrimenti sarebbe una scelta molto ovvia di chi essere.

Accipicchia questo è un modo complicato di esprimere un paio di semplici pensieri. Dovevo pero’ metterli la’ fuori.

Doveste mai scegliere un solo modo per essere, sempre, leggete questo, di una blogger che mi ispira moltissimo, su come sia importante essere almeno buoni e gentili.

a-z challenge: k

My daughter’s incredible birth day

There have been many magical days in my life.
Today was one of them.
5 years ago around this time I was having coffee in Wakefield with my mother-in-law-to-be and her partner, my adopted-father-in-law.
I was pregnant, with a little girl whom we knew had a big problem: gastroschisis .
We knew she was alive and well, but until the birth there was no way of knowing whether she’d survive it, whether she’d be born with the impossibility to absorb milk, how long we would have to leave her in the hospital in intensive care after she was born 2 to 6 months, possibly even more. We were told that were she to be born “perfect”, without an opening, it meant she would die, as it meant that her closing stomach had cut off her protruding bowels.

I went to the Café Nero toilet on that sunny day in Wakefield, returned to a sunny couple and said: “I believe my water just broke”.

Immediately we called the hospital, they told me to come in, I believe my mother in law and I got on a train – she shared my laughter and my tranquillity and knowledge that all would be fine – and my adopted-father-in-law went to find my husband-to-be. He got home and asked for instructions from my boys and they didn’t know and they got lost… in front of my husband-to-be’s office. Was that magic? Was it providence? Who knows.

It took a long, long, time and finally a caesarean was decided. While we waited, long hours, my mother-in-law-to-be and my husband-to-be waited with me. She paced the room and looked at the heart charts, he tried to beat his SuperMario kart racing record.

It all went well, she was transferred immediately to the Intensive care, she was placed in a box with her bundle of intestines on top of her waiting for them to slowly go back inside her tummy until she could have an operation that would stick them all back inside close her tummy. She only stayed in the hospital for 1 incredible month, and incredibly she took milk quickly and hasn’t had a single problem since. My mother-in-law-to-be saw her in the box and held her minuscule hand.

That was the last time she would ever see her, but we’re forever grateful she was there, forever grateful to little Maggie for deciding to be born early, just in time to feel her grandma, as if she knew that would be her final chance.

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Ci sono stati molti giorni magici nella mia vita.
Questo è stato uno di quelli.
5 anni fa intorno a quest’ora ero a prendere un cappuccino in Wakefield con la mia futura suocera e il suo compagno, il mio suocero adottivo.
Ero in cinta, di una bambina che sapevamo avere un grosso problema: la gastroscisi
Sapevamo che era viva e che stava bene, ma fino alla nascita: da 2 a 6 mesi, o anche di più. Ci era stato detto che se fosse nata “perfetta”, e cioè senza il buco, avrebbe significato che sarebbe morta, perché voleva dire che il suo stomaco si era chiuso tagliando via gli intestini.

Quel giorno soleggiato sono andata in bagno al Café Nero, sono tornata da una coppia solare e dissi: “Credo che mi si siano rotte le acque”

Abbiamo immediatamente chiamato l’ospedale, mi dissero di andare subito, se non ricordo male la mia futura suocera ed io siamo salite sul treno – anche lei come me era tranquilla, rideva, e sapeva che sarebbe andato tutto bene – mentre il mio futuro suocero adottivo andava a cercare il mio futuro marito. Andò a casa per prendere indicazioni stradali dai due bambini e non erano certi e si perdettero… davanti all’ufficio del mio futuro marito. E’ stata magia? La Provvidenza? Chi lo sa.

Ci volle tanto, tanto tempo, e alla fine si decise per un cesareo. Mentre aspettavamo, quelle lunghe ore, la mia futura suocera e il mio futuro marito aspettarono con me. Lei passeggiava per la stanza e guardava il monitor del cuore, lui cercava di battere il suo record di Supermario kart.

Andò tutto bene, fu trasferita immediatamente al reparto cure intensive, fu messa in uno scatolone con il suo mucchietto di intestini sopra la pancia, per aspettare che scendessero nella pancia per qualche giorno prima dell’operazione che li avrebbe rimessi dentro tutti e chiuso lo stomaco. Stette in ospedale per un incredibile solo mese, e incredibilmente prese velocemente il latte e non ha avuto un singolo problema da allora. La mia futura suocera la visitò nella scatola e le tenne la sua minuscola manina.

