.
One used to fly by vision and now one flies by radar — blindly, as it were. That is the destiny of women within patriarchal societies – to have to rely upon a set of “civilising” values. That way, their navigation systems can always be jammed if they become too vocal. Women who have been “translated” into beings with now ‘ Civilized’ as opposed to Natural demeanours, have been taught to rely only upon those forms of communication that have been narrowly defined as “sensible” according to expectations which are starched, formal and conservative. How does one live within patriarchal society as a woman? Blindly, and disregarding of one’s own experiences, lest they puzzle and derange one enough that one finally takes action. Women are born to be castrated, according to some.
I'm not sure that the psychoanalytic notion of "castration" can really mean more than the inability to trust one's five senses. One's methodologies for drawing conclusions from them have all devolved. One sits there, stuffed: A scarecrow or a mummy. I have long resisted ideological castration. I didn't know I was resisting it, only that I angrily opposed the way in which my sincere tokens of communication were being deliberately thwarted. At one time, what I said made clear and logical sense. This changed around a certain time, when I was twelve or so. My own attitudes hadn't changed. My father's had.
Suddenly what I said had no natural meaning to him -- nothing that had to do directly with the practical affairs we were involved in. Instead, my assertions suddenly took on ethereal and disconnected emotional resonances for him. What was I meaning all of a sudden? I could use the exact same words and a similar tone to tones and words I'd used before, but now an enemy was jamming my communication. No longer could I be permitted to relate my own experiences -- so far as my father was concerned, I'd gone over to the other side. I had become his enemy, due to my gender. I was, within several weeks, though far from puberty still, no longer a child. So, if I said anything, it had to be negated as if it contained so much potential evil. That was how my father turned against me -- treating me like I was now merely a turbine generator of 'emotion'. What I had to say, I learned, I shouldn't speak.
I knew that something had gone wrong with him mentally when he first obstructed my conversation. The first time, I thought that he was merely being odd -- obsessed with some particular concern, which I had simply not mentioned.
We were down at the stables, attending to my very old horse. I was regularly concerned about her general condition. Was she sprightly and well today? Were elements of old age setting in already? She was 28 when I got her, which was very old in horse years. She was a lovely horse! I owned her and I did my best to take care of her.
When I climbed on to her back, she seemed a little stiff that afternoon. She carried her hind legs more awkwardly when I pressed her to canter. What could the matter be? Perhaps little -- perhaps just the need to stretch, to warm up further, plying muscle and flesh. Still, it was worth mentioning -- perhaps a small stone had gone caught within her hoof.
"Her hindquarters feel rather stiff today!" I called out to my father, as I sailed around the circle of the paddock. As I said it, my voice was snatched by fresh afternoon winds. I loved nothing more than lively afternoon rides -- each one was an entire new adventure!
"What did you say? Are you talking about how it's feeling?" my father intoned. "Feelings are for artists!' he announced, before proceeding with a more verbose warning about distrusting feelings in general.
Feelings -- yes, emotions -- were quite a different subject from the information I'd been trying to convey. No, father, I didn't have an emotion about stiffness. Rather, this was the sensation of the horse that day: her kinetic manner had become somewhat stiffened and foreshortened. There had been no specific emotion in my imparting of this particular information.
This was the first instance I noticed that my father was thinking weirdly. I thought that his obstruction of my message at the time was odd, but nothing much to worry about. I didn't mention it to my mother or to anybody. It just wasn't that important. Not at that time
No comments:
Post a Comment