Why did I write (m)Other?
by Celia Garvey
I’m not generally a fan of poetry (and certainly not writing it!) so when these words spilled on to the page and formed themselves into a poem, I was more than a little surprised. It was written in response to the prompt ‘opposites’, which was given in a writers’ group that I’d just joined.
At the time, I was finding it particularly tricky to navigate my life as a childless woman. My metaphorical Google maps showed long stretches of red in every direction. Whichever road I chose, the journey was going to be slower and harder than it might have been. My childlessness was playing heavily on my mind.
I was teaching in a department that was almost exclusively women, all of whom had children except me. Two were off on maternity cover; one was heavily pregnant. Motherhood bound them and it dominated every conversation to some extent or other. After about 5 weeks, I was asked that question. Through gritted teeth, I answered ‘No. I can’t have children.’ Even as I said it, I wondered how it hadn’t occurred to her that if I did have children, I probably would have joined in their single-track chats. I did find it odd that she didn’t acknowledge what I’d said – no, not a word - but I held on to the vain hope that her new awareness of my situation might, just might, encourage her to think. Instead, in the following week, it got worse: she told me she’d have loads of time to do her marking if she didn’t have kids; that life would be pointless without them; and that she was a great teacher because ‘as a mother’ she had a better understanding of young people. Disappointing and frustrating, of course, but nothing I hadn’t had to deal with before. Doubtless I’ll deal with it again. It turns out an English department is one of the worst possible places to work as a childless-not-by-choice woman.
What hit me harder was when three women with whom I’d been friends for 25 years decided we couldn’t ‘be friends any more’. The strange thing is there was no row, no argument. My unforgiveable mistake was admitting that there are times when the pain of my childlessness is so intense that I’m not sure how to carry on. Perhaps naively, I was honest about how much I was struggling, because I thought I could count on my oldest group of friends. Instead, in my moment of need, these three mothers, who I’d known for over half my life, walked away.
Both of these experiences left me baffled. I was astounded by the total lack of empathy. Yet, on both social media and in face-to-face exchanges, I kept hearing that sickening ‘as a mother’ line that suggests motherhood opens a portal to a superior level of sensitivity, of emotional intelligence; that by giving birth, women somehow gain access to a wider and deeper gamut of emotions than the rest of us.
The truth is, though, that often it’s mothers themselves whose words and actions inflict the most damage on people like me. Often it’s mothers who are crass, insensitive and thoughtless, all the while believing themselves to be the total opposite.
The irony of it all infuriated me. And it was this that brought the poem to the page.
In short, it’s a plea for compassion…
You tell me
Your tiredness is unparalleled –
I couldn’t possibly understand it.
You tell me
Your life has
Meaning now. It
Makes sense –
Mine, of course, doesn’t.
I just don’t realise.
You tell me
You never knew
Love
Until you held
Your baby
In your arms. You became a
Woman then.
You tell me
Your love is deeper than mine
Purer. If I had
Children,
Perhaps I’d understand.
You’re
Lionised, Fetishized
A martyr for your cause.
How noble you are.
Selfless
Me? I’m the other.
Categorised
Disenfranchised
Too selfish for martyrdom.
You tell me
I’m only a shadow of a woman
With a shadow of a life.
You see:
When you speak
I listen.
But if you listened,
If you understood,
Perhaps
you
would
stop
telling
me
(and
telling
me
and
telling…)