Quella fu l’ultima volta che l’avrebbe vista, ma noi siamo per sempre grati che fosse lì, per sempre grati che la piccola Maggie avesse deciso di nascere presto, appena in tempo per la sua nonna, come se avesse saputo che sarebbe stata la sua ultima possibilità.

My mother – redux

Tomorrow was the day my mother died. That was also a Sunday 5th October, and tonight, the Saturday before, we’d spent a lovely and rare peaceful evening with my ex-husband, my two children (one a baby) and his mother. My mum seemed, for once, happy and hopeful.
The next day I passed by for something I can’t remember on our way to somewhere. Everyone looked at me warily as I crossed the lawn. The door was slightly ajar which was unusual. The kitchen was a little messy and the cupboards and drawers open… Also unusual. Someone else came and told me, and I knew nothing more but confusion and chaos, disbelief and pain. I’m sure it’s the same for many who lose a parent. And it’s not like I hadn’t gotten used to people dying. But my main feeling was anger. Anger because it’d happened the day after for the first time I thought I was having a nice enough normal family day. I thought it was the beginning of something, but it was the end. Something I had always always always wanted, and now it was definitely never to be.
A few days ago I was very happily walking back with my dog. I passed a house, on its door a blue ribbon that said: “Qui e’ nato un bimbo” (a baby boy was born bere).
I broke down in tears in an instant, then just as instantly recovered and struggled and breathed and went home and tried to keep the flood of thoughts at bay.
Images had been conjured of Italian relatives coming to see the newborn babe, joy, merriment, confusion, spoiling.
Thoughts came of baby 1 and me being kicked our of the house and homeless, baby two breaking his head and then, less than 2 months later, my mum dying, and baby 3 being born with her guts out and then, a couple of months later, mum in law dying.
Anger surfaced. Unfairness.
My mum died many years ago now. 4 days before my birthday and so it will always be, it was 1997. Many years ago and I am STILL not ok with it, not ok with it at all.

About my Internet family

This was from last year. Things have changed since then: one son gone to university, my husband away north where we'll join him. Holiday now, and I have found my own life on the internet. I have given up, as sometimes one has to, and so far am quite happy with it :) Sort of like "If you can't beat them, join them"

Somewhere I was reading about how I should be grateful for my family. Grateful. Nobody “gave” my family to me. I worked hard for it, I worked hard for every single relationship I have built inside. I have been talking with my children since they were little, paying attention to their needs, thoughts and desires.
I made my (sometimes stupid) decisions in life all thinking about them first: where to live, taking them out to walk, teaching them respect for animals.
Then, of course, as is natural, the family grows up. Increasingly the time to secure a relationship between life outside and among other people and my family diminished. I needed to work many many hours to make enough so that combined, my husband’s wages and mine were enough to pay the bills.
As a freelance translator, this meant spending many, way too many frustrating hours in front of the computer. Alone during the daytime, too exhausted during the evening to initiate proper conversations or any activities with my husband beyond watching films and TV shows. When the kids were around, I couldn’t encourage them to do anything beyond what they would naturally choose to do, as I myself was stuck on the computer.
As my mental health was of concern to me (mostly an increase of depression brought on by inactivity and lack of adventure, which my life has been choke-full of as I grew up), I thought it best to change my working arrangements. I got a full time job and indeed that allowed me to interact with other people and brought me out of my isolation-surrounded-by-people quite a bit. The downside was that I even less present for my kids, and eventually I had to change that too.
I spoke to my boss and was prepared to quit but she offered me a great deal on hours which allowed me to be more present for my kids who were in their last two very important years.
However, apart from the few things I wanted to be more present for, which worked, by then the “damage” had been done. Everybody’s favourite thing was to do internet-related stuff, be it gaming online, reading reddit, using social interaction websites.
Talking to anybody was soon subjected to first gaining their attention from whatever video support they were watching, then being effective in the conveyance of my thought: I got one, flimsy chance to make my point, and if it wasn’t conveyed properly and succinctly they would lose interest, contradict it, or just say “Ok I’ll do it later”, thus effectively conveying the remaining words “now let me get on with whatever it was I was doing” (on the internet).
Lately, everything has become forced. I have to have forceful reasoning (which easily make me seem “bossy”, as my daughter says) that will justify distracting any of them from their interaction with the web or their video games. The only one who never minds being spoken to and interacted with is my dog, he is always happy to go out into the fresh air.
As with most jobs (especially retail) you don’t have much of a say in how to approach things. Now that my family is made up by mostly adult-ish males and one very headstrong little girl, I don’t get to have much of a say here either. They have a right to choose how to spend their time, and if that time is spent happily doing their own thing on the web, then that’s what they’re entitled to do. Even losing my patience and asserting anything like “we could just sit here and talk” is cause for an argument. Usually, the argument goes, “You come and sit here and talk to me while I’m doing this, nobody’s stopping you”.
I have forgotten what it’s like to talk facing each other. The normal way to talk is now me looking at someone as they look in their video and perhaps, if you’re lucky to captivate their attention, having them face away from the screen and look towards me. How they talk to each other when and if they need to is by raising their voice and still have their eyes on their screen.
They have breaks, they say. Their breaks are usually timed quickly and sharply around whatever they were doing. My son waits for a break between games to do the dishes in that allotted time. My husband has his coffees and breakfast in front of the computer, I have no memory if not in my fantasy world of us having a cup of coffee sat on the couch chatting. My son upstairs is great in that usually, unless he is chatting to someone in America and it is unpolite to leave a conversation without at least half an hour’s warning, but unless he is doing that he will come when called, will do what he is asked to do, then go back upstairs. Like a rubber band you pull and then snaps back.
My daughter, who adores me, also has started to talk to me whilst facing the screen, playing Minecraft (which, don’t get me wrong, is awesome, like Lego but on video, creativity and all that stuff). When I ask to use my computer (it used to be my computer, now even I make the mistake of calling it “her” computer) or watching videos about people doing stuff in Minecraft, she will immediately howl an annoyed “OOOhhhh!! For how long!!!??”, and that’s regardless of how many hours she has already had on them.
I am not one of those people who claim that they are “wasting their time”. I am well aware that every single game they are playing, every interaction they are having, is just the result of modern evolution, it stimulates creativity, and dialogue (with people on the other side of the screen). My sons develop real friendships with their interactions, and they occasionally still interact with friends in their flesh and blood. My husband has his battles in space and arguments on reddit which could easily be equated to, say, football games with his mates or stimulating conversations with his friends down the pub. I have no problem admitting that the only one for whom this is an issue is me.

