A sense of herself

At seventeen, my mother knew all about my lesbian love affair. At the same time, she feared for what my burgeoning dependency on aerosol can sniffing would lead to, an anxiety she disclosed to me when I was 27. Only, I wasn’t having such an affair, and the cloud formation in my room was a consequence of struggling to maintain an anti-gravity hair do. I doubt she’ll ever believe me.

I’ve never been one to impale myself on too many certainties, but more than once a week, I’ve witheringly declared that family members are the folk who know me least. They would interpret this as sheer denial; more evidence of me wilfully rejecting my shortcomings. All the better if I’m exhibiting ‘typical’ hot-headedness while making the declaration. They’re so predictable. Insert eye-roll here etc.

Of course, they would be half right; in the way my Mother was half right.

I wasn’t having it off with my mate. We were just doing our homework together. Not really. We were endlessly on our backs practising smoke-rings, taking in it turns to change the record. At three years older, she was a grand canyon of a leap ahead in coolness and maturity, so I out-sourced much of my cred to her along with my determination to be an individual by going along with whatever it was she wanted to do. Less sexual frisson than the thrill of circulating with the older boys and getting a premature swagger on. Whatever it was I was radiating, my Mother’s instincts slightly lost the run of themselves.

And that’s how our relationship has trundled along ever since. Raging instincts in combat with half-insights and quarter confessions between which truths fall unnoticed only by hindsight, if ever at all. A woman sure of herself locking hormones with one who is not.

Mother knows her child best. That sounds like an awful lot of pressure to me. And a bit of a supernatural feat, if any can manage it. Grandparents, too, are certain about our little one’s personality if the wonky parallels drawn between this cousin and that uncle are anything to arch a brow at. Aunties, too. Soon it’ll be teachers defining her with pat descriptions while instructing us on the ways and whims of her being.

She’s brave. She’s shy. She’s fearless. She’s old-fashioned (spot the vernacular relic). She loves company. She’s happy on her own. She’s a thinker. She’s a dreamer. She’s quick. She’s taking it all in. She’s a bleedin’ heart liberal. She’s Mensa material. (I just made that up). She’s voting Yes. Etc. etc.

She sounds suspiciously like a moody cretin best avoided but I listen on in bemused detachment without any definitive contribution to offer.

For I don’t really know what she is. She seems as changeable and contradictory as the rest of us. Lately, I’ve been outsourcing decisions on her weekend meals to her child-minder. What does she like best? Should I give her some scrambled egg along with her seemingly sensitive side? Or is that not a sensitive side but just a phase that would prefer mashed potatoes d’ya think? She’ll eat anything, she replies.

No she won’t. She really doesn’t like ice-cream, especially if you give it to her when she’s wondering why a cartoon character is acting sad. She’ll have lost interest in everything else until she finds out the reason why. That much I know.

It’s a start that has no ending. Sort of like this post.

The marriage equality debate and the cosying up antics of charities

The first time was irritating; the second plain galling; the third a near successful attempt to tip themselves over into an induced state of apoplexy.

I am, of course, talking about the latest spate of attacks directed towards the NGO and charity sectors from prominent anti-marriage equality campaigners. Wilfully dismissing children’s charities as mere bodies conveniently “cosying up to the government that funds them” indicates not just a lack of understanding of the critical function these organisations play, or a reminder of the glaring immaturity at the heart of our democracy, but an obscene attack on the fundamental principles of that democracy.

That these attacks are so casually and overtly made, suggests that those who make them labour under the misconception that charities occupy a narrow paternalistic role in which their work should only be seen on a collection bucket but not heard. Engagement of charities in the debate is clearly indicative of a cynical self-serving move to protect their interests, and a blatant trespassing into territories of the debate where they have no business straying. An unapproved challenge to the assumptions on the family by no campaigners from a sector whose credibility must be called into question. Not questioned, dismissed outright while ignoring the substantive points they make.

In promoting the notion of a democratic society, members of the anti-marriage equality campaign are at pains to remind their opponents of their fundamental right to freedom of speech. In upholding this right, they forget that it is society in all its diversity that must be facilitated to participate, if democracy is to be successful, irrespective of the implications for the official state. It is why the development of mechanisms for participation of civil society through NGOs and charity organisations occupies a cornerstone of any functioning democracy.

Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights states:

“Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression, this fight includes the freedom to hold opinion and to seek, receive, and impart information and ideas through media and regardless of frontiers”.

Such declarations are driven by the need for civil participation, and the recognition that the evolution of a civil society, and the flows of unregulated information to citizens, cannot be left to legislators and governments alone. To that end, the proliferation and sustainability of NGOs and charities was essential, and their participation in public debate a necessity.

Historically in Ireland, these frontiers included the Catholic Church with support from a sizeable conservative fan-base (namely the State), whose firm grip on the channels of information left an indelible imprint.

In recent decades, a number of grassroots organisations have entered the public discourse with a variety of objectives under the common aim of seeking to represent and promote the rights and concerns of groups of citizens who have frequently been forgotten about in both politics and the media. There is no single centre of state power in any contemporary society. Or rather, there shouldn’t be. Sustaining the NGO and charity sectors ensures power is diffuse and dispersed through civil society. Or rather, it should be. The sector met this challenge with an impressive legacy of work already achieved over a relatively short period, and continues to do so despite relentless cuts to their income.

Without NGOs and charities in Ireland, there would have been no formidable challenge to the State and Church to acknowledge and address the abuse of children and the subsequent inquiries; there would have been no apology from the Pope for the wrongs perpetrated against the innocent children; there would have been no legislation developed to put in place mechanisms to prevent it from ever occurring on such a scale again; there would have been no support to the victims and survivors or eventual recourse to legal action against the perpetrators that stole their childhood and too many of their adulthoods; there would have been no support to single parents shunned and silenced by stigma to help give them a voice and advocate for the services and support required to give their children some semblance of a decent quality of life; there would be few family learning projects that foster healthy relationships between parents and children, and promote learning in the home; there would be more acute social isolation in housing estates thoughtlessly and greedily erected without any consideration given to the play and developmental needs of children or the mental health of their parents; there would be few Traveller children in receipt of voluntary out-of-hours learning to enable them to progress in a mainstream education system that continues to fail them.

The centrality of safeguarding the welfare of children in work undertaken by charities, and their commitment to giving children a voice, speaks for itself.

It is in this context that we are left in little doubt as to the integrity and independence of charities; and reminded of the obligation of the state to distribute the money that belongs to all citizens in common through those mechanisms that work our behalf to improve the lives of children, including those of no-campaigning parents. Certain commentators appear to have deliberately mistaken state responsibility for discretionary hand-outs. Without Europe etc. etc…

In recent years, the sector has suffered the most catastrophic cuts at a time when their services are most heavily depended on. Casualties include the Combat Poverty Agency, The National Consultative Committee on Racism and Interculturalism, various family support programmes; domestic violence services, and the well-documented Childline, among others.

Those competing for shrinking funds do so at the mercy of the most sophisticated performance management systems befitting private corporations in exchange for a fraction of the budget of public sector organisations. It is testament to their resilience they continue to produce robust evidence based research and findings from international best practice learning on the effect of same-sex parenting on children that can withstand an unmerciful kicking. That is not to suggest the sector is without flaws or faults; it is a mixed ability group with as many wasted and rusted halos as any other; but to question their credibility and independence in this debate is to make a mockery of the social justice for which they stand, and display an ignorance that ultimately undermines their own purported sincerity.

In a climate of consistent and relative poverty, against the background of intensifying austerity gnawing at the basic needs of the most vulnerable families, one would expect defenders of the rights and well-being of children to support these charities to raise their voice and sustain their services. Instead we are given mean-spirited curled-lipped dismissals in an attempt to discredit the one sector willing to put its dwindling money where the poor children’s mouths are.

Shame on them.

Being Poor

The other side of ‘parenting’. The one we don’t hear enough about. The one over-shadowed by the ailments of the squeezed middle. The one drowned out by ‘consensus’ thinking. The comments are well worth reading, too.

Automattic Special Projects's avatarWhatever

Being poor is knowing exactly how much everything costs.

Being poor is getting angry at your kids for asking for all the crap they see on TV.

