The Cerebral Mum

While I was getting ready for university this morning, I had CNN on in the background. Blah blah… Pope mobile… Blah blah… Sexual abuse scandal… Blah blah… White House… And then Bush says…

“…end the Dictatorship of Relativism…”

WTF?

So off I go to school, with my course readings for today’s philosophy tutorial, wondering if Bush has any idea what that phrase means, and if he thinks we need a War Against Relativism to complement the War Against Drugs and the War Against Terrorism. (Although, if the enemy of his enemy is his friend, he could join forces with the terrorists for this new fight.)

On the train, I start my reading… about Plato’s Theory of Forms and the philosophical life. After weeks of struggling to engage with a text full of unacceptable premises and metaphysics, there was some meat there of more interest than “rational” arguments for the immortality of the soul. And my head was full of ideas (I think I sketched out 3 different books in my head during my reading) so…

I miss my train station and go all the way into the city.

Okay. No drama there. The tram I switch to goes through the city anyway and I’d left early. I board and begin reading the supplementary text. It is painful. Reductive, meaningless quibbles about words, pretending to elucidate while saying nothing. Yawn. So I throw that back in my bag and pull out Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. Ahh… Nihilism: That other alternative to the absolutism of Plato and of the 2 millenia that followed…

I go 20 minutes further down the tracks than I am supposed to.

I get to my history lecture on time. Why do we always pay attention to the Hollywood Ten rather than the 1000s of civil servants who got the same treatment under McCarthyism? I reckon there is a thesis in the little, unsexy people. Oh, and Gary Cooper was a dickwad.

Anyway.

I move on to my philosophy tutorial, to discuss The Forms - those pure essences which cannot be perceived with human senses and which the objects and qualities we experience in our “reality” are but shadows of. We talk about Beauty. If two people disagree about an object’s beauty, can both be right? According to Plato, no. Beauty exists as an absolute. If one cannot recognise it where it exists, it is a failure of the mind. Someone must be wrong. According to most of us - living, as we apparently do, under the Dictatorship of Relativism - beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

(Curiously enough, that proverb is a bastardisation of Plato’s words in The Symposium - “beholding beauty with the eye of the mind” - where he was saying anything but what we mean by it today.)

After a quick trip to the library to get some reference materials for my research paper, I get on the tram - which is late, then slow - but I manage to get off at the right stop and board my train. Which is late and then, almost home, stops altogether. Between stations.

Through the window in the dark I see the driver on the tracks, then the police. Great. After a while we move on to the next station. The police walk passed the carriages toward the driver and we hear an announcement…

“We apologise for the delay. We had.”

Er? Whatever the problem is, I guess it’s none of my business.

I make a phone call. B will come and pick me up so I disembark. Over a policewoman’s radio I hear, “…man on top of the woman…” Curiouser and curiouser. An ambulance is parked on the verge of the tracks and a police car is blocking the road. An announcement is made that the train has stopped in order to divide the carriages. (Yeah, right.)

B arrives, and I go home, still wondering about the contextless Dictatorship of Relativism. So I look for a transcript online and discover the phrase is not Bush’s, but The Rat’s. (Note: choosing to respect people’s private beliefs does not necessitate respect for the Papacy.)

Ratzinger said in 2005…

Today, having a clear faith based on the Creed of the Church is often labeled as fundamentalism. Whereas relativism, that is, letting oneself be “tossed here and there, carried about by every wind of doctrine”, seems the only attitude that can cope with modern times. We are building a dictatorship of relativism that does not recognize anything as definitive and whose ultimate goal consists solely of one’s own ego and desires.

So, to escape my relativist, liberal freedom (which, apparently, is a perversion of the idea of redemption) should I go with Plato’s Forms, or Ratzinger’s Christ? (And don’t those possessives speak to how much I currently suffer under The Dictatorship?)

Also interesting, given today’s history lecture on the Cold War, are the passages there (and in an earlier address) about the particular “winds of doctrine”. Methinks someone is still suffering from a Red Scare.

To sum up though, I went to university then came home.

Who the hell knows where Bush was going.

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Tomorrow, Caspar and I are going to visit an old friend I lost contact with years and years ago. Finding her, and others like her, is the only reason I maintain an account at Facebook which I otherwise would have no patience for, which, in fact, I actively dislike. In the last few weeks I have reconnected with a number of people who had disappeared from my life, both through Facebook and through The Cerebral Mum; childhood friends from Myrtleford and people I hung out with during my university days. Not a plethora of them, but the one’s I actually cared about.

I could write a tract on all the things I loathe about Facebook but while I think it’s a terribly shallow way to interact with cyber-friends, it is a useful directory for reconnecting with the real life ones you’ve lost track of. Given how denuded of people my world is, and that I have nobody who shares my nothings, I have to give some credit where credit is due.