However, there is a feeling of “Well, I built that house, to your taste as much as possible. Where’s my hut?”.

I want my hut. I want to stop feeling like I’m forced to hang around this house where everyone has their own room and I am left standing awkwardly in the middle, ready to do this or that, adjusting to whatever space and attention is needed from me. I want a place and a moment where I start doing something and I finish it when I want to, in the way I choose to.
True we all compromise to some extent in here to that respect. But I can’t help feeling that I have less of a luxury to do my thing than the others.
My husband would say: that’s not up to us, do it. He helped me get all the stuff for the jewellery making, it is there, unused. I don’t know if it was the location and the lack of proper set up, I feel very guilty about the money spent for it and my lack of ability to get going on it.
I have decided to let go of the guilt and try and accommodate myself better. To try and find a place for myself.

I sometimes metaphorically stand and look around myself and think that awful thought: “There is no longer any need for me here”. This is soon swept away, as I know there are friends who still relate to me as a person, and I know that my internet family needs me, even though I am not so sure what it is about me that they actually need. I believe it is more of a passive awareness of my existence and my importance, but what I have always fought for, which was that people should be lived passionately, intensely, as in one moment they could go, and that seems to be slipping away from me.

I have always been the one to say to others: “DO what you believe in. Cherish yourself. BE what you want to be because this is the only chance you get. Live YOUR life. Have courage.” And so on. I have been hoping and wishing for someone to say that to me for a while now, and am beginning to wonder whether, while they’re distracted with their games online, I might just start telling that to myself.

On integrity.

