The Robber Bride

I liked this, although not unequivocally so as I have many other Margaret Atwood novels.

The novel is, of course, exceptionally well written, and interesting. But aspects of it grated.

I found particularly grating the way the male characters seemed to lack agency, and initially tried to forgive / excuse this with the idea that MA must be archly mimicking male authors’ portrayal of women in novels without agency. But then, my astute partner pointed out that it’s partially because the men don’t matter in this story. And the reason for their lack of agency is, somewhat, fleshed out at the end.

All of the characters seemed to be written as archetypes, rather than as fully realised people. Oddly, I found the most outlandish character (aside from Zenia herself) – being Charis – the most believable. I found neither Tony nor Roz particularly compelling. However, I appreciate how they all work within the context of the novel and what it is about, rather than what happens in it.

So, what is it about?

I think, like a lot of M Atwood’s works, it is about relationships between women and the way women mistreat themselves and others. It does not matter, in the least, what the truth is about what happened and, usefully, it does not matter where the holes are in the story because it’s about perception of self and of others. The story read from each woman’s perspective, flawed as it was (and each was very flawed).

This repetition of perspective was a little tiresome (I felt the same way about the repeat stories in Lionel Shriver’s The Post Birthday World) but when I finished the novel, I understood why and how well this affectation worked.

Also, we are only ever told about Zenia’s power over men, rather than having it demonstrated through her actions. Rather, it is the flaws of the three women narrators (story narrated through them, rather than by them as first person) that allow Zenia her power, and this is the point of the novel. A point well made, once the reader finishes the book. But I was so exasperated as I read it, I almost stopped reading it, which, for me and MA is a surprising thing indeed.

I’d certainly recommend it. It’s excellently written and definitely thought-provoking, anyway. Just can’t quite say I enjoyed it.

Walking Home Again

I had a couple of experiences which jolt me with surprise about how I view my safety.

1. Walking home from work

I walk home from work through a large expanse of park, called ‘The Common’. I find this an exceedingly pleasant way to end my working day. With the long summer hours, I can even walk home when I have had a late day at work. I tend to change my working shoes into running shoes, and I leave my work shoes at work, under my desk.

Other uses of The Common are fellow walking-commuters, evening-exercisers, dog-walkers and youthful layabouts. I say hi to the exercisers and dog-walkers, but my fellow walking-commuters ignore me (and I them), and I am much too uninteresting for the youthful layabouts.

A couple of weeks ago I was walking home and otherwise meandering inside my own head. There were three youthful layabouts, two female, one male, sitting on a park bench. As I passed, one of the girls said something, which I knew to be aimed at me, but which I did not quite hear. The tone was derisory. I chose to ignore her. Then she spat at me. Frothy white goop landed at my feet; I stepped over it and kept going. Behind me, the boy shouted something I could not make out and all three started laughing. When I got home, I was shaken. No one has ever spat at me before. I have had racist comments yelled at me. I have had sexist comments yelled at me. I have been grabbed, and held, by a mentally unstable man – I did not feel threatened by him and managed to extricate myself. I have had a broken bottle shoved into my face, also by a mentally unstable man, and again, I did not feel particularly threatened (although I was scared). The spitting was just uncalled for. And it made me feel unsafe. (I half knew the man with the broken bottle would jab it in my face).

2. Walking to the shops

I walk to and from the grocery stores. Not too long after the above spitting incident, I was walking home with my shopping. Picture, if you will, a young east-Asian woman in a pinstripe suit with a grocery bag under each arm – one bright orange, one hessian – just minding her own business and perhaps frowning a little as she carried her heavy groceries home. Going in the opposite direction, on the other side of the road, were two young women and one young man. The young man shouted something at me, which sounded like: ra ra ha ha ra. And then there was laughter. I stopped. I went to turn towards them to say something – anything – back. Except I did not know what. And the thought that ran through my head? This is not a nice area. I’ve heard of cars being burnt here. I walked on in fear. About a few metres later, I got really angry. I hate it when fear prevents me from defending myself against inanity.

3. Running through the Common

I occasionally (I’ve done this once, but I would like to more, hence the choice of word) run through the Common on my way home, for excercise. Usually when I run in the Common (on weekend mornings) I stick to the large paths. My partner on the other hand has waxed lyrical about how lovely ducking into the woods themselves are.

