A few years ago I read an article in The Age about the very high proportion of women changing their name on marrying. There are also lots of articles out there along the lines of “Why Young Women Don’t Believe They Need Feminism.” (Do your own googling, I’m too lazy to cite sources.) I have two questions; “Why are we only writing about women, rather than people, needing feminism?”, and “Why are men and women still expecting women to change their names?”

(Yes, I am just writing about heterosexual marriage, this time.)

When I started primary school Mum sewed little name-tags into my shorts – how a situation would arise where I might get my shorts confused with someone else’s I do not know, but labels were the rule. (They were little fabric tags that came on a roll – I still have the roll, which will no doubt serve me well when the time comes for a nursing home. But I digress.)

I concede that labelling shorts is not exactly the same thing as a woman changing her name to match her husband’s, but it’s a tradition that is completely rooted in the idea of women as property.

Let’s just accept for a moment the notion of marriage as an acceptable human relationship. (It is, but I appreciate that there’s plenty of fodder for discussion there.)

The current social discourse is entirely about women making a choice. The man’s role in the conversation is to sit somewhere on a continuum that ranges from “Of course you’ll change your name” to “I entirely respect your choice in the matter”. These men are duly awarded the “Pro-Feminist Badge of Honour”. Until the children arrive.

I’m still too lazy to look it up, but I’ve worked in maternal-infant health for a long time so I’m asserting that regardless of the mother’s name, almost all babies born into a stable relationship take their father’s name.

Children were property too. Sons “carried on the name”, daughters “married well” and produced heirs for their new family.

Women grow and birth babies. In this society, they do most of the parenting, regardless of how much time they also spend in the paid workforce. Their children carry marginally more than 50% maternal DNA (Google mitocondria) and when relationships dissolve they carry the overwhelming burden. (Individual mileage may vary; I’m by necessity talking about statistical generalities.)

So gentlemen, here’s my proposal: Stop expecting your wives and children to carry your name. If it’s so important that you keep your name, why would you not think it’s also important to your wife? As to children, let them carry the name of their main parent, or hyphenate if you like, and let them sort those issues later. If you’ve pulled your weight and made a difference in their lives, they might even keep your half.

Here’s a scenario: “I fell in love with you, Jane Smith, and I want to be married to Jane Smith for the rest of my life.” Actually, here’s a real-life example: a man made an unexpected proposal (unexpected because it was early in a relationship) which was accepted, and at some point in the ensuing conversation the woman asked about his thoughts on names. Clumsily, he said something like, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather my name wasn’t on offer.” She breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Thank you.”

Healthy Doubts, Minor Irritations

healthydoubts.wordpress.com

It’s 9:58pm – two minutes before my deadline – and I’m still festering. My words are on the page and I should have pressed send hours earlier, but the ‘What Ifs’ have gathered like a swarm of bees: drones following their queen wildly searching for a new home. Our eyes lock and she comes straight for me, her advance guard landing on my skin with their tiny tarsi that test the waters. I can almost hear them sniff the air, their antennae assessing my temperature and humidity to see if I’ll make a good breeding ground.

What if it’s shit? What if it’s awesome? What if, oh please god no, it’s beige? What if it’s too _______, or too ______, and too ______? Or not enough _____ or _______ or _______? Fuck.

What if I’ve used the word fuck too many times for sheer novelty rather than translating all the different actual fucks swirling in my head? What if my mum reads this?

What if’s are much more inquisitive and persistent than the ‘What evers’, which flap past me like giant butterflies without a care in the world. I wish they would stick to my skin and build their nest in my marrow, pushing out the What Ifs with their zero fucks given attitude. These Zero Fucks creatures are much more solitary and I can only seem to catch them one at a time. And the worse part? I have to give them away.

Zero Fucks given to the people who sneer when I wear tight clothes with my muffins, muffin tops and trays full of sausage rolls with extra puffy puff pastry underneath. Zero Fucks given to the people who say ‘aren’t you brave, I could never do that (or be that or wear that)’. Zero Fucks given to the people who ask ‘Where would I have seen your work?’. Zero Fucks given to everyone who ever said ‘That’s why you’re not married (or don’t have kids, or have no partner)’ or ‘Why don’t you have a partner, kids or a marriage – what’s wrong with you?’. Now I know that this adds up to a lot more than zero fucks given, but you get my drift right? Mathematics can actually be quite creative.

Q: If 64 million Zero Fucks were on a train travelling at 80 miles per hour and Angela gave a Zero Fuck away to every person on the train, or every person that the train passed, or every person that she passed when she left her house for just five minutes each day, how many would be left?

A: There would be no Zero Fucks left to counter the infinite number of What Ifs inside her own head.

Where do Zero Fucks even come from? Are they the unicorns of the insect world? Do they grow in a garden? Oh shit, there goes another Zero Fucks, given to those who know I have no skills in keeping things alive even in imaginary gardens.

If I can’t grow Zero Fucks, then it occurs to me that I must make friends with What Ifs. I’ve always thought they were quite nasty and useless and prone to oozing puss. But bees make honey, we collect it, and it tastes awesome with peanut butter, and nobody dies right?

What if I write a sentence? What if I write a book? What if I’m honest? What if I love? What if I just am? What if I had six months to live? What if zero fucks were given? Wow, now even What Ifs and Zero Fucks are coming together and making friends.

Q: If Angela had six months to live and gave herself 64 million Zero Fucks, when she was not on a train travelling 80 miles an hour or giving Zero Fucks away to others, what would she be doing?