What is it, integrity? The word has long been associated with religious, moralistic bullshit. Sorry to be so blunt.
To me, integrity means living by your own beliefs and thoughts and feelings, being true to yourself, providing you are not hurting anybody in the process. Of course the I met Buddhism and I was shown how that is impossible: in order not to hurt anyone, which the Buddhists agree with, you must get to the point where you basically do nothing, attach yourself to nothing and nobody, feel no passion, wants, desires, all you do is live day by day being mindful, quiet, as umperturbed as possible. Like a still pond, clean ad peaceful. As so as I fully comprehended that philosophy, I yelled against it. What the hell is the point of having all these very human feelings if what I have to do in order to live mindfully and gracefully is to suppress them?
And, as far as my OWN philosophy of integrity is concerned, how is it fair, ad according to whom, that I take 90% of me and work the rest of my life to erase it, control it, stifle it until I am at peace with the fripping universe?
I don’t believe it.
I have always hated compromise, I find (I should say “found”) it useless, unproductive, a waste of time as it led you to accept situations that your instinct told you a long time ago were untenable, and above all, its greatest crime, BORING.
Then of course children came. I still fought against compromise, but then the love I had been avoiding all my life came too, ad there you go, suddenly between me and freedom there was that heavy, unrenounceable love you feel for those who depend on you.
Friends can always travel and come to see you, but children? A husband? Not because he’s a husband, but because you chose him to be your husband so you could promise each other to be there for each other, to not be selfish and take off whenever the fancy took you and expect to be welcomed back into open arms.
Children, husband, animals. All creatures I adore, all creatures there to clamp down to reality and sanity this rootless creature that I am. The weight of food I ingest just to keep me down, to keep me from drifting away with the wind.
To know what is right and what is wrong. Something I cried for a long time ago. Be careful what you ask for, as you may get it. Knowing what is right and what is wrong doesn’t mean it will be easy to do what is right. You could tear your hair out and still will only be able to do what is right, because you KNOW, as previously demanded…. and you won’t be able to stray.
Pretty, comfortable, delightful Cambridge has me trapped in its golden little cage.

Ignorance, on the other hand, is bliss.

Di uguaglianza e della sua mancanza/Of equality and the lack thereof.

One of many subjects that I am deeply passionate about is equality among all humans, regardless of gender, sexuality or culture/nationality. Lately, or rather, since I was very young, I have been thinking about equality between men and women. It has been an extremely long and complicated journey, which started with complete puzzlement: it was only when I arrived in Italy, at the age of 12, in 1983, after living abroad all my life, that I became aware that there were differences in how women and men were treated. It was a stunning, almost shocking revelation. I really had no idea. I will skip ahead, and come to right now. 2014 and still society is incredibly male oriented. Modern feminists do what they can, and sometimes even push for changes that make a big difference. I believe however, that the LITTLE changes are the really big changes that will make all the difference. Such as a campaign going around Facebook not long ago, asking for Italian registrars to always ask WHICH parental surname the parents wanted for their child. This doesn’t just help gay couples, or single parents, the most obvious people to benefit from such a very civilized arrangement. It benefits ALL WOMEN. Because it would no longer be assumed that just because my daughter’s called Paoloni* that is necessarily her father’s surname. It means I don’t have to tell you that I’ve had two husbands every time I have to tell you my childrens’ surnames. It means I don’t have to tell you I’m (or I was) a single mother! Then, there is the change of name. In a country as apparently male-oriented as Italy, YOU ARE NOT PERMITTED to change your surname, if you are marrying and you are a woman. Not in the bank, not on your passport. You can add a page if you like, but you CANNOT change your surname. What does that mean? It means that as generations grow, nobody ever thinks “Mr and Mrs Blake”. It will ALWAYS be Mr Blake and his chosen companion, Mrs Whatever. This means that even those who DO want to acquire their husband’s surname (as I did, at one point) for some old vestige of whatever romantic notion, couldn’t. What a subtle, and extremely powerful way to change society! At my work, when I receive customers, I’ve been told I must always check their title: “Some women have been put down as Ms when they are in fact Mrs”. It was me. I stopped asking for their title and just put Miss if they looked ridiculously young and Ms if slightly older, say above 25. My God. Shame on me. How terrible to accuse someone of just being a Ms when she is indeed a Mrs. Ok I am being overly facetious which is unfair because a lot of our customers are quite elderly and old-fashioned. But do you realise how much information you are giving someone when you are saying whether you are a Miss, a Ms or a Mrs?? Encyclopaedias of automatic pre-judgements are dumped on you. Having not been taken seriously for much of my life, I sometimes when I sign an email deliberately put Mrs V. S., especially when speaking of any of my children, all of them with a different surname than my own. Yes I am a terrible easy woman with children from different fathers but hey, I am a respectable woman now, so give me my due respect. THAT is what I’m saying and it’s ridiculous I should that do you know why? Because a man in my very exact situation, or in the situation of any other woman, DOES NOT provide all this information. He will merely tell you whether he is a doctor (which in England means a REAL doctor, so it can be handy), an Engineer or in the Navy. But top level consultants, higher than GP’s, go by the name Mr. so there you go. A man is not required to offer all these heaps of information to anyone, and that, I believe, is at the very basis of discrimination between genders and as long as that is the case we will never have equality, no matter how much feminists squabble over all sorts of other stuff. We should begin with forcing the use of just one equivalent to Mr., possibly not MS. because it sounds awful, really awful, but there you go that’s all we’ve got right now. Or, like in Italy, use Miss for the ridiculously young and Mrs for everyone else that starts looking more serious and grown-up. And finally, a further thought. Yesterday I was watching Generations, the 7th Star Trek movie. In it (really, I am not going to concern myself with spoilers 20 years after it’s come out), the lovely Picard muses about how now that his brother and his nephew have died horribly in a fire, the real tragedy for him is that the “Picard line” will stop. There has always been an important Picard he says: the explorer, the Mars settler, what have you. He thought because his brother had a son he didn’t have that responsibility. Now, however, he is just sad. Then he goes into the Nexus, where he is taken to a kind of fantasy world where all his wishes come true. In here, not only is his nephew alive, but Picard has 4 children (oh and a wife who makes him tea, bless her): 2 girls and, joy of joys, 2 boys. 2 boys + 1 nephew to continue the Picard line. Because of course, the generations of women born in that Picard line he was mentioning earlier were completely irrelevant to the Picard line, not just in olden times when it was difficult for women to get much done besides housekeeping and childbearing, but even from the 20th century onwards for more than 3-4 centuries! Because even if, say, we want to concede that one of the Picards he mentions were a woman, if she had had a child, that child would be named after his or her father… not after the Picard mother. The utter unfairness of this is tremendous. Do you see what a huge societal change it would require? For starters, I thought, what we should do is change our name, yes. I believed that all of us in my close family should change the name to my surname, at the very least. Because what they all have in common, is ME! So why shouldn’t they all change their surname to mine? My husband laughs at the idea and can’t really give me a good reason but there you go… “no way” he says “I don’t want to change my surname, don’t be ridiculous!” Really? Why was it not ridiculous for women to do that for always and always? It’s not his fault, it’s those deep deep rooted injustices and gross inequalities that we are nowhere near overcoming, which we don’t even see most of the time. I go further. I said OK, you don’t want to change your surnames to mine, how about we ALL change our surnames. To something NEW. To something unattached to either “line”. How about we all change our surname to “Humans”. “Look, here come the Humans”. “May I introduce you to Mr and Ms (for want of a better sounding one) Human”. “Wouldn’t that be AWESOME!?” I asked the family. “No, it really wouldn’t”, they all replied. I tried to argue a bit but to no avail. Yet I will have to do something sooner or later. What’s in a name? EVERYTHING. *Fake name