On my first afternoon run, I took the large paths, then darted off on a walkers only path. I ran up beside the lake and saw a lovely path into the forest, that twisted enticingly out of view. I took it. I ran until I came to a junction where three paths crossed. I chose one that veered off in the direction of home, as it was about roughly time to circle back again. The path I chose got narrower and narrower, and windier and windier. I leapt fallen trees and dodged nettle as much as I could. Then the blackberry bushes grew so close together I had to use my hands and shoulders to clear my path. I had turned so much I no longer knew which direction I was facing. I heard laughing voices in the near distance. I freaked out, did an about face and retraced my path back to the junction, back to the walkers only path, back to the nice large open concreted-over path. Heart thumping more from fear than from the exertion, I jogged on home again.

Not only had the laughing teenage voices reminded me of my earlier unpleasant encounters, I realised that no one knew where I was. My partner knew only that I was running home, via the Common. He would not expect me for another hour, would not start to worry for perhaps another two hours. I know that I would not, in his position. Work would not realise until the next day, and no one knew which direction I headed off in anyway. Only my partner and work would note my absence in the short term.

When I lived in a share house and went running in the early mornings, I drew a map of my planned path and my expected return time for my housemates. I almost always returned before any of my housemates even aroused themselves from sleep. Only one housemate, in my five or six years of house sharing, even saw my map. But I felt much better with the thought that, if I did not return and there was a note to say where I had been, someone would think to come looking for me.

When I lived with my parents, the rule was that I would inform them if I would not be home before dark. In my early university years, my mother got used to me walking out of the house calling out not to expect me home before her bed time. I once overheard my mother on the telephone to my aunt, complaining about how I was always out and she had no idea where. I tried a few times to tell her I was at a library until it closed, but she did not believe me. I think she wanted to believe that I was out with boys, taking drugs and partying hard, rather than holed up on the fourth floor of the law library with casebooks, or the second floor of the arts library with journals. At worst, I was in a cafe or movie theatre with friends. My juvenile delinquency never did get off to the right start.

I have got lazy. I do not do the little things anymore that make me comfortable doing activities which otherwise put me at risk of the nebulous thing out there that is dangerous to young women. I forgot to live in fear, because I have my mobile phone and my partner is well-versed with my habits. But the fear has come back in this New Place, so I need to find my parameters again.

Cat’s Eye by Margaret Atwood

I don’t know why, or how, I came to Margaret Atwood so late in my life. She seems to be the perfect author for me and, as prolific as she is, I seem to have read much more of her non-fiction, than her fiction. I read Cat’s Eye on holiday.

One of the things that struck me most about this novel was its insightful portrayal of relationships among girls and women. The protagonist, Elaine Risley, is a successful painter who returns to the town of her childhood, teenage and early adult years to attend a retrospective of her work. Alone in Toronto, she begins to reminisce about her life, and in particular her friendship with Cordelia: her nemesis, or a foil, or the example of what the protagonist herself could have become.

This post is not a review. Atwood’s work is excellent, and I highly recommend her if you haven’t read her already. Like much else on this blog, this post is about ME.

Cat’s Eye got me thinking about my relationships with girls and women. I was a resilient child; I grew into a resilient adult. I had a large family and network of siblings and cousins of both sexes. At home, I was closest to my brother in age and, as a child, in games. I don’t remember my very early childhood years but my mother’s anecdotes tells of a brash, outspoken, cheeky and rather confident brat. I haven’t changed much. I am hoping any child I may have will not be like the young me (I’d like her to be much better behaved!).

The first primary school that I went to had kids from a mish-mash of many and varied cultural and ethnic groups. I formed friendships with almost everyone: Indigenous kids, Islander kids, fellow Viet kids, Chinese kids, Lebanese kids, Greek kids. They were all girls.

Even in early primary school, I knew we weren’t ‘cool’. We were generally excluded from games of ‘tiggy’ (a chasing game) and I, in particular, was banned from ‘catch and kiss’ (I had punched the last person who caught me, before he could kiss me, because he grabbed me around the waist. I did not play by the rules.) We spent our lunch hours in one corner of the playground. There must have been a reason for that, beyond mere choice. After all, the monkey bars and the swings were in the diametrically opposite corner of the playground. I remember playing on the monkey bars and swings AFTER kids had left school for the day. So there must have been someone preventing me from doing so. I have no recollection of who they were, nor why. Although I’d be quite happy to take a racialist stab in the dark.

