Writing Isaiah Entry #11

Writing Isaiah 

Entry #11

June 24th, 2013

Sarah Ann Douglas-Siegel

I love this writing idea so much I might have to replicate it myself when/if I get pregnant down the road (or adopt, in the waiting process). I do have a question for you, and it deals with my struggles around motherhood (from MY mother) as Mother's Day approaches, and my thoughts about what a gentle, patient, attentive and selfless mother you have been to Aurora, and will be to your new family member as well.

-- What do you wish to teach your new child about motherhood?

This question is of import because of my experiences with a narcissistic caretaker, my visions of selfless love and the Mother are skewed, and this does damage in ways that are not only related to how I view my own mother, but in how I understand myself as a future mother and deal with childhood wounding. The gifts and benefits of a gentle and selfless caretaker begin from the moment you are born, and well before! Every single one of us is shaped by our experiences with mother. It's ESSENTIAL in every sense of the word! I have asked myself this question when preparing to conceive (when we were trying) and will continue to work towards answers to it that make sense and contribute to my healing. This question is meant to be answered in reference to the entire course of the child's life, from birth to as long as you know them.

Emily Joye McGaughy-Reynolds

Sarah, I could attempt to answer this question/these questions every day for the rest of my life and never "finish." In some ways this feels like the most complex question I have tackled in this pregnancy writing project to date. In fact, as I approach the topic I feel a watershed dose of grief surfacing. Why grief? Because mothering--being mothered, being the mother--is full of it. And not just the traditional grief that's easy to talk about: like how motherhood contains loss at every step. I'm mindful of the less talked about stuff, the stuff I think you're alluding to with words like narcissism and struggle. How our mothers mess us up despite their best intentions and how we no doubt will do the same to our own children, and how much of that has to do with the oppression of womyn in our society at every level. And how to be honest about that is to appear narcissistic or ungrateful or anti-feminine, which just perpetuates all these myths about what we can and can't express as womyn who are trying to be in the world with a gender queer, feminist ethic. It's so much easier for me to slam my father in public. But not my mom. Acknowledging the pain of maternal relations almost feels like betrayal of the highest order as someone who is trying to fight patriarchy. And yet I know that failing to admit maternal pain just perpetuates the oppression and silencing of womyn, which is, in and of itself, a major component of patriarchy. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it feels relatively impossible to start on this except by acknowledging that this topic is treacherous and hard. And because it's treacherous and hard, I'm going to lean in with a certain level of hope that bravery will be its own reward in teaching us what's possible here. 

I take comfort in the fact that I'm writing to you, another queer identified womyn who is doing all she can to systemically, interpersonally, and personally see, hear, and love the truth of other womyn and gender non-conforming people. There's a generosity in that space: the space of being received by another womyn who shares feminist ethics and queer love. Like, there's some sort of common language that I can rely on as already-established here. I don't have to start out by telling you that it's possible to love womyn and critique womyn's behavior at the same time. You already know that. And you also know that the only way to reclaim one's life and one's family from the ravages of oppression is to incarnate love and family differently. But to do it differently requires rooting out all the oppressive shit you've inherited consciously and unconsciously which means entering into big stages and phases of detachment from the very people that gave you life. And you also know that our mother's are entirely complex creatures and so are we and the only way to honor that complexity is to be honest about it at the intersection of our stories, which requires a whole lot of truth-telling and while they're still alive that's really hard because being honest about who we are and who they are runs the risk of offense. Offending the parts of them that are unaware and unintegrated. Runs the risk of being labeled judgmental or arrogant. And yet if we don't do this, how can we grow? We must do this. We must grow, with fear and trembling. 

What do I want to teach my new child about motherhood? 

That it's an ocean. 

Light turquoise surface that invites you to swim all day and navy depth that will drown you without asking permission. Schools of fish. Snarling sharks. Coral reefs so colorful you cannot look away. Sand particles so small they cannot be seen. Flat and smooth somedays. Tidal waves and tsunamis others.  

That it's an ocean.

That I am an ocean, as a mother. 

That my mother was/is an ocean, and I am her swimming strong/sometimes drowning daughter.

That Isaiah will swim and sometimes drown too, because of this ocean he's been born into. 

That mothering is an ocean, bigger than me, bigger than her, bigger than him. 

Some kind of a Goddess, Medusa/Ursula: the one everyone is afraid of because her shape-shifting body is big and her pussy is wet and they know they'll get tossed, get lost, get in touch with their own precarity in the big wet what is of mother/ing. 

Control gone. The (notion of) self thrown into disarray because the (m)Other's effect/affect penetrates by being penetrated, is birthed by giving birth. Concrete collapsing because the slow, steady, back and forth back and forth power/resistance of the water wore it away. What is this water power resistance? this slippage? this womyn who dares to bear/bare life? 

It's an ocean.

Unconfined. Uncontained. Always in motion. Huge. Majestic. Abyss. 

Nourishment. Salty. Easily pierced. Nothing stronger. An ocean.

Motherhood is an ocean. 

What I am about to write is somewhat scary to me. Scary enough that it deserves its own line. 

I have no hopes of saving my child from the ocean. 

No exception to the rule here. Swim he must. Drown a little, he probably will. But if there's anything I can do, I hope it's to teach him the art and pragmatism of putting on a life-preserver sometimes. Which means, I'll probably have to teach him how to unhook from me better than my mom taught me to unhook from her better than my grandma taught her to unhook...ad infinitum. I wish I had learned earlier how to recognize my mom's stuff playing out in my life. For the longest time, I couldn't see me outside of her or how she was in me. There is stuff about my mom that I never want to lose, stuff I want to keep inside. But a life preserver would have been nice in the times when I was picking up her addictions, or fights, or denial. If she'd had more awareness about her own issues, maybe she could have named those things for me and I could have avoided becoming so enmeshed in them. But isn't there some kind of wishful thinking in that? Like, who can be aware of stuff that they're just not aware of? To the best of my ability, I hope to name and own my stuff for Isaiah. But in all honesty, I will fail. I know I will fail.

And part of that is because I think my mom is nearly as good as it gets and she failed. Won't we all fail? I may be getting into trouble here. Even the person whose children are severely neglected, or the person who gives up their children for adoption so they can keep getting high, or the person who beats their kids regularly--aren't they just a severe case of not having what they need in order to do what needs to be done? I can't imagine that i'll always have what I need to do what needs to be done in Isaiah's life. There's huge sadness in that for me. But there's also a lot of forgiveness for my own mother and a sense of compassion for the failing mother I know I will be. 

What do I want to teach my new child about motherhood? 

That it's an ocean. And that I'm still swimming/drowning in the ocean of my own mother's pain/loss/grief/brilliance/resilience/beauty. I think Isaiah will learn a lot about motherhood in watching the way I treat/process my own mother and the way J.R. treats/processes his own mother. And he'll learn a lot by responding to what I will and won't take from him in the relationship of son to mother and to watching the relationship his sister has with me as daughter to mother. The ocean is manifold, many many creaturely connections exist there. And there/in lies the learning/teaching/becoming. 

That it's an ocean. Capable of loving itself. What if I lived in such a way--with my sperm donor and spouse, with my son and my daughter, and independent of all of them--that each one left this planet knowing that Motherhood is the highest occupation/calling there is? Or at least that it was for me? Could I live in such a way that each one of them recognizes the gift and burden was unparalleled? That the love I felt and the fight I dared were matchless? That is certainly the lesson my mother's legacy has left for me. I want my life to be that exact same lesson for them.