Family portraits

I have a large number of photos belonging to my father's family, most of whom I don't recognise nor, sadly, are they labelled.  These two are are exceptions to that, and I know that the lady on the left is my great-grandmother and the man with a sword is my great-grandfather.  They were married in 1849.

The picture on the right is quite faded.  I don't know if there is anything anyone can do about it.  Can it be rescued?  I would love to have it preserved for future generations.  The sword in the photo has been preserved or at least it is still in existence.  It, as well as the pictures, has moved around with us for years. It's sitting up in our loft right now waiting for its next move to a new attic. 

Intriguingly, alongside these two photos, I found this in a better condition.

Why on earth would anyone include an advertisement for Globe Polish, albeit with a picture of Lord Kitchener, amongst family portraits?  Perhaps they used the polish for the sword. I wonder if Lord Kitchener was happy for his name and image to be used to endorse a metal polish?

PhotoHunter: old fashioned

I was fairly clear in my mind what I was going to use today, and I knew where to find the photographs. What I hadn't realised was that they were wrapped in some old newspaper from 1942 and in the newspaper were these two old fashioned advertisements.

Please note, it was during the war and the above advertisement is for American satin! Such luxury! It isn't only the subject matter that's old fashioned, but the style too.

They are so completely unlike anything we have nowadays.

Then we come to the photos I was intending to show you, the first of my parents' wedding day in 1942, just after my father qualified. Immediately afterwards he went out to North Africa in the Royal Army Medical Corps.

The second shows my mother and a friend in my parents' flat, not long after that wedding. I am particularly delighted with this one because I still have the photo of my father that you can see on the mantelpiece and and my sister has the copper coal scuttle to the left of the picture.

So not only can you see old fashioned clothes, but also an old fashioned interior décor. The question is, when do old fashioned things become period items of some value?

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Don't panic!

Our son and his new wife have been scurrying around looking for a larger apartment for several weeks. I've just overheard my husband speaking to him on the phone:

"There's really no need to rush into it. You do get nine months' notice you know!"

Two small boys

Twenty five years ago these two boys went out for a walk with their father and his camera. Between them they produced a wonderful series of pictures of which only this rather battered example remains. I'm still hoping some copies will turn up somewhere.

The multi-national wedding ...

... was wonderful.

The multi-cultural, multi-national, multi-faith, multi-lingual parts all worked like a dream. Uplifting, joyful, fascinating.

Is saying nothing giving consent?

Tuesday 12 June 2007

This weekend I went to my parents home with a mission.

I was determined to let them know of my anger towards them. It was now or never: I was seeing them again for the first time since my operation and we would have 48 hours together, just them and me.

And I failed. In the greatest possible way.

I said nothing to them about my anger.

I knew there were great chances that I neglected (my thoughts in the form of “I absolutely must talk to them” did not augur well) but I was resolved at least to broach the subject at some point.

Except that I didn’t. I couldn’t do it.

I said nothing to them about my anger.

I don’t understand. Away from them I was boiling with rage, I told myself they weren’t up to it, they hadn’t protected me and I had to tell them how angry I am for that. I had a sore throat and I didn’t sleep well when I thought about it. When I arrived at their house, my anger seemed to quieten.

The words wouldn’t come to me. I didn’t have the opportunity to speak.

I said nothing to them about my anger.

Certainly after 31 years of blind obedience it was hopeless to expect that I would be able to initiate a great explanation with an open heart at a snap of my fingers. But all the same!

I said absolutely nothing to them about my anger.

My father was very warm. He spoke to me a lot about this that and the other. As for my mother, she waited on me hand and foot all weekend. They seemed very happy to see me. They really pampered me.

But that wasn’t enough to start me off.

I said nothing to them about my anger.

Nevertheless, I noticed the strange look which my mother gave me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I noted that she carefully restricted herself to the practical aspects of my operation (“You are looking after yourself properly? You’re sure?”) I observed the embarrassment demonstrated by my father in my presence. I saw that all his words were only superficial chat as if to fill in the space. As if he feared what could be born out of silence.