In grade five (aged eight), we moved from inner city, mixed class, multi-cultural, to outer suburbs, blue collar, mono-cultural. I and my brother were the only two Asian kids the school had ever seen. The school I attended was a very small school, which was a shock to me. Previously, there would have been more people in one of my classes, than in the entire school. It was not large enough to form cliques, so most of the time, everyone played with everyone else. But there was the occasional spat. I got into fights a lot. I have previously posted about one particular not-quite fight.

Grade 5/6 was when the social outcasting bullying set in: I would have been 10/11. My brother was in grade 7, the last primary school year, at the time. At that age, everyone was at markedly different stages of physical development. I was still small and weedy and childlike. So was my brother. Some of the girls who were my friends had begun to develop breasts and hips, and a giggling interest in boys (still germ-filled in my eyes). Some of the boys had a swagger and were heads and shoulders taller than everyone else.

One rainy lunchtime, I came out of class to sit with the usual circle. As I fought for a space between two people, they turned their backs to me, shuffled forwards and closed me out again. I got up and went to sit beside someone else, also in the circle. The same thing happened. I persisted and sat there eating my lunch in a strangled silence. A few of the group got up and moved. Then, one of the girls came over to me. She had, a few weeks earlier, declared that she was my best friend. She whispered that everyone was unimpressed with me because one of the boys, whom another of the girls liked, might have a crush on me. That boy was my brother’s best friend, and he was, of course, full of cooties. While she was talking to me, her head swiveled back and forth; she was watching how the other girls were reacting to her talking to me. “I hope you don’t mind,” she whispered, “but we’ve all agreed not to hang out with you”, and then she scuttled back to the group, who were by now all facing towards me, hands menacingly on out-stuck-hips.

I remember being bewildered, and not saying anything, but feeling that it was absolutely necessary that I did not move; that they move. So I just stood there, looking back at them. I may have looked sad or fearful or confrontational. I don’t really know. It did feel like I had done something wrong, but I was definitely not going to say sorry. And they had not exactly done anything to allow me to lash into them, as Craig had. They whispered together, giggled together, and then left. After they had gone, I deflated, and slunk off into the library.

The next day, I did not bother. I went to join the kids in the junior school and sat with kids 2 to 3 grades below me. I played on their swings and monkey bars and fortresses. I played chasey and skipping rope games again, instead of sitting around gossiping at lunch.

Though my friendship with the older girls re-ignited, it never felt true afterwards. I was wary. And if they shut me out, I defended by disappearing off to have more fun with the younger kids. Some days I just played their games, which were much more fun anyway.

In high school, three girls one grade older than me decided I would be fun to pick on one term. Wrong choice. They gave me a nickname (midget), because I was short, and I hung out with girls, one in particular, who were at least a head taller than I was. One of my friends became quite friendly with them, which was fine by me. The three would be sweet as pie to me when my friend was around and horrid to me when she wasn’t. My friend did not understand why I didn’t want to spend time with them, like she did.

I had quite quickly developed a reputation at high school for being arrogant – I presume because I was reasonably confident in my abilities, and tended towards cold silence when angered. I do recall being hurt by them, but I always did my utmost not to show it. When they taunted, I stared at them and waited until they left. If I was walking by, and they would begin to taunt, I would stop and look at them, stubbornly standing still until they went quiet. Then I would move again.

I broke my silence, once.

I was walking along the crossover area between the grade nines and grade eights, going to class, I think. I was by myself, as frequently occurred. Ahead, I saw the three girls, surrounded by a bunch of guys, one of whom was my friend’s boyfriend. One of the girls called out: “There goes lonely little midget. When is she going to get a friend?” I stopped. I turned towards the girls. My friend’s boyfriend said: “Oh, leave her alone. She’s alright.” I spat at him: “I don’t need YOU to defend me. I’m FINE on my own.” I started to walk off when one of the girls began laughing: “I know what gets midget. Someone CARING about her. Not so tough now, are you midget?” I straightened my probably already ramrod straight back and kept walking.