Being poor is having to keep buying $800 cars because they’re what you can afford, and then having the cars break down on you, because there’s not an $800 car in America that’s worth a damn.

Being poor is hoping the toothache goes away.

Being poor is knowing your kid goes to friends’ houses but never has friends over to yours.

Being poor is going to the restroom before you get in the school lunch line so your friends will be ahead of you and won’t hear you say “I get free lunch” when you get to the cashier.

Being poor is living next to the freeway.

Being poor is coming back to the car with your children in the back seat, clutching…

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Tagging along: A year in blog

A life less extraordinary;  Abortion;  Banksy;  Beards;  BelfastBlogging; Blogging versus massBonoBorgen; BreastfeedingCaitlin MoranCareers;  ChildcareChristmas memoriesChristmas present ideas for bloggersDemi RoussosDrinkingElectric PicnicEscapismExclamation marksFacebook egg-freezingFaith-based educationFarting aroundFamilyFamily lifeFathersFather & daughterFathers DayFeminismFilmFirst loveFish fingers; Friendship40th birthday;  Gay ByrneGender quotasGigs of 2014Going soloHanging up the baby-making bootsHappiness DayHomeHome while awayInternational Women’s DayInventionsIrish erotica;  Irish Times letters page; Jackie-O ShadesJob-huntingJohn Waters;  Katie HopkinsLeaving Cert.;  LifeloggingLondonLove actuary;  Lucinda Creighton; Making a dick of myself in workMangled poetryMarriageMedia; Meet the sheep;   Mental healthMotherhoodMothers DayMusic; Newborn nostalgiaNew Year’s EveNorthern IrelandOne hundred days of blogitude;  OutrageParenting ;  Paul Durcan;  Pert breasts;  Pope FrancisPregnancy & birth;  Protest songsQuiz;  Ray D’arcy;  ReviewsRitualsRose of TraleeSacrilegeSiblingsSmalltalkSpontaneitySummer holidaysSunday Bloody SundayThird birthdayTop 5s;  The AngelasThe dangers of lying downThe GAAThe new meThe stupid shit that goes on in my headTuam babies2014 in retrospect;  2015 (apparently) ;  Voting; Valentines’s DayWedding anniversaryWimminWorkplaceWorst Case Scenario HandbookYawn.

missing cake

Eh, there was no porridge left so I made a bit of a head start on the cake

365 days. 160 blog posts. 1,976 half-heard conversations with my fella. One mighty thanks to you for kindly sticking yer head round the door to humour me and trade the odd bita banter. Champagne for my real friends, as the man says, and Football Special for my blogging friends. Wee Birdie, the vintage black label Irn Bru is on its way to you from a Fr. Ted look-a-like. Apparently there are only three in existence. Rod Stewart has one but no-one is certain about the other.

And as a little gift to meself…

Top 5 reasons to take a wee rest from blogging using song titles

1. A man needs a maid

2. I Killed a Party Again

3. I Wanna Go to Marz

4. Running on empty

5. Comes a time

I couldn’t find any songs with ‘getting rid of the muffin top’ in the title. Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do and come back and share it with the group.

Meanwhile, in the words of one of the true heroines of the silver screen….

Keep swimming

Dory, Finding Nemo

Essential advice for the next generation from characters played by John Cusack

In random order of importance

“Liking both Marvin Gaye and Art Garfunkel is like supporting both the Israelis and the Palestinians.”

“People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands–literally thousands–of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to the sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives.”

“Now, the making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art. Many do’s and don’ts. First of all, you ‘re using someone else’s poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing.”

“The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. It takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick it off with a killer to grab attention. Then you gotta take it up a notch. But you don’t want to blow your wad. So then you gotta cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules.”

“Jesus. I’m glad I know nothing about psychotherapy, about Jung and Freud and that lot. If I did, I’d probably be extremely frightened by now: the woman who wants to have sex in the place where she used to go for walks with her dead dad is probably very dangerous indeed.”

“If you start out depressed, everything’s kind of a pleasant surprise”

“Books, records, films – these things matter”

“I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.”

[On choosing a career] “How many of them really know what they want, though? I mean, a lot of them think they have to know, right? But inside they don’t really know, so… I don’t know, but I know that I don’t know.”