Uno degli argomenti che mi appassiona da sempre e’ l’uguaglianza tra gli esseri umani, che sia di sesso, di sessualità o di cultura/nazionalità. Ultimamente, o meglio, da quando ero molto giovane, ho pensato spesso all’uguaglianza tra uomo e donna. E’ stato un cammino estremamente lungo e complicato, iniziato con completa costernazione: e’ stato solo quando sono arrivata in Italia, all’età di 12 anni, nel 1983, dopo aver vissuto all’estero tutta la mia vita, che mi resi conto che c’erano delle differenze in come venivano trattati uomini e donne. E’ stata una rivelazione quasi scioccante. Davvero non avevo idea. Faccio un salto in avanti, e arrivo ad ora. Siamo nel 2014 e ancora la società e’ incredibile orientata verso gli uomini. Le femministe moderne fanno ciò che possono, e alle volte spingono persino per cambiamenti che fanno una grande differenza. Credo tuttavia che i PICCOLI cambiamenti siano i cambiamenti davvero grandi che fanno davvero la differenza. Come una campagna che girava su Facebook poco tempo fa, che chiedeva che gli ufficiali di stato civile chiedessero QUALE cognome i genitori volessero per la loro prole. Questo non aiuterebbe solo le coppie gay, o i genitori singoli, i più ovvi beneficiari di questo provvedimento estremamente civilizzato. Porterebbe vantaggio a TUTTE le donne. Perché non sarebbe più scontato che solo perché mia figlia si chiama Paoloni* quello sia necessariamente il cognome di suo padre. Significa che non devo dirti che ho avuto due mariti ogni volta che devo dirti i cognomi dei mie figli. Significa che non devo dirti che io sono (o ero) una mamma singola! Poi, c’e’ il cambio del cognome. In un paese apparentemente cosi’ orientato ai maschi come l’Italia, NON PUOI cambiare il cognome se ti stai sposando e sei una donna. Non alla banca, non sul passaporto. Puoi aggiungere una pagina se vuoi, ma NON PUOI cambiare il cognome. Che cosa significa questo? Significa che man mano che crescono le generazioni, nessuno pensa più “Il Sig. e la Sig.ra Nerazzurri”. Sara’ SEMPRE “Il Sig. e la Sig.ra Quelchel’e'”, sua compagna. Significa che persino coloro che VOGLIONO acquisire il cognome del marito (come me, ad un certo punto) per qualche vecchia idea di romanticismo, non possono. Che modo sottile, ed estremamente potente, di cambiare una società! Al mio lavoro, quando ricevo i clienti, mi e’ stato detto di controllare sempre il loro titolo: “Alcune donne sono state messe con Ms.** quando sono in realtà sono Mrs.***”. Ero stata io. Avevo smesso di chiedere il loro titolo ed avevo messo semplicemente Miss*** se apparivano ridicolmente giovani, o Ms se apparivano leggermente più grandi, tipo 25 anni o più. Dio mio. Cattiva me. Terribile accusare qualcuna di essere solo una Ms quando in realtà essa e’ una Mrs. Ok sto esagerando col sarcasmo, e’ ingiusto visto che molte delle nostre clienti sono donne anziane e all’antica. Ma vi rendete conto di quante informazioni state dando a qualcuno quando state loro dicendo che siete una Miss, una Ms o una Mrs?? Enciclopedie di automatici pregiudizi vi vengono buttati addosso. Non essendo stata presa sul serio per gran parte della mia vita, ci sono delle volte che firmo un’email deliberatamente mettendo MRS V. S., soprattutto quando sto parlando dei miei figli, tutti con un cognome diverso dal mio. Si sono una donna facile con figli da diversi uomini, ma ehi, ora sono una donna rispettabile, quindi datemi il rispetto che merito. E’ QUESTO che sto dicendo ed e’ ridicolo che io debba farlo sapete perché? Perché un uomo nella mia stessa identica situazione, o nella situazione di qualsiasi altra donna, NON fornisce nessuna di queste informazioni (tranne nel caso in cui debba prenotare un appuntamento medico per uno dei nostri figli e debba spiegare perché ha il cognome diverso…). Un uomo ti dirà semplicemente se sia un dottore (che in Inghilterra indica medico, il che può venire utile)un ingegnere o nell’esercito. Ma