The girls moved on from taunting me; they probably found another target.

University was different: there were no obvious cliques at university, and the cool girls who would have done all this alienating stuff just did not seem to be around. But they were back again at the very first job I started. Silence and staring does not work so well when you have to co-operate together on projects. I just pretended I was part of the group during working hours, and ate my lunch with other people or by myself, and let the sniggers behind my back be just that: sniggers behind my back. My clothes were not as nice, and I did not like the same movies. If they couldn’t be my friends, they were nevertheless work colleagues. They might not like me, but they were definitely going to respect me.

The cliquey work girls did respect me: they sought my advice and assistance when things went wrong. And I would give them my advice and assistance, and raise an eyebrow and sigh when they excluded me from invitations to lunch or nights out.

In a moment of blogosphere coincidence, Minor Revisions has a wonderful piece on this intangible form of bullying, called “Why don’t you like me?” I like Post-Doc’s mum’s advice: (paraphrasing): There are too many people in this world and they can’t all like you. And there will be worthwhile ones who do like you.

That’s good advice.

I can hear my defensiveness as I proof-read this post. I am defensive. It does hurt to be excluded. But if people don’t like you, that’s their problem: just as long as they respect your work. Now, I figuratively stand still and stare people down: I stare them down with my work.

I’m going through changes*

The web is a wonderful place.

I am finally catching up on all my blog reading which, much like my blog writing, has dipped into near non-existence of late. Slowly, slowly however I am clawing my way back into the ether world.

I also finally got myself organised and have a feed-reader thing. So now, I have my people onto you. Or those of you I know about.

One of the blogs I enjoy but don’t visit with sufficient frequency – What We Said – had an interesting post about name changes on marriage by Emily. In response, Span posted on her own site the following post.

Name changing on marriage is a no-brainer for me. Mostly because I have no intention of getting married. But also because in Vietnamese culture, women do not take their husband’s name on marriage.

I was always very confused when people called my mother Mrs (my father’s family name). Who were they talking about? And they were always very confused when I explained what my mother’s family name was. Who was I talking about? Why was my name different to my mother’s? And anyway, what difference does it make when there are only about 25 family names in Vietnamese?

Um was not the avant garde of Viet feminists, retaining her name because she held some belief that she was resisting her status as chattel in a married relationship. No, my mother is very much not a feminist. I recall her saying to me at an early age when I was fighting with my brother that I was not supposed to argue with him because he was male, older and stronger. She also told me at the same time she was asking me to desist from battling my bro that when I married I should always defer to my husband in an argument otherwise he would not remain my husband. I was, oh, I don’t know how old – maybe 6 or 7. Salutary lessons for a 7 year old – how to keep the husband you don’t have by subjugating yourself and your worthless opinions.

No, my mother just did what tradition and culture dictated.

Traditional Viet weddings symbolically pass the woman over to her husband’s family. The groom comes to the bride’s house and asks her family if he can take her. The dowry that he must bring represents a form of payment for the wife, who will become the husband’s newest acquisition in his working household. Husband and wife together offer tea to all of the woman’s family to thank them for looking after her up to that point in her life. Then husband and wife trundle back to the husband’s family and offer tea to all of them to ask them to accept the wife into the family. It’s time consuming.

Even though this ceremony passes the bride into the groom’s family, the bride retains her father’s name and does not take on her husband’s.

If I were to marry, there would be a lot of baggage about whether to change my name. The answer, if you’re curious or had not already guessed, is that I would not. I like my name. It took me a long time to become reconciled with it, so I’d like to keep it, thanks. And I am not disappearing post marriage. To not, follows Viet culture. To do so, would be to follow the mainstream of which I am now a part but which is too patriarchal a gesture for my liking. (That is not to say that Viet culture is not patriarchal; it is.) I expect that I would discuss the issue with my partner, too. Although I suspect we both already know the discussion will be brief.

Some of my acquaintances get defensive about not keeping their name on marriage around me, presumably because I am an unapologetic feminist. I bandy “feminist” about like I’m comfortable with it. Because I am. But it does not mean that I judge people for their decisions. At least, not all the time.

