Sunday Morning ~ Remembering

Kudya n’kudyabe, kumbuka uko unacoka. ~ You are eating, keep eating but remember where you came from.

~ Chewa proverb

May 28, 2023

Hi Everyone,

When my daughter was in elementary school, one of her assignments was to interview a relative who’d lived during World War II. When my husband’s aunt was visiting for a holiday my daughter took the opportunity to get her homework done. We were all sitting around a fire in the living room while Rachael got herself set up with notebook and pencil looking like an adorable junior reporter. She had prepared a set of questions, the first being “What did you think of the war when you were growing up?” Her great aunt replied without hesitation, “I thought it was marvelous!” The entire family stopped what they were doing and gasped! I was expecting a somber answer of praying for loved ones to return safely, or enduring the privations war imposes, but she laughed and repeated, “I did! I thought it was wonderful!” Hoping for some context and not wanting my ten year old to write in her report that war was wonderful, I said, “Gee, Audrey, would you like to say more about that? It’s not the answer I was expecting.” Her response surprised me. She said, “You have to remember, I was a young girl growing up in Boston. What I knew of the war was that we were winning! Our soldiers were the heroes, and the atmosphere was one of victory. It all seemed like a triumph. I knew nothing of what war was really like.” The men in her family all came back alive and victorious. She was being honest about her girlhood memories not cluttering family dysfunction with war-inflicted trauma. She said it was much later in life she learned the realities of that war.

My oldest brother survived active combat in Vietnam. Understanding nothing of what made him so, he was our family hero. Was it just that he came home alive? To this day my happiest family memory is picking him up at Logan airport, uniformed, physically intact, smiling, and alive. My parents were so happy. I had no understanding of their worry, fear, and relief. None. I was just happy that everyone was happy. At age twelve, the nightly news reports had been wallpaper to me. I don’t know if it was denial or oblivion, but there was never any question in my mind he’d come back alive. It was years later I learned what horror that war was. 

I’m in Santa Fe having had a beautiful train ride from Albany, appreciating how vast, varied, and spectacular our country is. I sat in the observation car imagining the landscape through the ages. I thought of the varied peoples inhabiting the land, the wars over control and resources, the pain and trauma inflicted, and how none of this was visible as we passed by. All I could see was the magnificence. If I knew nothing of our history, I’d look out the windows at the bison and elk in the foreground, the mountains behind, the wildflowers in bloom, and think everything had been done right. 

My godson’s wedding was this weekend and my grandchildren were flower girl and ring bearer. They were the only kids there, and after adorably playing their part in the ceremony, they went with a babysitter back to the hotel to enjoy their time eating fun food and swimming in the rooftop pool. When I asked Amelia how she liked the babysitter, she said, “She was good. She is a college student and has her license, which is good in case a dangerous person came into the hotel and we needed to leave quickly. Which, probably wouldn’t happen, but in case it did, I felt better knowing she could drive us away if we needed to leave quickly. Sometimes in an emergency there wouldn’t be enough time to call my parents.” Oh my God, what child should have to think like this? She is nine years old and spoke so maturely. Clearly this had been discussed in school and I could imagine the challenge teachers have in preparing kids for a shooting without terrifying them. My sweet grandchild felt the need to prepare for escape and protection at a luxury hotel in downtown Santa Fe. She is carrying more fear in her young life than any child should. I shudder to think of what survivors of shootings and wars are going through. I wonder what memories she’ll share when her grandchildren ask her how it was to live through a time when shooters came into schools and randomly murdered people. What was it like to live in a country where those who had the power, chose money over your life? Will the victims be considered war dead on Memorial Day seventy years from now? 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Mothering

Ncembere ya mapasa izigona cogadama. ~ A mother with twins should sleep on her back.