i medici consulenti di alto livello si fanno chiamare solo Mr,, quindi… A un uomo non e’ richiesto fornire tutte queste montagne di informazioni a chicchessia, e questo, io credo, e’ alla vera base della discriminazione tra i sessi e finché durerà questo non avremo mai l’uguaglianza, per quanto le femministe si sbattano a discutere su tante altre cose. Dovremmo iniziare con l’obbligo di usare un solo equivalente a Mr, possibilmente non Ms che ha un suono orrendo, ma per il momento e’ tutto ciò che abbiamo. Oppure, come in Italia, usare Signorina per le ragazzine e Signora per chiunque sia maturata e abbia un aspetto più “serio”. Infine, un ultimo pensiero. Ieri stavo guardando il settimo film di Star Trek, Generations. Nel film (e non mi vado a preoccupare di guastare la sorpresa dopo 20 anni che e’ uscito il film), il buon Picard riflette su come ora che suo fratello e suo nipote sono morti orribilmente in un incendio, la vera tragedia per lui e’ che la linea “Picard” sia stata interrotta. C’e’ sempre stato un Picard importante dice: l’esploratore, quello che e’ andato su Marte, eccetera. Pensava che visto che suo fratello aveva un figlio lui non avesse più quella responsabilità. Ora, pero’, e’ solo triste. Poi entra nel Nexus, una sorta di banda energetica dove tutti i suoi desideri si avverano, e li’ ritrova non solo suo nipote sano e salvo ma anche i suoi 4 figli, di cui 2 (evviva!) maschi. E una moglie che gli prepara il te’. 2 figli maschi e un nipote che continueranno la linea Picard. Perché naturalmente, le donne nate in quella linea Picard che stava menzionando prima erano completamente irrilevanti al fine della linea Picard, non solo nei tempi andati quando per le donne era difficile far altro che preoccuparsi di casa e di fare figli, ma persino dal ventesimo secolo in poi, per più di 3-4 secoli! Perché anche se, poni, volessimo concedere che uno dei Picard menzionati da Picard fosse una donna, se avesse avuto un figlio o una figlia, quel figlio o figlia avrebbe preso il nome del padre… e quindi non Picard come la madre. La completa ingiustizia di questa cosa e’ tremenda. Vedete che incredibile cambiamento della società richiederebbe? Tanto per cominciare, pensai, quello che dovremmo fare e’ cambiare i nostri cognomi, si. Pensavo che tutti noi nella mia immediata famiglia dovremmo prendere il mio cognome, quanto meno, dal momento che la cosa che tutti abbiamo in comune sono IO! Quindi perché non dovrebbero tutti cambiare il loro cognome per il mio? Mio marito ride dell’idea e non sa darmi davvero un buon motivo… “Ma assolutamente no, non voglio cambiare il mio cognome, non scherzare!” Ah si? E perché non e’ stato ridicolo per le donne che lo fanno da sempre e sempre? Perché non era ridicolo sperare che lo facessi io? Non e’ colpa sua, sono quelle ingiustizie profondamente radicate e grossolane diseguaglianze che non stiamo superando ancora, la maggior parte delle volte non ci facciamo nemmeno caso. Vado oltre. Ho detto Ok, se non volete prendere il mio cognome, allora perché non cambiamo TUTTI i nostri cognomi? Per qualcosa di NUOVO. Per qualcosa che non sia legato a nessuna “linea di parentela”. Perché non ci chiamiamo tutti “Umani”. “Guarda, arrivano gli Umani”. “Posso presentarti alla Sig.ra e al Sig. Umani?”. “Non sarebbe fighissimo?” chiesi al resto della famiglia. “NO, davvero, non lo sarebbe.”, risposero tutti. Ho cercato di argomentare un poco ma senza alcun effetto. Ma qualcosa avrò prima o poi. Cosa c’e’ in un nome? TUTTO. *Nome falso ** Signorina *** Donna adulta che non e’ sposata o non vuole dirti se e’ sia sposata o meno quindi probabilmente non lo e’ ma non vuole essere trattata da zitella/ragazzetta e quindi non vuole Miss e non può usare il titolo di Signora perché (chissà perché poi, io lo farei, signora e buona notte chissenefrega, ma se poi scoprono che non sei sposata torni ad essere Ms impietosamente) *** Signora, sposata.