I had the impression they were shying away, that I had to cling on to them and shout “Dammit, look at me! Give me some space, so that I can tell you of my anger with you”.

And that cost me, having to run after them again. It humiliated me to be obliged, once again, to open my innermost so that they could throw an expressionless look before returning to their world where everything is best and my operation is nothing more than an anecdote.

My therapist said yesterday that perhaps the “grown-up” me had no more to say to them, while the little girl in me still waited for them to say sorry. I don’t know if it’s that but when she suggested it, I understood that it was the little girl in me that I had cruelly disappointed. She was a martyr, nobody came to ask forgiveness, or consoled her this weekend, the “grown-up” me backed down. She avoided it, she didn’t underline the injustice that the “little girl” in me had suffered. She let her fall.

Damn but why are things so hard to say? Why is it then down to me to do all that? Why didn’t my parents say anything this weekend?

The denial of possible responsibility which my therapist spoke about yesterday hasn’t really been enough to console me.

I said nothing to them about my anger.

Perhaps I am one of those who turns the other cheek after my first one has been massacred. Perhaps I have been let go after all …

Nevertheless this weekend I didn’t feel any fear. With my parents I felt adult. I didn’t enter into the empty chatter with my father (I even stayed astonishingly silent). I didn’t play the adored little girl always agreeing with my mother. I even told them of my plans to buy an apartment with my man, of my decision not to marry but to have children all the same, which is an enormous thing when you think of the traditional society I have come from.

That’s a big step forward, my therapist is right. It’s the proof that I have become an adult as far as my parents are concerned, that I have self-determination.

Yes, OK.

But if I am adult and I no longer fear them, why can’t I say anything to them? Why couldn’t I take advantage of a car trip with my father taking me back to the station on Sunday, to tell him a little more on this “psychological well-being” which, in my letter, I said I was hoping for and about which he asked me?

Why did nothing happen?

I would have liked to say to my father that I hoped finally to be worthy of everything: of respect, of esteem, of love. I would like to have said that I was hoping to kill finally the little voice which whispers to me from time to time that perhaps I was circumcised because I was nothing but good. Like a punishment in advance. As if the suffering which resulted has led me to be a better person. I would have liked to tell him that all the same I believe I am basically good.

Except that not one word of these conversations escaped my lips. Not one.

I said nothing to them about my anger. Nothing at all.

The curtains come down on my make-believe courage of a soldier ….

[Original in French]

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A detour from the normal war …

Monday 28 May 2007

I've been finding that my family has been calling me ridiculously often these last few days.

Yesterday evening, surprise: my sister on the phone.

I was truly astonished. I thought we wouldn’t speak before … at least 3 months considering our last conversation. Which just goes to show, life is full of surprises.

She started by giving me a brilliant demonstration on the limits of cheekiness by launching immediately, and most serenely, into a detailed and enthusiastic tale of her last holiday.

Except that recently I haven’t been able to concentrate on long egocentric monologues.

Briefly, after about fifteen minutes, I started thinking about something completely different, scattering “uh huh” her and there, while she took a breath.

Obviously she quickly realised that I wasn’t listening any more. “Are you doing something else at the same time, or what? You’re not listening!” I replied that I was asking myself some questions about the medications I was taking (“Is it absolutely sure and certain that I must stop the Brexin after 10 days? Wouldn’t it be better to continue until my next consultation with Dr Foldès? And should I call him to confirm it *?”).

“Ah. So it’s done then?” she asked me (she didn’t know that my operation had taken place because the only time I had spoken to her about it, on that disastrous Sunday of humiliation, the date of the procedure hadn’t been mentioned…)

“Yes Wednesday 16 May” I replied.

Silence at the other end of the line.

I waited (once bitten twice shy), then when it seemed to me that she was waiting for me to say a bit more to her, I carefully started to describe my misfortunes in the realm of pain.

That’s when it happened. It’s ridiculous this gift my sister has for stopping me short in a few words.

“Don’t speak in French! Don’t speak in French! Speak in Mandingue” she said, sounding panic-stricken.

“Huh? Why? What’s happening?”