Of course, visiting still isn’t easy. There is distance, and there is depression. I have cancelled 2 weeks in a row. But tomorrow, I am just going. In fact, I’m going tonight, sleeping over at my cousin’s in town because it will make the journey easier in the morning; less daunting, less exhausting and less avoidable.

I now have a deadline to get myself ready and get out of this house and there can be no more delays. I am not letting myself worry about going out when the house is a disaster area, or that the clothes I want myself and Caspar to wear are in the wash, or that I should pluck my eyebrows and straighten my hair, and try desperately to remove the stains from Caspar’s stroller liner.

Because, really, Ms. S is not going to give a shit what my hair looks like or think I am pathetic if Caspar looks like a messy boy instead of a glossy advertisement for the perfect mother. Ms. S has a little boy herself so she’ll know the truth of it anyway and we would never have been friends if she was the kind of person who judged others on those terms. I don’t care about those things myself so I am ignoring that voice that wants me to be ashamed of myself and I’m just going.

Even if I am a walking disaster area.

So, I have a lot of organising to do to pack a bag for an overnight stay. But thanks, Facebook, for getting me out into the real world again, in spite of the fact that your cyber-world sucks.

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One thing that you will not see me writing about here is the reason why Caspar is “fatherless”. This is not because I have any qualms about airing my laundry. You’ve probably noticed already that self-censorship is not one of my strong points. The reason I won’t discuss the details is out of respect for the privacy of others. Well, one other.

A while ago now I wrote about a scene I witnessed at the park; a father picking up his kids and the mother walking away alone. I do not have to go through that. While being a single parent and having a fatherless child would not have been my first choice, I was able to accept the way things were when I found out I was pregnant and when my expectations were confirmed. I was not overwhelmed by a sense of rejection and I did not feel daunted by the prospect of parenting alone. I never considered not doing it, regardless of the circumstances, and my anticipation of Caspar’s birth was an unadulterated joy.

I know many women in more ideal situations (on the surface, at least) are not as lucky as I was in that respect. Possibly, I was just another example of a fool rushing in where angels fear to tread. I am often an example of that. In fact, you could carve it on my headstone. But I digress…

I believe (and read that as, I think, considering all the knowledge I currently have at hand which is subject to change, and very aware that I am generalising) that the nature of fatherhood is fundamentally different from motherhood. Not qualitatively different, but different nonetheless.

Motherhood is physical from the outset. There is physical relationship with your child before they are even born, for better or worse. For a father, things are not so concrete. For a father, the path toward parenthood begins theoretically. I have known men who were highly involved in the pregnancy, who were fascinated by every change, who attended every appointment. I have also known men who were completely disconnected from the process, focussing solely on the logistics (dealing with the physical world), until they physically held their child in their arms. I have even known men who did not feel really attached until their child was older and capable of more sophisticated interactions with them. All of these types of men have an equal capacity to be great fathers. It’s just that fatherhood can sometimes be a slow burn.

There is some science to back this up. A man’s hormonal responses* - his production of prolactin and cortisol which assist with bonding - are dependent to a certain extent on proximity, both during the pregnancy and once his child is born. With work often taking men away from home for long periods of time, it is not surprising that, for some, the connection comes more slowly.

Motherhood is an amazingly powerful thing. It is immediate, it is a fait accompli. It has physical presence and if by some awful twist of fate there is a disconnection, a woman has a long, hard road to travel. Society does not allow a woman time for her motherhood to be a journey. But for men… There is something so very beautiful in watching a man evolve into a father, seeing him mentally shift from his theoretical role as protector and provider and start taking pleasure in the scent of his child’s hair. There is something beautiful in watching a man fall in love.

Fatherhood is also an amazingly powerful thing.

When Caspar arrived, I really wanted his father to meet him, newborn, and breathe in his scent. I did not want this in order to change the way things were (biology has its limitations) but there would have been something symbolic in that physical act of holding him, even for just that one moment, before returning him to me. I would have liked to have been able to tell Caspar that his father fell in love with him and entrusted him to my care.

His father lives with Caspar’s existence only theoretically and I ache for him. I think that the idea of your child is perhaps a harder burden to bear than the reality of him when you cannot be there, or have chosen not to be there. Especially for a man. Without having experienced that physical presence, Caspar’s father has nothing to hold on to. He is left only with his theoretical role as protector and provider, a role he will never play. Knowing him, I imagine this is difficult. I imagine that he sometimes feels torn between his choices and his sense of moral obligation. I imagine that he will have a long, hard road to travel in order to resolve this conflict within himself. I imagine that one day, when he evolves from a man into a father, he will feel that connection for the first time and there will be a sense of loss alongside his joy.

Perhaps if he had held his son, he would have had something concrete to sustain him. There would have been action on his part; entrusting him to me would have been a physical act. Symbolism and psychology and physiology are not so very separate. I would have liked him to have the memory of Caspar’s newborn scent to carry with him on that road.

*Thank you to The Anterior Commissure for this link.