[On a similar vein] “Nobody’s looking for a puppeteer in today’s wintry economic climate.”

“There is truth, and there are lies, and art always tells the truth. Even when it’s lying.”

“But the elderly have so much to offer, sir. they’re our link with history.”

“Consider outer space. You know, from the time of the first NASA mission, it was clear that outer space has a clear effect on the human psyche. Why, during the first Gemini mission, thought was actually given to sending up a man and a woman… together. A cosmic ‘Adam and Eve,’ if you will. Bound together by fate, situated on the most powerful rocket yet known to man. It’s giant thrusters blasting them into the dark void, as they hurtle towards their final destination: the gushing wellspring of life itself.”

“What the hell’s wrong with being stupid once in awhile? Does everything you do always have to be sensible? Haven’t you ever thrown water balloons off a roof? When you were a little kid didn’t you ever sprinkle Ivory flakes on the living room floor ’cause you wanted to make it snow in July? Didn’t you ever get really shitfaced and maybe make a complete fool of yourself and still have an excellent time?”

“The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by observing its prisoners.”  Dostoyevsky said that… after doin’ a little time. ”

“One little change has a ripple effect and it effects everything else. Like a butterfly floats its wings and Tokyo explodes or there’s a tsunami, in like, you know, somewhere.”

john cusack

Vince wonders if this is a good time to drop in that Dostoyevsky quote. But he’s not sure how to pronounce Dostoyevsky. Neither am I.

Fantasy referenda

“I think we need to dismantle the relationship between Church and State. We can’t have an equal society when the State is funding 90 per cent of schools to indoctrinate their pupils in the Catholic faith. I don’t think Catholicism is compatible with feminism. We need to get the Church out of the school system, but out of our hospitals as well.”

So says feminist writer, Emer O’Toole, in an interview with Anne Sexton in the latest edition of Hot Press on her new book Girls Will Be Girls.  As a succinct statement that’s familiar to most of us but not particularly radical, it works fine. As a basis for a national aspiration informing a future referendum, why not? It works perfectly from where I’m sitting. Well, slightly hunched.

But…but..

My fantasy doesn’t end there. The referendum takes place in 2016 to coincide with the centenary of the Church’s crossing of the national threshold to all-encompassing power.

But..but.. what about parental choice?

My fantasy doesn’t end there. Campaigners will invoke the original aspiration of a Republic that cherishes all its citizens equally and the fight to safeguard equality of access to education. Including the ‘minority’ of us.

But..but.. what about the census figures?

My fantasy doesn’t end there. Practitioners of the faith will not be banned from continuing to practice that faith. There will be a few possible nixers up for grabs through a Sunday school type initiative, if families are keen on collective instruction. Catholicism won’t be ignored in the classroom. Consideration will be given to its place in the market place of religious ideas and world religions. And confirmation outfits will be positively welcomed during the 6th class coming of age graduation ceremony. All’s not lost.

But..but.. what about the legalities and autonomy of boards of management?

My fantasy doesn’t end there. Irish people are proving themselves to be committed to equality and inclusiveness, so I anticipate consistent commitment to same through vociferous arguments in favour of children having access to education. Equality 2016 has a certain ring to it. I can see blogs and banners festooned with these badges.

classroom

“Excuse me, Miss, why is my friend not allowed to come to our school?”

But..but..

My fantasy doesn’t end there. Emer O’Toole also had something to say about our national whataboutery. “Most people will agree with social justice up to a point, but as soon as it seems that real equality will be achieved, the more right-wing elements will claim you’ve gone too far, that oppressors have become the oppressed.”

But I’ve more faith in Irish people than that. I know we can rely on our Catholic parents and neighbours to do the right thing when the time comes. They will keep their chants going; their voices raised; their protest against the misplaced dominance of clerical authority in focus; their social media campaigns strong.

One fight coming up, many more to go.