“My hands are full and I’ve put you on the speaker-phone!” she said. Before adding, in Mandigue: “He’s in the room with me, he could hear!”

!!!!!!

I stayed speechless. Literally.

Her partner didn’t know. He didn’t know she had been circumcised.

My God!

The moment I realised what she had just said, a surprising weight of sorrow and worry for her came down on me.

My God!

But what was she going to do? Was she going to hide it from him all her life? Had she the right to say nothing? Is that not fatal for the couple?
Is it not too late to speak to him any way? What I mean to say is, they’ve been together several years and they’ve lived together two years… So if she decided to tell him now, would he not be angry with her for having hidden it all these years?

At the same time it’s all very well for me to shout catastrophe while I didn’t have to ask the questions. In truth, I don’t know if it’s so important, or if it’s necessary to panic.

Because before he was my acknowledge lover, my man was a friend, even a very good friend. A friend in whose arms I had cried hot tears after that horrible visit to the gynaecologist who told me my circumcision didn’t matter (“it’s done, it’s done, what do you want …” with this slightly reproachful tone which crucified me) and that well, so, I wouldn’t ever have an orgasm, and I had to accept that (“there are women who have never had an orgasm in their life and you are one of them, that’s all”).

So when we went out together, he knew I had been circumcised. And I hadn’t had to experience that moment which I suppose is very, very difficult, of telling my lover.

The conversation ended inconclusively with a whisper from her (“I’ll call you again during the week”) which left me thinking that she wanted, at last, to talk to me about her circumcision. I felt overcome.

But what was she going to do?

Little by little I am feeling sorry for my sister.

And I no longer know what to do with the war hatchet.

* I called him and I really must stop the Brexin after ten days.

[Original in French]

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All the same, he's there

Saturday 26 May 2007

My father called me this morning.

I was surprised. He is in Senegal at the moment and I thought that would give him an excellent excuse for not contacting me. I haven’t had any news of him since 16 May, when my mother passed him to me on the telephone. I admit I haven’t missed him, because of that exasperating neutral tone he had.

On the contrary, I really didn’t want him to succeed in bring down his barriers to come closer to me on such an occasion. But really! What would be needed for him to take a step towards me? Would I have to be on the point of death?

Of course I have repeated to myself that he wasn’t going to change as if by magic, just by reading my letter, and talk to me about his feelings and emotions. I told myself and told myself again that touched on a painful subject for him. But all the same! It’s about me and being there for me. That doesn’t seem to me to be so insurmountable.

Yet these last few days, my anger has diminished, and leaves disappointment in its place. My father disappoints me. No more the general, no more the pedestal. Just a man and his limits. No more magic powers, no more heroism. Just a man who can’t express his emotions. Not even that damned pride that he normally feeds me. Oh that, I was truly upset.

As a result, when I heard him asking me how my convalescence was going, the joy and gratitude that I felt, really surprised me.

It gave me such pleasure that he had approached the question himself that I couldn’t hide it. OK, I didn’t go into any details but I told him how I was feeling today, and explained to him that I was in considerable pain to start with, that I couldn’t walk but that today the pain and the dragging sensations were gone and I had returned to walking normally if slowly…

I am de-light-ed that he phoned. There, just telling you about the call, I’m smiling again.



[Original in French]

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Alea jacta est

Friday 11 May 2007

Finally I wrote to my parents to tell them I was going to have the operation. I needed them to know, both of them. It’s too big a step in my life. To let the operation pass in silence is like letting everything which has changed for me over the last months pass in silence. I need them to know who I am, that they know about the important event which the operation is for me.

Besides, I have this strange conviction that if I don’t speak to them BEFORE the operation, it will no longer be possible. I feel that afterwards I won’t talk about it. That would seem a bit like a confession and I have nothing to confess. I don’t want my reconstruction to be a secret that I will reveal to them one day after some years.

And also I’d like to break my habit of keeping them at a distance, I'd like to become a little closer to them.

I discussed this with my man and I decided to address the letter to both of them. I thought all day yesterday about what I was going to write. Nevertheless, when I set about it yesterday evening I had great difficulty in starting it, this letter.