A: Angela would be baring her soul on the page (and loving and fucking everyone she wanted to, and who wanted to back) and generally saving lives with story.

It’s 9:59 and my finger, sticky now with peanut butter and honey, goes back to the send button without hesitation. 2016, I’ve decided, will be the year that I, along with new friends What Ifs and Zero Fucks, will fuck the shit out of everything.

Once upon a time there was a blue and green planet floating in space. But we’re not here to talk about that.

Somewhere, in a dusty remote part of that planet were two small children. Small as compared to adults, but they themselves felt that they were quite big. They were four and six, a boy and a girl, a pigeon pair.

They were old enough to dress themselves and pour the milk on their cereal themselves, thank you very much. They were big enough to walk on their own to the park, to the babysitters, to school. Practically grown up really.

Life in this town was dry. The heat was dry, one of the seasons was called The Dry, and the ground was dry. Their mother was dry.

Some days they wondered whether life could dry out your happiness and if that’s what had happened to their mother.

Maybe, they wondered, it wasn’t their mother that had dried up. Maybe it was that their father had sucked the happiness right out of her. He was a big man, they had to tilt their heads back to see his face if they stood too close. He had dark tan lines at his neck and on his arms and ankles.   It seemed to them that the room sometimes shrank when he walked into it. Sometimes while he was away, it almost seemed like she was filling up again, but not quite.   They wondered what it was that dried up. It wasn’t water.

But then he’d come back, loud and big and taking up all the space, he was like a whirlwind spinning through. It was yelling and wanting and do this and don’t do that and be more this and their lives spun out of the neat little space that they usually fit into. Most of the time they liked it better when he was away. There were more lollies when he was home, but somehow it didn’t really even things up.

When he was away, there were cuddles on the couch before bed with books and stories and Mum’s voice changing with each character.

Some things don’t change whether or not he’s away. Everyday, there’s cereal for breakfast. Everyday, they have to have a bath whether they’re dirty or not. Everyday, Mum’s there in the kitchen with them.

But some of the things that happen every day when Dad’s home, aren’t everyday things when he isn’t. Smacks aren’t everyday things usually. When Dad’s home, they are and they all get smacks for being naughty, even Mum.

Dad says, in his big voice that seems to make the walls shake when he yells, that you get as many smacks as you are years old. Mum’s smacks at night seem to take a really long time.

One day, when Dad left to go back to work, Mum didn’t get up.

It was OK, because they were big kids, they could get themselves dressed and make their own breakfast, so they did. But it didn’t feel right going to the park while Mum was still in bed.

That was a lot of smacks last night. They’re not sure, but they think it was more than how many years old Mum is, even if that is a lot.

They huddled near the front door and held a whispered debate.

She said it was his fault, he tried to get away when Dad was going to smack him. Dad said Mum would get double for teaching him to be a scaredy cat. He should have just taken it like a man.

But, that only works if you’re as big as a man. He’s big, but he’s still only four is what he said.

They wonder if their friends dads gave their mums smacks too? Maybe you just don’t talk about it. Maybe you don’t tell people so they don’t know how naughty you are. Do dads get smacks if they’re naughty? Who gives them smacks then?

They conclude that probably not. They’re pretty sure that their babysitter’s hubby doesn’t smack people. He’s never smacked them or her and they’ve had sleepovers there.

Because of that, they decide to ask Mum if they can run away together.

Mum’s not naughty, she’s the best mum ever.

And because of that, they decided that the best thing to do was pack while she was still asleep.

They went to their room and pulled out the carry-on bags they use for trips to see Nan and Pop. They carefully packed their toothbrushes, some undies, their good clothes and shoes and some play clothes, just like Mum always does. They put in their favourite books and they each snuck the toy they snuggled with in and hid it under their clothes so the other wouldn’t see.

They dragged a chair to the linen cupboard and he climbed up the shelves and pushed Mum’s suitcase down to her.

They pulled it down the lounge room and they snuck in and got Mum’s pretty knickers and bra, her photos and her favourite books. They snuck in again and picked the clothes they thought made her the most beautiful. They kept adding more things that they knew she loved and thinking of more things until there was nothing more to do and they were packed.

They pushed open the door to her room and in the dim and dusty light could make out her face, staring at the wall with tears falling into her pillow.

They climbed up on either side of her and pressed themselves into her warmth. She froze but after a tiny moment her arms snaked around them and she let out a half sob as she relaxed.

For a few moments, the three lay there together in the dim and dusty light, the heat of the day just starting to really make its presence known.

He reached up and stroked the hair back from her face with his small hand and pressed his face into her neck.

“Mum” he whispered “Let’s make a run for it.”

Like a bolt of lightning

It came to me. Just now.

Listening to these women.

Their stories of hardship.

Violence, dysfunction, abuse.

The nature of the cycle.

It leads me to my grandfather,

Himself a victim; I suspect

Choosing to perpetuate.

To propagate.

How did I remain unscathed?

Who was my redeemer?

But now I see.

She is the reason.

She broke the cycle.

She chose my father.

In all his kindness.

Generosity. Tenderness.

He was her choice.

With whom to build a life.

She would not fall prey

Like her mother before her.

To extend the pain, hurt, oppression

She overcame it.

To afford me the freedom

With that one decision.

She did not protect her children

From the perils of her childhood

Served at the hand of her father.

No, she protected my children.

I wonder if she sees this?

Does she think of this?

Does she understand?

How different things may’ve been.

If not for her; my mother.