~Chewa proverb

May 21, 2023

Hi Everyone,

Mothers Day was a week too early for me forty-three years ago. I was alone in the capitol city of Lilongwe, uncomfortable, bored, lonely, and eager to go into labor. My husband arrived a few days later and after a thirty hour slog of fearful contractions, my son was born, lusty and huge by Malawian standards. Today is his birthday. I spent yesterday with him as he balanced on the roof  fixing some in the greenhouse, a capable, skilled, smart, and sober man. I went up and down the ladder handing him tools wondering how differently the course of his life would have been if our family had been smaller. He grew up fast with four younger siblings. I’m so grateful for him in my life now, having had an estrangement for several years. After all the worrying I did for him during that time it’s endearing to hear him voice worry about me traveling on my own. How sweet. I’d long ago stopped imagining this.

I love being a mother. I wanted to be a mother as far back as I can remember. I find this interesting because my mother didn’t seem particularly happy to me growing up, so it wasn’t from watching her. She was always harried, worried about my father’s reaction to everything, constantly cooking and cleaning, impatient with us, and generally making the role seem tragic. Though she never said so, I knew she loved me and I always longed for my own baby. I treated my dolls as if they were real. I’d scream if someone held them inappropriately. I changed their dry diapers on a regular basis, comforted their silent cries, and loved the feeling of their stuffed cuddles. They loved me back so very reliably. Having my own real live baby in my arms was the most natural and complete feeling for me and despite all the sleepless nights and constant demands, I found mothering babies easy. It wasn’t until they were older I’d spend my nights wondering what I’d done wrong. 

Having a forty-three year old child is surreal. Already facing the fact that I’m aging out of certain fashions and activities, a middle aged child really brings it home. Up until recently I referred to myself as middle aged. Now I realize I’m well past the halfway mark, and am grappling with that more than I imagined. As I plan for my upcoming trip which includes a wedding in Santa Fe and travel in Indonesia, I find all my clothes obsolete. First, they don’t fit me anymore and second, they are too youngish. Between the pandemic, my aging waistline, and the fact that certain styles are no longer becoming on a sixty-something, I’m having a major reckoning. This is hard! I had a basic wardrobe which suited me and would pull out the appropriate outfit for the occasion and put it on. Simple. Summer wedding, winter wedding, all just hanging on a different hanger. Since the pandemic, everything seems to have shrunk. I look at skirts and think, “Did I actually wear that?” It’s harsh. Obtaining a new wardrobe was not in my plans, but here I am. Accepting this is a process. I’ll get there, but need a minute… I digress from my motherhood thoughts.

I was reading about the history of Mother’s Day and how it evolved through the ages–– from honoring Greek goddesses to anti-war statements to flowers and brunch for one day––it seems some of the context is missing. Not that taking a day to honor our mothers isn’t lovely, but it feels like what Christmas has become––a bit showy and hollow. I’ve been cleaning out cabinets getting ready for another year away and found some old Mother’s Day Cards. They were store bought by my ex, of questionable humor, and filled with large “signatures” of the kids scrawled with backwards letters. I may have saved them for those writing samples. I sure hope it wasn’t for the quality of the card. 

I’m heading, via the Santa Fe wedding, to the International Confederation of Midwives in Bali. This is a congress held every three years where midwives from all over the world gather to learn and share. I can’t wait to be there. I’ve never been to one and was planning to attend in 2020 when the pandemic intervened. I dreamt of presenting our midwifery ward project in Malawi at the conference but that came to a halt along with the rest of the world. I was pleased to learn that it is in Bali this year, a part of the world I’ve not visited and I’m excited to have a reason to go. The midwives in Malawi (I’m hoping I’ll see some of them there) told me that once you go to this conference it will ruin all other conferences for you forever. It’s that good. I’m excited! I love being surrounded by midwives and the loving support of motherhood. I long to be where the profession is mainstream and everyone knows what a midwife is and what they do. We have a long way to go in America. But, like the mother with twins, we adapt.

It’s been a full month of home improvement and seasonal upkeep getting ready to leave. The summer residents move into my house today, the garden is planted, screens are in, and maybe soon it’ll be warm enough to open the windows. Last night’s deluge was a good test of the roof repair and I think I’m ready to go.  

Tomorrow I’ll visit family in Albany for a few hours before boarding a train to Santa Fe. Next weekend will be the wedding of my godson, then on to Phoenix to visit friends from Samoa, then LA, then Bali. I’m looking forward to having travel to write about. There’s a lot of delayed celebration ahead and I’m not getting any younger.