Fantasy referenda – feel free to add your own…

Moving pictures

prerun

Pre-race nerves

lineup

An individual with her own unique stripes, but part of a big herd

away they go

And they’re off (roaring parents: not pictured)

the home straight

Thata girl, giving the Old Man a run for his money

to the finish line

Towards the finish line. (Being hauled in for an EPO test: not pictured)

the spoils

The goodie bag. “Is that it?”

 medal ceremony

“Now then” Oh  wait,we can’t say that anymore

our winner

“I’m not sure if these runners match my tracksuit”

superhero

Tinfoil Man attempts to escape his fans

Kerb our enthusiasm

A year ago, pleas for an ice-cream cone would’ve detonated animated warnings giving Hong Kong Phooey a run for his money. Neither of us willing to concede the last word to the other in our game of good cop, deranged cop. “Oh Gawd, ice-cream. It’ll give you a sore nose and head”. “Yeah, ice-cream makes you really sick and you’ll have to go to hospital.”  I paused to deliver a withering sideways glance in response to this tempered statement before gently adding “well, that could happen if you eat too much of it. Like a swimming pool’s worth”. Less condescending usurper of unfiltered reasoning than Pink Panther laid-backness, I felt.

Hong Kong Phooey

Hong Kong Phooey expertly eliminates the deadly 99

This year we prepared to chaperone their first stepping out from the newsagents together, fearful it wouldn’t prevent one of them kamikazeing to the ground. She looked through one of us, then the other, and silently mastered it within seconds. Another marker of her skip towards girlhood that announced itself in the unlikeliest of ways.

The rest of the afternoon yawned out in front us, egging us on to take it as it came now that naps are all but erased from the schedule. Her buggy was jettisoned in favour of swaggering ahead with one hand determinedly in a side-pocket before she turned back to reclaim it for her pair of dinosaurs, but we’re too big to fit in, so she belted in her two toy dinosaurs instead. Complaints that her dress didn’t match her runners were ignored, and though she hasn’t a notion what matching means, I exhaled in grim acceptance that her comprehension of it will roll round soon and we’ll all be fucked then.

…………………………..

Those blinding white teeth definitely didn’t match the smile. And the eyes were way out. One dinosaur politely threatened to eat the other while we awaited our coffees, silently studying an amatuer painting above my head. “Nelson Mandela starring George Clooney”, he finally deadpaned, turning away to hide his smile, knowing I wouldn’t better it. It’s the slight movements that announce his air-punches the loudest. With a price-tag of €200, the artist had got to be joking. Perhaps that was the point. In which case, give me the palette and brushes, and I’ll give you Chris deBurgh, starring Enya. Or, more likely, a Lada. An early prototype, anyway.

American tourists lined the tables opposite. Retired mostly, wearing appropriate attire for the scorcher of a day that was in it. One woman studied a landscape painting over her shoulder by peering through glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Not unlike my Geography teacher whenever I attempted to explain why I hadn’t my homework done. One of those intimidating moves she used to pull along with marching a girl off to head office with a note delivering some urgent news (“Fancy a pint after? This lot are doing my head in”).

I imagined our neighbours were on the big retirement holiday, having taken an ice-pick to that golden egg they’d been squirreling over a life-time of toil. Like any thoughts on the lives of others, they turned back towards mine. I momentarily tried to work out how many more years I’ll need to punch the clock before I bow out to mount the proverbial VW camper. But I tripped over words like pension and plans and grazed both knees of my dreams. “You have a pensionable job!”, I finally blurted. What I meant to say next was that I’ll catch up with him if he wants to bugger off to France, but it came out like “ah I’ll probably die first anyway.” He just smiled like he’d been bemusedly reading my thought-bubbles, and brought my anxiety to a close with the trusty reliable statement of denial: “We’ll be graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand.”

…………………………………

C’mon, man. What’s keeping you?, I wondered as the pair of us hovered on the kerb out front at the foot of the steps leading up to the cafe. Diddly-di music wafted through the streets, pumped across the square from one of the few surviving relics from pre-recession times – the independent music shop. They’ve had to survive somehow. I resisted the urge to peer in the window over the invisible specs on the bridge of my nose for fear of being confronted with Daniel’s big face, or worse still – Enya (cowers), or maybe that was actually Chris.

I looked down to see her tapping her foot in tune to the music before quickly scanning the nearby loiterers to clock who she was copying. No-one. She was, of course, doing her own thing. There was nothing else for it but to take her lead and join in.