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We ask ouselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?… Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t be insecure around you. _{Marianne Williamson}

Bec left this quote for me today on my post, Imagine if… and it says far more succinctly and purposefully one of the things I was trying to say. It says something I have known for a long time and that knowledge has kept my head above water through some dark days.

But knowing it and living it are two different things.

There have been times in my life when I have lived it; when I’ve spoken with the courage of my convictions, when I’ve given my feelings and ideas the respect they’ve deserved, when I’ve revelled in my own existence. Memories of those times have been sustaining while living as a shadow of myself for the last few years but they have also been a temptation to regress.

You can’t go back to the girl you were because you are now so much more! Mourn her if you must, but don’t let her keep your eyes closed to a new world. _{Rob on Minutiae… or I am nobody…}

I started this blog as a lazy way to stay in touch with the diaspora of my family and in the process I remembered the power of writing. Not just the power of writing, but the power of my writing. I remembered my ability to write myself into existence. I remembered the fullness of words and faintly heard my forgotten voice.

I changed the subtitle of this blog to thinking my way back to myself… and took my first steps on that journey. Yesterday, when I wrote Imagine if.., those first steps became a stride.

Often in life it is when someone else’s needs are greater than your own that your potential becomes your reality. Often, when you can not care enough about yourself to be fully present in the world, you can find a reason to in others.

Yesterday’s post was difficult to write but not because it was deeply personal or painful. I have been at peace with the ugliness of my history for a long time. My childhood is a part of what made me who I am. I have learned many things, things that I am proud to have learned, not because of my experience, or in spite of my experience, but through my experience. I don’t wish anyone to have to learn those things the way I did, but I would not change my history if I could.

The reason yesterday’s post was difficult to write was because it would be confronting for those reading it. I had to overcome the hurdle of that social taboo that tells us we cannot talk about politics and religion at a dinner party, that tells us we cannot discuss subjects that cause controversy, that tells us we will make people uncomfortable.

I wrote about child sexual abuse and it is very common for victims to fear speaking up. In many cases they have been living with a “behind closed doors” and “keeping up appearances” mentality for a long time. The power of that taboo keeps them silent and they minimise their experiences in order to contain them, making them mistrust themselves.

But the reason I wrote what I wrote was not just to speak out against child sexual abuse, even though that issue is of enormous importance and needs to be written about over and over until it no longer exists. The issue is broader.

It is not just victims of CSA who live under the weight of this taboo. How many things do we stay silent about in this world? How many people learn to live, like myself, as shadows for fear of offending?

Self-censorship is a social disease.

I cannot attribute my own self-censorship to that specific part of my history. It may have been one of the paths which led me to it but I am an adult and I believe that I am free. Knowing that I made myself who I am, I am able to take credit for who I am. And when who I am falls short of my own aspirations or my own principles, knowing that I am free allows me to accept the imperfection of my humanity without ever seeing it as the final measurement of my self.

Yesterday, outside events moved me to overcome that taboo which I gave power to. I am proud that I did.

And I like talking about politics and religion at dinner parties.

And I choose controversy over Let’s agree to disagree…, which is a noble sentiment only when not used as a coward’s weapon to shame others into silence.

And I like it when I make people uncomfortable. Writing Imagine if… was an uncomfortable process for me and I am closer to my aspirations and my principles because of it.

I like being brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous. And I am grateful when other people are.

Those people light the way. And I can be one of them.

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I’ve lived a relatively volatile life where friendships can be intense and intimacy is quick but often fleeting. Tonight that one friend who remains from my childhood is in a sad, sad place and it hurts. There is nothing I can do, and nothing she can do. Time will pass.

I believe that we are all responsible for the cards we are dealt in life, that we are free to play our hand however we choose. I am not deterministic. But biology sometimes is. Sometimes biology deals us an awful burden and the only choice we have is how we bear it. So time will pass, and she will bear it. She will bear it with integrity; aware and moving honestly through a pain that will not defeat her volition.

But, oh, how I wish she didn’t have to.

Friendship is rare.

Friendship is never determined by the length of time you have known one another, but time reveals it. And it reminds us how much we are able to be loved when there is nothing of our masks left but dust.

We are all clay vessels and we spend our lives painting that vessel, trying to tell the story of what is inside, trying to expose to the world that thing we no longer have a name for which Plato called essence. We paint ourselves with an artist’s bias. For good or bad we are the potter and the clay, the painter and the canvas, and we cannot seperate the representation from what is represented. We cannot escape the boundaries of these vessels we reside in. And our instinct is not to.

But in friendship there is no artistry. We no longer have to tell our story: It is seen even when we cannot see it ourselves. Naked, we learn our imperfection, we learn loyalty and, naked, we learn trust. Most of all, we learn of our own capacity to see that which cannot be drawn, to love that which cannot be held, and to be that which we have struggled to imagine.

So there is nothing I can do. Time will pass. But for her friendship I cannot express the depths of my gratitude and, oh, how I wish she didn’t have to go through this.

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