Picard’s “Odd” Children/ I figli “inquietanti” di Picard.

My mum and elderly people

When I was much, much younger than now, I used to tell myself and all of my friends I never wanted to grow old (yes I was that kind of teenager). I wanted to live life at its fullest, and die, young, when still strong and beautiful. I did NOT want to grow old.

My friend S., left, sister of my on-off boyfriend M., and me, right.

My mum Diana and I used to fight on a fairly regular basis. I’d say at the very least once a week we would explode in yelling arguments which almost inevitably ended up in tears (on my side) and in a red fuming face (hers). It was usually me screaming at her that she didn’t love me, and she… well, she was just furious.

Of course, like every healthy teenager, there were times I would get so incredibly furious at her that I’d think “I wish you’d just die and leave me alone!!!”. Fortunately at least I never said it out loud.

We were close, even then, in our own way. At least, as is often the case with emotionally crippled people in my life, I adored her and wanted her to hug me all the time, she tolerated me and sometimes seemed to actually want me around, even touch me.

We started to get closer after my first son K. was born, in 1996, and she started mellowing. Then she hated my partner (she was right) but K. was around so she wanted me around. Then my son D. was born, then Lady Diana died, then my son D. was in hospital, my mum and I were finally close for real, then she died, 4 days before my birthday. 1997 was not a brilliant year.

My mum’s birthday was last November the 17th. As she was born in 1933, she would have been 80. There are so many ladies that come into our shop. They are eighty, some of them, many of them much older. I look at them and think I wish my mum had reached 80. They sweetly say “I’m not much good anymore…” but actually they are fine, mentally, physically, they are just fine and wonderful. My mum died when she was 64, and I used to sing to her “When I’m 64” by the Beatles a lot.

I tell these ladies “No, Madam, you are just fine, just fine. We want you to stick around as much as you possibly can”.

And despite my horrendous moods and impossibilities and unpleasantnesses, I realise now that I want to be around for my kids and friends as long as I possibly can. I want to die decrepit and out of an impossibility to raise my chest to breathe anymore, that’s how tired and old I’ve got to be. Sure, I hate the stuff that happens to my body, I hate the changes, but eventually I’ll be old enough that it won’t matter. I hope I live old.