I am curious about why people do, or do not, change their family name. The rationale that an entire family should share the same family name for unity’s sake strikes me as insupportable. I agree with Span’s reasoning. I met a family who had a plethora of surnames: Mum & Dad each kept their families’ names and, when the first child was born, a coin was tossed to decide which surname that child would take (Dad’s as it turned out). The second child took the Mum’s remaining family name, thereby carrying on her name, too. I do not know what happens if there is a third child. They were a delightful family unit.

I do not understand why the article Emily refers to says that the woman should ensure that her female children carry her family name? Why not any of the children, or half the children? How does ensuring the female children carry the woman’s family name undermine the tradition? I have wondered about this myself: if my partner and I were to have a child together, whose family name would the child take? I am inclined to think the child should have my partner’s – because there are fewer of his names floating about the world than mine. And if we were to have a child, that child would probably be the first of his family’s next generation, whereas it would be – oh, maybe – the 30th (give or take) of my family’s next generation.

And in any event, why does the decision whether or not to change one’s name on marriage affect the decision regarding what name any child of the relationship should have?

I agree with Emily that choice is relevant, but more than that – thinking about the issue is what is important. I would prefer we lived an examined life, and if there is value to the individual of doing what the mainstream dictates, fine. And if there is not, then an analysis of the reasons for acting one way or another will provide the solution for an alternate path.

* that’s a song. Not a reference to me. I think I’m staying the same.

Who wears short shorts?

Meredith writes an interesting post about Promo Girls here.

The incisive point Meredith makes is about how men decorate their bodies and possessions (mostly cars) in an outwards space claiming fashion, and women minimalise in a near-naked, take up as little space as possible and inhibit movement fashion.

I can certainly relate to this observation – and I think it is manifested in how men and women – and indeed boys and girls – sit / are taught to sit. I remember being posed for school photographs. In group photos, I am always placed in the front left hand corner. I think this is where my height inevitably places me. Girls were always asked to put their knees together and their right hand over the top of their left. Boys were asked to sit with their knees hip-width apart, with a fist on each knee. I’m in a grade two photo where I have obviously been confused by the instructions – or don’t know which gender I am – as I have my knees together but a fist on each knee. Otherwise, I am clearly “girl”: I’m in a pink dress with my hair in pigtails either side of exposed ears.

I also had to comment with my own observation about “Promo Girls”:

***

On the streets in Brisbane, there are young scantily clad women in short shorts advertising … something. I assume one of our girly bars, but I am not entirely sure. I have a little argument with myself every time I see them. My first reaction is annoyance.

Then I think: No, wait. Not their fault. Probably lucrative. Should be annoyed at … something/one else. Society! It’s society’s fault.

Sometimes, pity. Aren’t they cold? Don’t they hate it when horrid men ogle them? When women look at them disapprovingly?

Sometimes, in judgment: Hmm, if you’re going to wear that, you’ll need to walk a bit taller. Swing those hips, sass it out. No use huddling into yourself.

With eyebrows raised: I don’t know that short shorts suit your cellulite*

Then in judgment on myself: That’s not very nice, Oanh. Good on them. They’re comfortable with their bodies and they’re using society’s obsession with women’s bodies /sexual object status to their advantage. Plenty of other women will look at them disapprovingly, no need for you to do so. You can be more generous than that.

With my feminist rejoinder: But they’re perpetuating women’s oppression!

Basically, I end up with all these thoughts which probably flicker across my face (I’m terrible at masking my emotions) and these women edge away from me, so I then feel forced to give them a tentative smile, just to show that I’m, er, friendly or approve or something. Which I’m not. And I don’t.

***

I really do not like the Promo Girls. But I also know that it is not their fault, and that the work may be a perfectly valid and probably lucrative choice.

There is also mention by Legal Eagle of an advertisement for tailor-made suits. I agree with Legal Eagle that it is valid to exploit sex appeal but I consider it inappropriate in a workplace and it occassionally angers, and sometimes saddens, me.

I think the reason is that Promo Girls and that ad perpetuate a notion of women’s power as based predominantly on their appearance and sexual worth to men. I do not agree with that. I do not think that that is valid. But I think, so long as it exists, it’s okay for my sisters to exploit it. I’m just going to keep tying myself up in knots every time I think about it, however.

*when I wrote the comment I’d forgotten the word for cellulite…(!)