I went round in circles for several hours, I started several drafts but I discarded them one after the other: I had the feeling I was justifying myself, looking for their approval, or even worse, minimising the importance of the operation for me.

So I thought about what I really wanted to say to them, in my letter, that is to say I loved them. And there, it came all by itself and I wrote my letter in one go, without any difficulty.

I am frankly happy with what I have written. In fact I have sent, perhaps for the first time, an adult letter to my parents.

I copied it out twice. I certainly wanted to address my words to both my parents at the same time, but I wanted each to receive a copy.

This morning, before going to work, I posted my letters. Normally they should arrive before 16 May.

At the time I felt happy, liberated. I even thought, “This time I have finished my preparations”.

But since then, I have become afraid of my father’s reaction. It’s ridiculous I know, but I can’t stop myself thinking that he is going to be terribly angry with me. As for my mother, I don’t think she will talk about it. But basically, his reaction matters little, here, this evening.

In spite of my fear, I have no regrets. The letters are posted and the die is cast.

[Original in French]

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My father

My father called me a few days ago. When I put down the phone I felt yet again the resentment, sadness and frustration which so often marks our conversations.

It’s as though there is a constraint between my father and myself, something which prevents me from relaxing and simply being myself when I speak to him. I feel awkward, I feel he is gauche, and in the end we aren’t ourselves, we don’t manage to bridge the gap.

I talk reluctantly, I pepper my sentences with reassuring words. From “I’m very well” to “don’t worry”.

I have the feeling that our relationship is a big failure. Catastrophic even. Because we do love each other but can’t manage to express it naturally.

My father and I, we don’t hug each other, we don’t kiss, we keep our distance. We will always treat each other like respectful strangers. All the same we laugh together, we speak. But not really about himself, nor about myself. Or very little. We reveal very little to each other…

He told me once that I was like him, that, like he, I don’t express my feelings much. It’s true, I know that well, but I can never change this state of affairs with him.

Besides, it probably won’t happen, it won’t ever happen. I believe it’s too late.

These stiff and awkward encounters, they are those of a general and a soldier, who, when there isn’t a war, are embarrassed and simply don’t know how to speak to each other.

My combativeness, my values, I got those from my father. All my childhood was nurtured by his disgusted speeches about the place given to woman in Senegalese society, by the scorn he felt for those who don’t try, to those who don’t fight, for those who let themselves be victims. And also by the necessity for truth, justice and honesty above all, by the contempt for all cheating or all lying, which he professed non-stop.

My father wanted us to study well, my sister and me. He wanted us to be independent, self-sufficient. He kept us well away from the male chauvinist Senegalese circles. He repeatedly told us we could do as well as men. He wanted us to become strong women, proud women.

And why wasn’t he able to prevent our circumcision? Did he want to arm us so that we could defend ourselves the next time we were confronted by a threat, of whatever sort.

Basically did our circumcision have an influence on the way he educated us?

I don’t know, but I am certain that without him I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Without him, I wouldn’t have read, observed, listened, thought, and considered the world the way I do today, totally free.

Without him, I wouldn't have aspired to excellence, the only possibility of claiming respect legitimately. Without him, I wouldn't have set the bar so high, I wouldn't have been so demanding of myself. Without him, I wouldn’t have choked back my tears, I wouldn’t have gritted my teeth. Without him, I wouldn’t have built my armour. Without him I wouldn’t have become a warrior.

I am sure that, had I not doubted his love for me so much all these years, if I hadn’t so violently wanted him to love me, I wouldn’t have been able to keep to the road that I am following so far. I wouldn’t have become a soldier of whom he could be proud.

Today I feel a mixture of gratitude and resentment for what was imposed on me out of love for him.

I realise little by little the price I have paid. I realise that I have sacrificed intimacy, confidence, simple love. I have hidden my vulnerability from him for so long that I can’t reverse it.

I believe I have spent too long in my armour. It has rusted. And now, in front of my father all I can do is a military salute …

[Original in French]

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