When I was pregnant with my daughter, I had hoped she was a boy. If you know me, you might be surprised. I appeared to be a woman who was well-adjusted into her skin--I kept my own surname, I worked with teenage girls as a profession, I had been using cloth pads for 10 years(I thought I was revolutionary), I studied women's poetry, I wrote about Judy Chicago's The Dinner Party, I knew how to follow my deep desires--but I really wasn't adjusted. Even in my thirty year old body, I was still a girl. I was a selkie wanting to finally return home, wanting to find her skin to catch the waves of the sea. I wanted to understand fully and I had so much to learn.
All those interests, those quirky personality traits, the desire to fill my life with women (stories, friends, art, poetry, sisters, nieces), and to measure my wildness by the length of my hair, were merely signs that pointed me to my lost skin.
"Over here, over there," I found in the simple well-crafted images of Elizabeth Bishop or "look right here in the compost pile," I might have heard my grandmother say to me.
But "here I am," is what I heard when I met my daughter.
For eight years now I have been trying my pelt on when no one is looking. I never take it to the sea. Oh, I tuck it away in the closet, I store it in the rafters. I even hide it from myself. Sometimes I take it out to admire it when no one is looking.
But recently my daughter was looking. She followed me in to my room. She was crying. She wanted to talk to me. She made me promise not to tell her brothers or her father. She cried. She was confused. Her tears were for women, she told me. She begged me to tell her why the world still uses the word man for human or people. Why is everything men and not men and women? Through her tears, she said it was not fair.
I understood. This I know. This I remember.
And then I remembered my pelt, my beautiful pelt. "I have to take her to the sea," I thought, "to show her how to swim with her cousins." Together. Two girls, two women, two selkies, two seals. Two pelts, two beautiful pelts no longer hidden.
"Take her to the sea before she forgets," I thought, but then I notice she is the one calling me to remember.
Oh how beautiful. My heart aches for this sad discovery she had, of these old inequities still present. My daughters are still before all of that, blissfully unaware. How wonderful though that she was actually able to express it to you, and that you were able to share this.
ReplyDeleteAnd yes, my daughters have called me to remember too...
this is so poignant, Nicki...such an opportunity to connect deeply with your daughter and your mother and her mothers before her. Maybe it will be different for our grand daughters...the good news I suppose is that we can connect as deeply through joy as we can the pain...but there is something about the unfairness of life that is a powerful joiner of souls. It's good that you can be open with her...open arms, open heart...this will give her the strength she needs until she becomes strong enough on her own to love her own skin.
ReplyDeletegentle steps sweet mother
Wow, Nicki!
ReplyDeleteLisa, I am interested in the idea of what our children call us to remember. For me that remembering has something to do with raising me (and them).
ReplyDeleteLaura, Thank you for your thoughts. To hold joy and pain together, to be strong enough to wear her own skin, I like that. Thanks.
Peace, Nicki
I, too am a selkie, but I call it mermaid. My daughter also knows this desire to return to our home, to ride wave after wave, sometimes drowning, sometimes surfacing. She often teaches me about the wisdom in waves, and I am so glad your daughter is doing the same.
ReplyDeleteHer connection with you, with all women is precious, and I know she will find her way as we have in a 'man's world'.
old inequities is right... I remember the feeling of overwhelming grief when I understood how the history of the world (as I had been taught) was one group conquering another, and how the history books say, "So and so conquered so and so," but to truly imagine what lay beneath those words...
ReplyDeleteI always wanted a daughter... I knew that mothering a daughter would be different than mothering a son, not because of the differences between boys and girls but because of what would come up for me....
Thank you, Nicki, this post was beautiful.
Mermaid, Yes, I like that image of riding the waves together--sometimes drowning, sometimes surfacing. I often find that in parenting I get lost and find myself again, lost and find, lost and find, a well-needed cycle I suppose. This cycle leads me to tremendous growth and understanding. Glad to have mermaids to swim with! Peace, Nicki
ReplyDeleteStacy, I feared having a daughter because I instinctually knew what it would trigger for me. I never thought of it that way before, but ten years into parenting and I realize that my growth is dependent upon how I respond to all the triggers--either I accept that invitation to dive deep within myself, heal what needs healing, find what so desperately wants to be found or I choose to ignore the invitation. When I ignore the invitation, I ultimately feel I have lost my pelt, and I am miserable. Your comment has helped me to see that my childrens' presence in my life invites me to choose the depth in order to grow (and be raised). Thank you. Peace, Nicki
ReplyDelete