 

From left to right: my brother, my friend, my mum, and my sister.

 

Gratitude

I am grateful for those who don’t feel envy.

I am aware of how some people might think I am woefully ungrateful if I ever moan about anything, as indeed I have so much, and it is all very precious and I am generally a very happy person. Not lucky though. My dad used to say I was but that was in the context of the inane amounts of trouble I would actively seek out and get into, and my coming out still alive.

Nothing I have at the moment is the result of luck. My children all had serious health problems in the past (and present!) we’ve battled through, people in my life have gone out of their way to be horrible and make my life difficult, many beloved ones have started dying at a very young age and haven’t stopped, and most of the choices I have made looked easy to those who saw me making them, but they were all difficult, and I was aware throughout most of them. Ok not all, but most.

One of the choices was renouncing material comfort for love, giving up saving money to cultivate personal relationships, being there for those who needed it even when it was absurd. It’s all stuff that has come back, in the shape of amazing friends and family.

But every so often, I do pay a price, still. Like this morning, the dream.

A horrendous dream that felt as real as can only be in one of those dreams, you know?, when it all feels real. I had done something terrible, felt I had no choice and struggled to explain it to those who loved me, who were devastated, disappointed… Then still in the dream I was telling myself it had been a dream, I hadn’t actually done that… But my brain refused to be fooled. I then felt very strongly I did not want to wake up, never ever, I couldn’t wake up in the morning knowing I’d done what I’d done, I couldn’t face those I loved… but I did wake up, and it was just a horrible, horrible dream.

Because nothing is worse than the nightmare of causing your own hell on this earth. I am so glad at one point I simply chose to actively try and ensure I didn’t, and that is why I am still alive and well. We all have this infinite potential, of making our life amazing and delightful or hellish and miserable. It is more of a choice than we believe.

I am proud and relieved of my choices. But they didn’t come easy, and every day the choice is renewed. Every day, for a long time, all I did was “keep passing the open windows”*. Eventually you stop even noticing them and then you can just be happy.

*Hotel New Hampshire, John Irving.

Confessione

Sono un’arrogante.

Non ho mai fatto niente, tutta la vita, se non essere, respirare, far casini, appassionare, creare chaos, e poi lisciare.
Non ho studiato quando avrei potuto, non ho manco lavorato quando avrei potuto, preferendo “essere”, librarmi, esplorare, magicare.

Ma ho pagato per tutto questo.

Non ho mai nemmeno compreso cosa potesse essere un compromesso, accomodare, comprendere ed accettare una posizione che ritenevo assurda. Al punto di perdere le persone più care, inestimabili, pur di dire la mia senza mezzi termini, brutalmente.

Ma ho pagato per tutto questo.

Sono un’ingrata. Nonostante abbia persone ed esseri preziosi intorno a me, mi danno per quelle che non ci sono, patisco la loro assenza, inevitabile o meno, e patisco l’assenza di tante cose, tutte guadagnabili col sacrificio, di cui non sono capace.

E pago per tutto questo.

Ricordo un magnifico terrazzo di un appartamento appena sotto il Gianicolo a Roma, sopra Trastevere, ricordo ville in tutto il mondo, barche, viaggi, aerei. Ricordo il prezzo a cui tutto era stato ottenuto, e ricordo che sono grata della piccola casa, e del conto sempre in rosso perpetuo.

Penso alla mia ineluttabile ignoranza e all’incapacità di leggere più di una riga per settimana di cosa diavolo succede nella mia “madre patria”, poi pero’ leggo lucide analisi ed opinioni illustri e vedo che la percezione che avevo, giusto o sbagliata che sia, e’ pienamente condivisa da persone che hanno studiato, lavorato e si sono sbattute molto più di me. E mi dico, mah, tanto cretina non sono.

La cosa migliore che abbia fatto per I miei figli, oltre a lottare come una tigre per il loro benessere, ed insegnare loro che l’unica cosa davvero importante e’ la bellezza interiore ed amarsi ed amare, e’ stata non fare nulla, non incanalarli, non limitarli, non spronarli verso altro che non fosse seguire il loro cuore.

Guardo i miei ragazzi e la mia bambina, guardo il mio oggi diciassettenne primogenito, e mi dico che forse, non fare niente non e’ poi cosi’ una brutta idea.