Cheers to all those who mother and care for others. You are needed and loved.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ New Adventures

Galu wamkota sakandira pa cabe.~ An old dog does not dig where there is nothing to be found.

~Chewa proverb

April 30, 2023

Hi Everyone,

I recently learned I got the Fulbright I applied for and will be going back to Malawi for a year. I’ll start teaching there again in January; I am happy, relieved, and very excited! It was months of nail biting waiting to hear, and I’d convinced myself (for self-preservation) that I’d be rejected. I made a list of other things to do for a satisfying final act to my career. When the email came saying there was a message for me on the portal I was shaking so badly I could barely type in my password. A bit of a thrill-seeker, there’s an edge that feels both terrible and wonderful. It could go either way. I’ve had both extremes of exhilaration and crushing disappointment and was preparing for either…sort of. I kept telling myself it would be okay if I didn’t get it, but that was a lie. It would not have been okay and I knew it. When I saw the word “Congratulations” I jumped up from the chair yelling “I got it!, I got it!!” and had a hard time sitting to read the actual message. I really wanted this. I’m so happy.  

I’ve been in a bizarre professional limbo the past few years as the pandemic shifted so many aspects of life. With gratitude for all the opportunities I’ve had, I’ve been struggling to mold it into a neat package for a graceful transition to retirement. I didn’t feel done. The midwifery ward project I’ll be part of is something I believe in with all my soul. I’ve been desperate to get back there to work on it and felt like this was my last chance. The model is something we need here and if there is any way the seed can be sown, if we can somehow replicate what is started in Malawi, a million good things can come of it.

I listened this morning to a woman tell her story of having to approach death in order to receive the care she needed. This insanity, along with stories of daily mass shootings, makes me crumble inside. Watching what is happening to women in our country I feel an odd combination of outrage and exhilaration. This will turn the tide. It will take work, but the tide will turn with this flagrant abuse of human rights. I thought it couldn’t get worse ten years ago and we’re in territory I had never even considered before. I’m sorry for those sacrificed in the process, the needless deaths of innocent people. I ask myself what my role I should play to make a difference.  

We had legislation swiftly moving through congress in 2021 that would improve access to care for women and allocate money for midwifery education. But now with republicans in control of the house, the bill sits there. I get that legislation is messy and takes time, but my God. The next election must sweep the republicans out completely. Let this be their downfall. We need to repeat this as often as we can on whatever platform we have. Republicans are killing women.

Last month I was part of a birthing justice webinar with two other women, one of whom had a terrible experience in our system, her race being a major factor. Black women have triple the risk of dying in childbirth in our country and her story was a powerful example of how education, empowerment, and midwifery care can make a difference. She advocated for herself, sought out doula and midwifery care, and ended up emotionally traumatized but physically healthy and ready to become part of the solution. The three of us presented again last week to Mano en Mano, an organization advocating for farmworkers and immigrants in Maine, and again, she told her story. She is an educated woman, a strong advocate for others, and has access to resources. Yet, doctors tried to coerce her into agreeing to a procedure she did not need and used her race as rationale. As I listened to her tell her story a particular line took my breath away. She described her feelings of confusion and vulnerability and asked herself, “What was it about my non-white body that was going to fail me?” Yes, I thought, this universal human right, freedom from coercion, is violated regularly all over our country and women are dying from it. The standard “informed consent” is false and misleading. It doesn’t describe the harm our system has done to women. It does not describe the compromised care marginalized communities are forced to accept. It does not describe the inherent racism of their caregivers. Instead, it describes increased risk as if their race is the problem. The problem is us. It is our system. It is what we’ve done to her. 

 I get overwhelmed with what we are facing. I get discouraged by what is happening to my profession. I’ve struggled with how to write about it; my words seem trivial. But, like the house projects I also get overwhelmed with, I’m trying to take the first steps and at least get those done. Then the next step becomes obvious.  And I do believe the tide is turning. 

Love to all,

Linda